God Hates Us All

Daniel James
 Daniel James

Cover/Interior Design: ! Brian Colby 2009. All rights

reserved.

! Daniel James 2009. All rights reserved.

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Dedication

For you.

I wouldn’t be anywhere without you.

Website

doesgodhateus.blogspot.com

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God Hates Us All

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Whiskey Flavored Coke

Same shit, different day.

I take another extended swig from my glass filled with

Jack and Coke and don’t move the glass away until the only
thing entering my mouth is melted ice water that’s been tainted
with the sweetened Coke and the bitter whiskey. Only when I
pound the ice-filled glass on the bar counter do I actually start
to feel the effects of the drink. My first sign of intoxication is
that my teeth go numb. I never knew why that was, but for
some reason my gums will soften with a tingle and when I bite
my teeth together like a clamp I won’t feel them. Pretty soon
my fingers and arms will lose feeling in them too, even though
they’ll still be working together to grasp onto a glass of Jack
and Coke (or maybe I’ll switch to White Russians) and lift that
glass to my dried and torn lips. From there on out I don’t know
what happens – I guess my speech starts to become slurred
while I talk in longer and louder bursts. Next thing to go is my
vision - my eyes will stop focusing on anything for more than a
minute. Last but not least, I’ll finally acknowledge that I’m
drunk and end up doing something stupid.

I hold my hand up in front of my face, resting my

elbow on the bar counter, and motion the bartender over to my
seat by flicking my index and middle finger. The bartender,
some sophomore from my college who I know pretty well, sees
me and walks over. I drop my wrist and point to the empty
glass on the counter.

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My voice is rugged but spotted with traces of humor in

it. “This glass goes empty again and I’ll shoot your balls off
like Stagger Lee, understood?”

He laughs and removes the empty glass, “you’re

drinking like you have a problem.”

“I got a problem, it’s that the glass in your hand is

empty,” I reply. “You’re the only one that can fix my problem.
And make it stronger this time, I could hardly taste the JD in
that last glass.”

He laughs again while he chucks the ice into the sink

behind the bar and reaches for the Jack Daniels bottle in front
of the mirror a few rows up from the bottom shelf. “You’re
crazy Dominic – most people like that they can’t taste the
whiskey.”

“Most people have vaginas, I ain’t one of them. The

whiskey is what makes the drink. If I want my drink to taste
like Coke, I’ll have a fucking Coke. I’m here to get shitfaced
and enjoy every bitter drop of it.”

He slides me the drink. “You’re the boss.”

I take a sip from the glass immediately and feel a

thousand spider’s crawl down my spine. I asked for it strong,
and he delivered. I drop a five and two singles on the counter
for a four-dollar drink and tell him to keep the change. I take
another sip from the glass, and I can feel my teeth quake from
the bittersweet feeling of the beverage while it splashes against

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my grill. For a moment I’m able to forget the smell of stale

beer mixed with lingering cigarette smoke that hangs in the
room like a cloud. The place is a dump, and even though it
usually gets packed on Thirsty Thursdays, the bar is fairly
empty for 10:30 at night.

I feel a firm hand slap down on my left shoulder as the

owner of the limb moves to the right of me and takes a seat. I
pat the hand and turn my head to nod at my friend Tom, who’s
just come back from the bathroom. The glazed over look on his
eyes indicates that he’s already starting to feel a buzz from the
beers he’s had, but he’s able to maintain a sober posture,
hunching over his refilled beer only a little and keeping his
head from batting every which way whenever he wants to see
something.

“I’ll tell you what man,” he begins, “if I had to piss in

bathrooms like that I would probably want to stab someone
too.”

I snicker. “Didn’t the stabbings take place at the other

bar down the street? The one where you have to piss in a single
trot next to three other guys and act like you’re fine with it? My
cock shrivels up like a scared animal every time I feel the need
to take a leak while I’m there.”

“There was a stabbing across the street from this bar a

few nights ago,” the bartender corrects. “Couple of guys from
campus was drunk and walking back late. They were shouting,

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drawing attention to themselves, and one of them even had an

iPhone whipped out. They got jumped and one of them, the one
with the iPhone, got stabbed in the stomach for trying to fight
back. He’s fine, went in and out of the hospital, but even
still….” His voice trails off. I take another swig of my whiskey
until the glass is about a quarter full.

“I heard they’re going to be increasing the amount of

shuttles the school has to pick students up,” Tom added. The
bartender nodded in agreement.

“Fuckin’ idiot kids can’t handle themselves in the

rougher area off campus, and they send out more shuttles that
aren’t used in the first place. That’ll knock tuition up a bit,” I
bitterly add. “You wanna know what will keep these kids
safer? Nothing. They’re going to be idiots no matter how much
the school tries otherwise. You can bring a dog outside to shit,
but it’ll still shit the carpet if it feels like it.”

My cell phone starts to vibrate and dance in a small

circle on the bar counter. I glance down at the caller and
immediately send the call to voicemail, returning my interest
back to the whiskey. Tom notices who was calling though and
waits to see if I’ll say anything about it. When I don’t, he plays
dumb and asks who’s calling me.

“I’ll give you three guesses, but you’ll only need one,”
I tell him.

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He nods. “Trish…” he takes a sip of his beer and

shakes his head. “Did you guys get in a fight again?”

“You betcha,” I reply in a matter-of-factly tone. I hope

he’ll stop asking me about her, but he doesn’t. It’s not that he
doesn’t know to stop asking me - he does - he’s just being a
good friend and trying to make sure I’m okay. He’s a good guy
– that’s probably the only reason I’m not lashing out at him
right now.

“What’d you guys fight about this time?”

I finish off my whiskey and let out a heavy sigh. “If I

only knew. Lately she’s been bitchy. She’s always looking for
a reason to fight, any reason. But every time I hint at a break up
talk she starts panicking and spends hours trying to make up for
her attitude.”

“So why do you stay with her?” The eavesdropping

bartender asks.

“I thought I told you I didn’t want to see this fuckin’

glass empty,” I remind the bartender, holding the empty glass
up and shaking the ice around in it. The bartender rolls his
eyes, and I realize I’ve stepped out of bounds with the joke. I
apologize and slide the glass to him across the counter. “I don’t
know – the sex is good. What do you want me to tell you?
She’s a nice girl and all, and sometimes I think she’s sincere
when she says she wants to change, but she struggles with it.

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Am I just supposed to kick her to the curb when she’s making

an honest effort?”

Tom’s answer is too instinctive and quick for comfort.

“Yes. You tell her to get the fuck out of your life and find
someone better.”

“Amen,” the bartender says while he concocts my

drink.

“You saying your prayers or making drinks?” I ask.

Only after the words leave my mouth that I remember that I’ve
already pushed him enough, but to my relief he laughs it off
and hands me the drink. I thank him and pay him another seven
dollars for the four dollar drink. While he collects the money
into his register my phone starts to vibrate yet again, and again
I send it to voicemail.

“You’re pretty mad at her, huh?” Tom observes.

I shrug apathetically. “How can I be mad at her when I

just don’t care anymore? She wants to pull this shit, fine, I
don’t care. But I’m not going to feed into it by answering her
calls just so she can bitch to me some more.” I stand up from
the bar seat and pound my fist down on the counter twice. “I’m
going to the fucking bathroom, make sure nobody steals my
cell phone or my drink, okay?”

“What should I do if Trish calls again?” Tom calls out.

“You want me to do anything?”

“Send it to voicemail!” I shout over my shoulder.

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I open the bathroom door and I instantly realize what

Tom meant earlier because I too had the urge to stab someone
for being forced to piss in this God forsaken hellhole. The bar
was a fucking dump, but the bathroom was the home of all
things small and looking to give unsuspecting victims syphilis
just for sitting on the toilet seat. The walls have tiles falling off
of them and the floor has dirt and mud about an inch thick
spread across the exposed cement like peanut butter on
pumpernickel bread. Exposed leaking pipes replace the sound
of seven televisions playing at once, and the stale beer scent
has been replaced with hot urine. This is where rapists come to
eat dinner, where neo-Nazi’s read the morning paper, where
sociopaths jack off. None of this stops me from pulling out my
penis in front of the urinal and pissing out an hour and a half’s
worth of alcoholic beverages. The piss is so good that I have to
slam my hand against the wall to keep myself from buckling at
the knees and falling over.

Halfway through the never-ending stream of pee and I

notice a little square piece of paper on the ground. My vision
has become a little blurred, and it doesn’t help that the paper
looks like it just came out of a stampede of muddy elephants.
Still, in my uneven vision the big bold words stick out and
point to me like a lighthouse in the dark. In all capital letters
the paper says ‘GOD LOVES US ALL’ and I don’t know why
but I feel a surge of rage build over me like an animal. Maybe
my anger is because the paper has been thrown about and

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stepped on with complete disregard to the message. The

problem could also be because the paper then goes on to talk
about saving yourself until marriage (and that ship left the
harbor the week I turned 17 – oh yes, 17 was a very good year).
Most likely, the rage is just a side effect from the whiskey,
which is a rarity for me. My eyes won’t move away from the
dirty piece of paper, like poking at my gums with a toothpick
until they bleed. ‘GOD LOVES US ALL’ the disfigured
pamphlet shouts before going off on a political tangent rather
than saying why God would bother to love us.

I zip up my pants and don’t bother flushing the urinal

since nobody in the past year has had the courtesy to do so and
I’m also afraid if I touch the metal handle my flesh will break
out into hives. I don’t bother washing my hands because if the
water I’m supposed to refresh my hands with is the same
brown color of the water that’s coming out of the leaking
faucet I have a good feeling that I won’t get anything cleansed.

I turn out of the bathroom but instead of heading back

to the bar I go out the back door for some fresh air and to try
and calm myself down after the burst of anger I felt in the
bathroom. The darkness is weighed down by the surrounding
silence, sedating me. The weather is abnormally warm for early
November, but that’s what I’ve come to expect from going to
school and growing up in New England. A lukewarm breeze
cuts through the silence like a warm knife through butter. I can
shut my eyes and still pretend that the leaves are just starting to

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fall off the trees and people are still enjoying the first weeks of
being reunited with each other after a long summer away at
home. The air is moist and refreshing, almost hydrating. I’m
able to forget about all the bullshit for one second and focus on
irrelevant, random thoughts that I choose to focus on. Just
when I think I’m going to be alone for a while I hear some guy
laugh a little from what feels like inches away. The chuckle
almost scare me out of my skin. My eyes dart intrusively in the
direction of his laugh, and about 6 feet to the left of me the
laughing man is standing with his back facing the bar and his
head looking slightly upward. He has a cigarette limply
hanging in between his dark fingers, and his laugh causes lit
ashes to hobble off the burning butt and dissipate into thin air.

“Hey man,” I call out to him with a firm and

demanding tone even though I try to make my voice sound
respectful. “Can I bum one of those?”

He turns to me, smiling, and pulls a pack of Camels out

of his pocket. His arm is moves fluidly as he tosses the pack of
cancer to me along with a lighter. I catch both of them with
relative ease and pop a cigarette into my mouth. The lighter
sparks and torches the cancer stick while I walk over to him.
The smell from the smoke infiltrates my nostrils almost
immediately, resurrecting memories of a girl I used to sleep
with a few years ago who would love smoking her menthols
before and after sex. I never cared for the habit until I started
drinking more, and in many ways I know I’ll regret smoking

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this one cigarette tonight because I always wake up the next

day and regret when I’ve smoked the night before. That hasn’t
ever stopped me in the past though, and I’d bet my working
pair of testicles that won’t stop me tonight. I offer him the
cigarette carton and the lighter back, lamely offering my thanks
for his charity. He brushes my gratitude aside in favor of the
sky, where his gaze returns and he continues to chuckle to
himself like the stars are reminding him of inside jokes. At first
I don’t mind, but the laughter continues to tug at my curiosity
like a cat playing with a ball of yarn, trying to unravel every bit
of fiber to the last millimeter. Soon the need to know becomes
overbearing and I give into the desire pulling at me.

“Excuse me, I don’t mean to come off as a dick, but

what the hell are you laughing about?” I bluntly pose.

I get a better look at him now that my eyes have

adjusted to the darkness. He’s a Hispanic man with a wide,
tooth filled grin. His teeth look like they need cleaning, and his
face looks like it hasn’t been formally introduced with a razor
for about a week. His eyes are beaten even though he looks
relatively young. Still, he isn’t young enough to be coming to a
bar like this, where the clientele is mostly underage college
students with fake ID’s (like me and Tom). Even in his sagging
eyes he looks like he’s concealing some secret. There’s an
inside joke he’s laughing about, refusing to let anyone else join
in on the fun. His easygoing laughter drives me insane with
curiosity and suspicion. In the time in takes him to respond I’ve

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already thought about punching him out with frustration, but I

withhold my raging impatience and listen.

“Isn’t it funny?” He asks me, his voice dancing like

someone just finished tickling him. “Isn’t it funny how, even
with all we know about the stars and the universe, we still
know so little about the heaven within the stars?”

I want to finish my cigarette and contract cancer before

continuing this conversation. Had I known the inside joke
would’ve been philosophical, even biblical, I would’ve
dismissed myself before giving the laughing man a chance to
open the floor for discussion. I take another drag and try to
choke myself with the smoke. The laughing man continues.

“It’s incredible that after all these advancements in

technology and knowledge we still know nothing about God
watching over us, or how He does it. And yet, He’s there – in
heaven above He’s sitting there watching us. And we can’t
even comprehend how because we’re so consumed in the little
knowledge we have over the stars that He resides beyond.”

I feel drunk. The man’s words swirl around in my head

with such a force that I become physically dizzy (though the
swirling could be the effects of the whiskey). Why is he saying
this? What does he care? And why does he find it so fucking
funny? The revelation occurs to me that he’s probably just as
drunk (if not drunker) than I am right now. The laughing man

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is on an alcohol-induced diatribe. He is probably clueless as to

which way is up.

“You’re fucked up,” I tell him softly, trying to find the

balance between my opinion and being respectful. “You’re
really drunk.”

“Nah,” he responds quietly without showing any sign

of offense from my direct accusation. “I’m not drunk, I’m
enlightened.”

I start giggling. At first it’s just a little bit but it

escalates into a side clutching, air gasping laughter. I almost
swallow my cigarette from the way I’m acting, so I flick it and
keep going with my chuckling. I’m forced to bend at the side in
order to keep from falling over. Somehow, the Hispanic man
doesn’t get upset with my drunken shenanigans. The laughing
man just keeps smiling at his inside joke that I’m too stupid to
understand. He says something to me that I don’t hear because
I’m too consumed in my own entertainment. By the time I
settle down he’s already turned away and walked back inside.

I feel like an asshole after he leaves. Suddenly I’m not

as amused as I was when he was here. I try to think about what
he said and take it seriously because, in the great scheme of
things, he could’ve been like any other asshole and tell me to
fuck off for acting the way I did. I know that if we were in
opposite positions that would’ve been my reaction. So why did

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I take his thoughts as second-class amusement? Why do I find

his beliefs so hilarious?

I try to dig deep into my conscious but the whiskey has

seeped into my brain, impairing my ability to think logically. I
feel dulled, like a knife that hasn’t been sharpened after
excessive use. And what does a knife become when the edges
are so dulled that the blade can no longer perform it’s primary
function? Useless.

That pretty much sums up how I feel about trying to

make sense out of anything remotely logical right now –
completely useless.

I walk back inside and I see Tom sitting at the bar,

looking over at me with a ‘where the hell have you been you
idiot?’ expression on his face. I approach my old seat, notice
that my cell phone says I have three new voicemails, and I
finish the rest of my drink.

“You ready to leave?” Tom asks me while I’m

chugging down the last bit of my Jack and Coke. I nod causing
some of the whiskey and soda to dribble out of the glass and
down my chin.

“Yeah,” I drunkenly reply, pocketing my cell phone

and slamming the glass on the counter for the last time of the
nice. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Be careful walking back,” the bartender advises.

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“Don’t worry about it, God’s got this one,” I answer. I

feel like a dick for saying that, and Tom gives me another look,
but in our intoxicated states we both quickly lose interest in my
asshole comment and move on to begin our trek back towards
campus. The walk is dark to the point of intimidation, with
streetlights in the area dimly lit. Rather than creating a sense of
safety, the fluorescent lights form shadows that stalk the
defenseless. We walk quickly, keeping our heads low. Even
though we try to be quiet we can’t help but talk about the
stupid things drunken college kids talk about – namely quoting
stupid videos we’ve seen online and discussing the potential of
upcoming parties for the weekend. The conversation is
superficial, but not everything needs to be deep.

We’re just heading towards the freshman dorms where

Tom lives when a banshee shrieks so loud that my ears are still
ringing long after the wailing ceases.

“DOMINIC!”

I contemplate running. I was having a good night. Tom

and I were sufficiently drunk and I didn’t have to be up until
my 11:30 class the next day. It was the start of a good
weekend, and I was anticipating the loose-set plans I had that
revolved around drinking too much, sleeping too late, and
doing things I’d regret if I didn’t find them funny.

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“Dominic Alighieri! Where the hell have you been?”

The banshee demands. Tom and I turn around slowly and see
my girlfriend angrily approaching the two of us.

“Should we run?” Tom whispers, knowing the deal

with Trish.

“We might have to, be ready to break out into a full

sprint if things go bad,” I drunkenly whisper back. We should
be panicked – after all, she was yelling at us and storming in
our direction to inspire some level of fear. But we’re too drunk
too be worried and too apathetic to take Trish seriously when
she’s like this, so we do what we know best. We contain our
laughter as best we can but still squeak out high pitched
giggles. Trish, now confronting us with her hands on her filled
out hips, curls her face in disgust and offense.

“Dominic, where in the hell have you been? I left you

three voicemails and you never called me back!”

“Dude we may need to run,” I stage whisper to Tom,

disregarding my girlfriend’s ability to hear my drunken
whispering. We both snicker at my comment. She doesn’t seem
happy in the least with either of us.

“Are you drunk again?” She stammers.

“Again?” I repeat with somewhat slurred speech.

“Again? When was I drunk again before?”

Her freckled face turned bright red. She’s about six

inches shorter then me, and when she gets mad and her face

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turns red I like to pretend she’s a troll. It goes without saying at

this point, but I don’t take her very seriously when I’m drunk.

Fed up beyond words with me, she redirects her verbal

assault onto Tom. “Tom, what’re you doing out with him? You
know he’s nothing but a bad influence.”

Tom shrugs. “He’s a good guy.”

“Thank you,” I state with an obnoxious amount of

sincerity filtered into my voice. Both Tom and I start laughing
at our own sarcasm that Trish still hasn’t caught onto. If Trish
gets any madder I’m convinced that she’ll turn into the
Incredible Bitch (a nickname Tom and I came up for her when
she gets so mad that all she can do is scream nonsense). A part
of me always did wonder why I stayed with her if this is the
only way I know how to treat her. Than again, that same part of
me also wonders why she hasn’t killed me yet. I guess it’s a
two way street.

She’s getting mad to the point where I no longer feel

secure about my physical safety, so I whisper to Tom that I’ll
take a bullet for him and talk to her. He turns around and says
his goodbyes while heading back to his dorm, possibly relieved
that he wasn’t needed when one of his friends was about to get
slaughtered by his girlfriend like a turkey on Thanksgiving.
With him gone, I turn all my attention to her.

“Okay,” I begin, taking a deep breath but unable to

erase the idiotic smile on my face. I place my hands on her

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shoulders (which, along with her stomach, has become a little

more fleshy since we started the school year) for empathy.
“What is it you want exactly?”

“Dominic,” she slowly begins, sounding flustered.

“Why didn’t you call me back?”

“I was at the bar,” I responded without skipping a beat.

“You knew where I was, I told you I was going out with Tom.”

“You told me that after our fight,” she combats. “You

said it as you were walking out of my apartment.”

I squint my eyes in an attempt to visualize the fight we

had earlier. I’m so drunk that upon squinting all I want to do is
close them all the way and go to bed. I can’t remember a single
detail from the fight, and I’m so drunk that I’m worried if I do
remember anything I’ll screw up the facts and make my
argument look like shit. So I nod and say nothing.

Trish knows me though and she knows what my

memory is like when I’m drunk. “You don’t remember what
we fought about, do you?”

I’m too tired to lie. “I don’t remember a fucking

thing,” I plainly inform her. Why hasn’t she pulled away from
me yet?

She sighs and thrusts her body into mine, wrapping her
tiny arms around my waist. I let my arms go limp over her
shoulders and rest my head on hers, exhausted from the night. I
want to go to bed.

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“I’m sorry,” she tells me with her head pressed against

my chest. “I’m sorry I was a bitch to you.”

“What’d you do?” I asked. It isn’t until after I ask the

question that I realize I don’t care what she did. Not because I
love her unconditionally, and no sin she commits towards me is
unforgivable, but just because I don’t care. There are bigger
things to worry about then my bitch girlfriend doing whatever
it is she does to get herself so worked up.

She answers me, but the words fall on deaf ears. My

vision starts to click in and out as we start walking. We’re not
heading in the direction of my dorm (which is right by Tom’s,
and I know enough to know we’re walking the opposite way)
so I can only assume we’re walking to lower campus where her
apartment is located. That, or she’s taking me out to the field
where all the potheads go to smoke so she can murder me in
peace and quiet. I’m too drunk to care. She can kill me, and I
would hope that my gravestone would say ‘LIFE WELL
SPENT’ in sloppy, drunk handwriting. Nothing beats this life
when alcohol consumes every cognitive thought. Nothing,
except seeing this life go to hell because my girlfriend got too
pissed with me and decided she was going to deal with my shit
once and for all by killing me.

My vision clicks in just in time for me to see her open

the door and I can hear her mumble to be quiet. I tiptoe inside
as best as I can but my legs wobble like Jell-O and my knee
goes crashing into one of the walls like a wave smacking a

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rock. I start cussing loudly and I feel Trish’s hand slap against
my mouth to muffle my roaring. She leads me to her room
where I fall on her bed and close my eyes. I take off my pants
and shirt while I’m on there, but I don’t bother asking her for a
contact case or saline. I’m too drunk to care.

She climbs into bed and rubs her hand against my

cock. She kisses me on the cheek and tells me she’s sorry and
she wants to make up for it. I don’t open my eyes because, in
all honesty, I’m just not that into her anymore. At first the sex
was great. We used to do it as often as we could, as long as we
could. Then we started fighting and sex became a way to make
up after the fights. But that flame has seen it’s last bit of air and
has since been extinguished, replaced by this. We still fight,
even worse than before, but the sex is meaningless. She tries,
God bless her, to make the sex something special again, and I
guess I do too since that’s the only thing we share with one
another lately. But at the end of the day, we’re just offering
each other our bodies and nothing else. We fight, fuck, and
sleep. There’s really not much in between that routine.

Trish takes one of her exposed breasts and brings it up

to my lips as she climbs on top of me. She whispers to me to
suck her. I wonder if her roommate hears this shit – the dirty
talk is almost comical. I think Tom and I will laugh about Trish
tomorrow, and we’ll probably get everyone else in on the big
joke too. ‘Suck me’ she says – who does she think she is, Jenna
Jameson?

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She takes one of my hands and slides it down to her

clit. I can’t remember if I fall asleep during or after. This could
almost be constituted as rape. That’s another funny one that I’ll
have to remember. I chuckle myself silently into an alcohol-
induced coma while Trish has her way with me. What a life.

For a while I refuse to open my burning eyes, denying

any possibility that the sun could already be up again. Trish
had forgotten to shut the shade (something she loves
complaining about but never fixes) and due to the direction her
apartment is facing the sun always shines through the windows
when it comes up in the morning. The worlds most natural
alarm clock, and no fucking snooze button in sight. My head is
too swollen and my throat is too dry to want the blazing sun
shining in my face right now. I rip a sweat-drenched pillow out
from underneath my skull and cover my face.

“Trish,” I whine, pushing the hot and scratchy blankets

off my almost naked body, “can you shut the shade?”

No answer. I wait for what feels like an infinity and

then some. My head is pounding against the pillow, and I can
feel my flesh start to sizzle from the beating sun. I reach my
arm out to nudge her awake, but my hand hits the cold drywall
instead. She’s not there. I pull the pillow off my face and dart
my eyes towards her digital clock at the end of the bed. The
LED red lights say the time is a quarter of noon. I slept through
my class. Oh well.

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I roll out of her bed and shut the shade, my brain

thumping like a set of bongo drums. My hair is unkempt and
my breath is stale. Trish has already left for class and, knowing
her, won’t be back until later. Her roommates usually have
class in the afternoon so I have the apartment to myself. That
being the case I decide to skip putting on my clothes (that stink
like a speakeasy) and attempt at making breakfast for myself.
The apartment is cooking me like a Thanksgiving turkey.
Someone must’ve cranked the heat up overnight. The building
does get cold at night, so I can’t say I blame whichever
roommate made the executive decision to leave the heat on.

Than again, chances are I’m just sweating Jack Daniels

and ice melt at this stage in my routine binge.

I walk out to the kitchen and turn on the TV. MTV is

on and I instinctively turn the TV back off as quickly as
possible, having suddenly lost all desire to watch anything. I
stand in the common room for a moment, stretch my muscles,
scratch my nuts, and make my move towards the refrigerator.
To my disappointment, the fridge not well stocked and lacks
anything of excitement. There’s about four inches of milk in a
plastic jug, a case of bottle water with a few bottles missing, a
paintings collection of bruised and unattended fruit, a bottle of
bleu cheese with the chunky liquid dribbling down the sides, an
opened stick of cheese that looks like it might be turning green,
and a leftover slice of pepperoni pizza not wrapped in anything.
I reach for the milk and flick the plastic cap off. I bring the jug

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to my lips and catch a whiff of the sour diary. Instantly I want

to throw up whatever whiskey is still in my stomach. I can feel
my insides churn from the brief sniff, and I thank Christ that I
didn’t end up drinking that poison. I cap the milk, disgusted,
and put the jug back in the fridge. Someone else can deal with
that dairy fiasco. I take the one thing I trust in the fridge of
diarrhea, bottled water, and begin rummaging through various
cabinets.

“Oh my God!”

I lazily turn around, nipping at the water. I hadn’t

heard the door open or one of Trish’s roommates and a few of
her friends talking, so I had no time to hide or warn them of my
presence. They must’ve been scared shitless when they saw
me. I shrug, say hello. A few of the girls start giggling, and for
a moment I think I’m charming. Then I notice that when I
turned around my fleshy sidekick had found a way out of the
hotbox in my boxers. It hung there, limply and hung over,
unafraid of anyone who bore witness to it’s glory. If I was
feeling even close to normal that morning I’d have panicked,
but as long as my head hurts, I have an audience, and I don’t
have anything to lose, I chuckle along with them and smile.

“Looking’s for free, but touching is gonna cost ya,” I

tell them, readjusting myself with my free hand and sipping on
the plastic bottle with the other. “By the way, whose water is
this?”

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“Mine,” Trish’s roommate stammers, unsure of what to

say or how to react. She looks like she wants to be mad, but
she’s just as entertained as the other girls.

“Oh, do you want some money? I feel bad just taking

it,” I confess, although my apology is utter bullshit. If I had felt
bad I wouldn’t have taken the water to begin with, I would’ve
just gotten some from the tap. I reach my free hand to where
my pockets should be and then remember I don’t have pants
on. This causes the girls to giggle even harder.

“You’re fine,” Trish’s roommate says, then pauses.

“Aren’t you embarrassed?”

“What, about just now? Trish told me it was a good

size, was she lying?”

One of the girls runs into the bathroom and slams the
door shut, bellowing out in laughter. The other girls, who had
tried to cover their laughter, now openly enjoy my company
and humor. Even Trish’s roommate, who probably thought I
was a crack head trying to steal food before identifying me, is
now enjoying herself.

I raise my bottle as if to cheers with other people.

“Well, you’re a bunch of gorgeous ladies, but I must go track
down my pants. And to answer your question, yes, it was very
embarrassing to have my penis present itself.”

I want to laugh at the word penis. I have not yet grown

up. I don’t think I ever will.

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 Daniel James

“Well you took it in stride,” one of the girls comment.

I take a long swig of my water. “It’s what I do.”

Without any sort of worry or panic in my stride, I walk

past the girls and back into Trish’s room, being sure to shut the
door behind me. I take a seat on her bed and reach down by the
floor for my pants. I get one leg in successfully, and I can’t
help but laugh to myself as I get the other one in.

I finish getting dressed and kill the rest of the water in

the bottle in one large gulp. I leave the apartment, waving by to
all the girls as they sit in the common room (some of them still
smiling and trying to contain their laughter when they see me)
and make the journey back to my room.

Bitter Sun

The gleaming sun beats down on my neck almost the

instant I walk out of the apartment building. It’s so bright out
that for the first few minutes I can’t even see a fucking thing, I
just have to look at the ground and squint and hope that my
eyes don’t melt. The November breeze that hasn’t let up since
last night, but the sun counteracts the air by boiling my flesh.
Any joy I felt while I was entertaining those girls back in the
apartment just went to flames.

The campus is fairly quiet right now. The atmosphere

is exhausted from last night. People are either asleep or in class
or sleeping in class, and the tired energy that seems to circulate
the campus is noticeable during my walk back to the dorm. The

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buildings sag with hunches identical to the hung over students,

and even the chapel that gleams in the sun and shines under the
moon is squinting beneath the bright sky. The only people who
seem well rested right now are the friars who somehow blend
into the campus like mobile statues. They don’t walk like the
rest of us, evidenced by their elite strides.

I should probably explain. My name is Dominic

Alighieri. I’m a sophomore at a private Catholic college. I
came here after going to public school for my entire life
because I was raised Judeo-Christian and wanted to continue
my pursuit of religious understanding. I’m a major in
Sociology, and a minor in Creative Writing. Neither of them
having anything to do with religion, but everything I do seems
to somehow be related to religion. My mom used to tell me that
God is watching over me, and that I would always be okay as
long as I turned to Him. I guess that’s what makes me an
asshole for laughing last night. Sorry.

My head is thumping by the time I get back inside and

even though the door shuts promptly behind me and the vivid
sun has been blocked out I still can’t see anything. I accidently
bump into someone walking up the stairs, but when I turn to
apologize he keeps walking as if I passed through him. Even
after we both wrap around the corner and I continue upwards
and he continues downwards his focus is on the ground, away
from anything that could be going on in the world around him.
I make it back to my room and shut the door.

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My room has the appearance of a closet that’s thrown

up. Clothes hang from my closet door, my bed is drooling from
underneath with jeans and t-shirts that will probably see my
body again before they see a washing machine, and in the
corner is a soggy, balled up towel that probably just makes me
more dirty than clean when I use it. Hell, even with a Glade
plug in, the room still manages to smell musky, like the men’s
locker room at a two-bit gym. There’s also the smell of a
chicken parm sub that I have leftover from about a week ago
mixed in the room somewhere. The stained white walls have
been plastered with wrinkled and dog-eared posters of Kurt
Cobain, Pearl Jam, Tupac, and various cult-classic movies. I
contemplate throwing up before my legs find their way to my
bed with no sheets because the room gets so Goddamn hot that
I feel like I’ve just taken a ride on Splash Mountain when I
wake up. For whatever it’s worth, this decomposing dorm room
is still my home.

I shut my eyes, not bothering to take out my contacts

again. I want to get up, but the bed has already wrapped its
comfortable arms around me and the pillow has latched itself to
my mind and I can feel myself drift off. In my minds eye I start
to draw out a seat. The seat expands and contracts, swirls in
circles, and disappears before transforming into a pew. It
multiplies itself, and just like that there’s two pews. Then
there’s four, then eight, and then they start to expand by rows
too. There’s so many pews after only a few seconds that I can’t

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see past them in the distance. We’re on a field now, an open

meadow. It’s raining out. It’s always raining out. I walk over to
one of the pews and sit down, but the rain doesn’t stop. I look
down at my feet. I’m naked. My penis is hanging limply. I
stand up to shout but I don’t make any noise, so I start moving
forward. All the pews are empty, but when I turn around and
look back everyone I know is staring straight ahead, right
through me.

I walk over to Trish and sit down next to her. She’s

naked as well, but her birthday suit doesn’t turn me on. Her
nude appearance looks more like something you’d find on a
statue in church. I’d have been more turned on if I saw her
fully clothed. I ask her what’s going on, and she hands me a
collection plate.

“Here,” she says plainly. “Use this?”

“Okay,” I reply automatically. “Use it for what?”

“You know.”

I reach down to my groin and tug at my penis. Like a

loose tooth my manhood detaches cleanly from my body. I
drop my dick onto the gold dish and watch the acid rain melt
the flesh away. I watch until the last inch turns into nothing. I
begin to scream. I demand to know where my penis went, and
nobody can give me any answers. Nobody says a word. They
all look straight ahead. I look back down at the empty space
where my penis used to be, and thankfully I have pants on now.

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 Daniel James

I’m enraged, and still I get no solution as to what happened to

my penis.

I stand up and drop the collection plate onto the

ground. The plate explodes. I’m alone again. I feel my cell
phone vibrating so I reach into my pants pocket and, in the
greatest magic trick from this millennium, pull my penis out,
completely unscathed. I put the cock back in my pants but
doing so feels unnatural and cramped. A nauseating feeling
growls in the cellar of my stomach when I try to adjust, and
just a light graze on my balls from my fingers causes me to
throw up. I bend over to puke but when I do the ground
disappears from underneath me and I fall back into the
nothingness I came from.

Landing on my mattress like a I just took a flying-

squirrel style dive I snap out of the dream. There’s a firm,
obnoxious pounding at my door. The kind of knock where
someone knows you’re inside the room and continues to
relentlessly slam for that very reason. Before I do anything I
check to make sure my dick is still attached to my groin. I
breathe the biggest sigh of relief in my natural life when my
fingers bump into my shaft. A moment later, I address the
asshole at the door.

“Hold on a fucking minute!” I shout. “Jesus, relax

already! I’m coming!”

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I roll out of bed and almost trip on some of the clothes

on the ground as I do so. I give a heavy yawn, stretch my arms
and back, and start heading towards the door. Despite my shout
in response to the incessant knocking, the fist still thumps
against my wall.

I fling the door open, emphasizing my unhappiness as

much as possible. “Oh my GOD what do you want?” I demand
before even realizing who I’m talking to.

Cody draws a smile across his face. It’s a phony,

arrogant, ‘I’m better than you’ smile. From the moment we’ve
met, we’ve never gotten along. There are just some people in
life you hate, and for me that would happen to be this religious
radical who gets hard off the fact that nobody loves Jesus like
him. The thing about Cody is that he takes every fucking thing
he does to the extreme. After awhile, his antics reach the point
where everyone resents him for the way he conducts himself.
I’m confident that if I could’ve punched that smile off of his
face – along with the rest of his pompous facial features, like
his beady eyes – not only would I have hit him, but I would’ve
waited until the initial wounds started to heal and then I
would’ve beat the shit out of him all over again. The hung over
and annoyed look on my face only seems to expand his smile
like a balloon, while his rat-like eyes get smaller. I contemplate
slamming the door in his face, but I try not to be rude.

Slowly and confidently, he extends his hand towards

me. In his fingers there’s a pamphlet that reads – wouldn’t you

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 Daniel James

know it – ‘GOD LOVES US ALL’ in big, bold letters. It takes

him another minute after holding out the leaflet to start talking.
“Have you heard the good news?”

My muscles twitch because I’m fighting them from

having a spasm and hitting him. “Yeah, I was pretty excited to
hear about the new soft serve machine in the cafeteria too.”

Cody condescendingly shakes his head at me. “You

know what makes me laugh about you, Dominic?”

“Well I’m hoping it’s my good sense of humor and

charismatic personality.”

“It’s that you’re going to hell when you die…and you

seem to get off to that.”

“Well when you say it like that it’s hard to keep it in

my pants, don’t you think?”

Cody laughs under his breathe, returning his brochure

to his side. “Keep making jokes. When I look down on you
from heaven as I’m looking down on you now, I’ll be the one
laughing.”

“Love thy neighbor, asshole.”

I slam the door in his face, letting the red steam of

anger seep out of every hole in my body over the course of a
few minutes. I wish I knew where kids like him get the balls to
talk to people like that, because they need to be knocked out.

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I do my best to shake off my frustration, but even after

he’s out of sight he’s not out of mind. His presence feels like
an infestion my room, lingering like a foul stench. I can’t find
comfort in my room. My heart begins to beat faster in
frustration and anxiety. I shuffle through the things I do to calm
myself down in my mind. Music, sex, drinking, pot, working
out, napping, eating…nothing seems appealing. I only become
more unnerved because of these supposed stress relievers. Out
of ideas, I walk over to the fridge and crack open a small bottle
of Irish whiskey. The burning sensation does little to coat my
anxiety, or ease my trembling fingers, but I convince myself to
give the alcohol a minute to kick in. While I patiently wait to
lose myself I walk over to my computer, plug in my speakers,
and start playing Nirvana. The heart pumping guitar of Smells
like Teen Spirit vibrates on the inside of my flesh and makes
my blood slam around in my veins like a tidal wave. I bring the
bottle back up to my lips and tilt my head back. Welcome back
to reality I guess.

There’s another knock at my door. This knock,

however, sounds much more familiar and casual. I put the
bottle down on my desk, letting the music play, and walk over
to open the door. This time I know who to expect at the door
and open it much more welcomingly.

“Hey, Dante,” I greet tiredly. “Come inside, the

weekend’s just getting started.”

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“Thanks Dom,” Dante replies, walking past me and

pulling a seat over from somewhere by the corner in my room.
“How’s it feel having no roommate this semester?”

“Lonely, but I can’t complain. He had been talking

about going abroad to Italy for awhile now. I’m happy he got
accepted in the program he wanted, even if he did find out late
and was a constant source of tension because of that wait.”

Dante nods, “win some, lose some.”

I raise my eyebrow because I don’t think that phrase

works in that situation. “Any good plans tonight?”

“House parties, bar parties, concerts. I’m telling you

man, we’re living the college life this year.”

“Amen to that,” I say, reaching behind me towards my

desk and pulling the whiskey bottle onto my lap. “You want a
drink?”

“It’s like 4 in the afternoon,” Dante cites. After a

pause, he shrugs. “Yeah, you know what? It’s been a hell of a
week, I will have a drink.”

I pass the bottle to him and watch him unscrew the cap
and let the whiskey burn his tongue. Dante and I grew up
together. By a stroke of luck we ended up going to the same
college together because we hadn’t planned on it, and initially
the situation wasn’t panning out because he got in on early
decision I got deferred to the regular applicant pool before
getting accepted. Despite the fact that we go to the same

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school, we’ve become pros at giving each other the appropriate

space. That said, I think those who say going to school with
close friends limits you from meeting other people are full of
shit, because both Dante and I have been able to meet a lot of
people while still remaining close and hanging out regularly.
Not living together was probably for the best however, because
I could definitely see the two of us getting on each other’s
nerves often.

“I heard you had a fun night with Trish last night,”

Dante says with a smirk on his face.

I reach my hand out for the bottle and don’t say a word
until he hands the emerald green whiskey jar to me. “What do
you want me to tell you man? If I could remember it that’d be
one thing.”

Dante keeps grinning. “Ah you sly devil, did you save
those sexy voicemails?”

I raise an eyebrow. “What voicemails? The ones where

she’s yelling at me? I don’t even know if I listened to them, or
if they’re even new or just old ones from previous fights.”

Now Dante has a look of confusion on his face.

“What’re you talking about man? She was leaving a voicemail
that sounded like she wanted you. Bad. I heard it, I was in the
other room with one of her roommates.”

I hand him back the whiskey bottle and rub my head,

trying to jostle my brain around and remember the previous

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night. “No…no, we were in a fight. There’s no way she was

trying to seduce me and cut my nuts off at the same time. She’s
too simple for that.” I pause, trying to figure this out in my
head. “Do you think she’s cheating on me?”

Dante has a look of concern on his face. “No,” he says,

lying to my face. “Nah man, she doesn’t sound like she’s
cheating on you. She probably just felt bad about the fight you
guys had and wanted to try and make it up to you. That makes
sense, doesn’t it?”

I lean forward and run my fingers through my hair. The

curly blonde hair that forms a pseudo-afro on my head have
gotten too long, I should probably go to the mall and get a
haircut soon. “Yeah, yeah I guess you’re right. Whatever, I
don’t care if she is.”

“She’s been with you for awhile now, I don’t think

she’s cheating on you.”

“If she is, then to hell with her. Honestly we fight so

much lately that I’m looking for an excuse to break up with
her.”

Dante shrugged, taking a long smooth swig out of the

bottle. “If you want to break up, why don’t you?”

I laugh. “Dude, I ask myself that every day. I don’t

even have an answer anymore. The relationship has become
such a waste of time for both of us. I don’t know why we keep

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trying to push this thing. Maybe it’s time to move on, you
know?”

“I hear you buddy,” Dante empathizes, patting my

knee. “You do what you gotta do though, this bitch ain’t worth
it,” then he says, laughing, “the Incredible Bitch!”

I laugh with him. The Incredible Bitch, no wonder I

should break up with her. “Yo, you should’ve heard the shit she
was trying to turn me on with last night.” I say excitedly, eager
to share with someone.

Dante laughs harder. “So you did get laid! See? She
probably did leave you a voicemail and your drunk ass just
can’t remember.”

“Fuck off,” I say, snatching the whiskey bottle. “She

propped herself on top of me and shoved her tit in my mouth,
telling me to suck on it like a breast feeding baby. She does it
to try and sound sexy, but the whole time I’m thinking ‘is her
roommate hearing this, and if so is her roommate thinking that
Trish is nourishing a child?’”

Dante laughs because, like me, he finds this to be

incredibly funny. Even though we’re both laughing at my
girlfriend, I can’t help but be bothered by what Dante said.
What I’m not sure is I’m bothered because Trish might be
cheating on me, or because I’m not sure if I remotely care if
she’s cheating on me. Shouldn’t I at least care if someone I’m
committed to cheats on me? I’ve been cheated on in the past,

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and I remember that feeling that sits in the depths of my

stomach like a brick, but I just don’t feel that sweltering in my
throat or agonizing pit in my heart this time. I’m slightly
disturbed that I don’t.

There’s another knock on my door but before I can get

up to answer it Tom and Jeff are already walking in and
making themselves at home. Both of them are laughing, Tom
getting a foldout chair that’s leaning against the wall and Jeff
opening my fridge and sifting through whatever might be in
there.

“Dude, don’t you have any beers?” he asks me.

“Hi, please come in,” I sarcastically remark. Then,

“yeah, they’re behind the Cokes.”

“Found ‘em,” he declares, pulling out a canned

Keystone Light and cracking the aluminum container open,
slurping at the crawling foam like a volcano erupting.

“Pull one for me too dude,” Tom says.

“Okay,” Jeff nods, reaching his arm back in the fridge.

“And grab two cans of Coke and those glasses off the
top of the fridge,” I instruct.

“Nah, I don’t think I’m gonna,” Jeff replies with a

Chester-Cat grin on his face. Jeff and I have known each other
since high school. When Dante and I went to college, he went
to a post-grad year at a prep school. That year was rough on

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him because really all Jeff was doing essentially was a fifth
year of high school, but that choice ended up being for the best
because as a result he was able to join me and Dante at school
the following year. And the fact that he’s in the same class as
Tom is also kind of cool. Regardless, he’s one of the most loyal
people I know. I can’t think of many other people that would
look out for me the way he does. There’s been numerous
occasions where, drunk at a party, someone will try to start
something with me or Dante or Tom. Jeff, although not the
strongest person you’ll ever meet, is never afraid to get his
hands dirty and fight alongside his friends if it comes to that.
He’s a good kid.

Tom pulls up a seat next to us and snaps the beer open

that Jeff handed him. I toss the whiskey bottle to Dante. Jeff
hands me the Cokes, the glasses, and pulls up a chair and a
small coffee table that him, Dante, Tom and I stole from the
downstairs common room while we were drunk one night. I
place the glasses on the table and fill them about two-thirds of
the way with Coke. Dante pours whiskey into each of them
until there’s only about an inch of space in between the mixed
drink and the rim of the glass. We all pick up our beverages
and cheers to a good weekend.

“What’s good for tonight,” Tom asks.

“I heard there’s a house party going on at what’s-his-

names,” Jeff offers.

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“Who’s what’s-his-name?” Tom questions.

“Isn’t that the party on Birds Ave?” Dante ponders.

“Yeah, yeah that’s the one. The crazy fuck’s house,

Luke?”

“I thought his name was Jorge?” I say, bored.

Jeff shrugs. “Luke, Jorge, like I give a shit. Dude’s

crazy. I heard he owns a gun.”

“He’s in my Western Civ class, he seems cool

enough,” Tom reflects. “He was talking about having a party,
now that I think about it.”

“What about the bar?” I ask.

“Again?” Tom subtly complains. “Dude, that shit gets

expensive.”

“I wouldn’t mind a bar,” Dante agrees. “It’s a good

place to drink. Plus the Celtics are playing tonight.”

“You don’t like basketball,” Jeff reminds him.

Dante nods. “I like drinking when sports are on TV

though. Call me a son-of-a-bitch but it’s a nice combination.”

“A lot of people are probably going to the bar too I

bet.” My insight is met with grumbles and under-the-breath
disagreement.

“I don’t think very many people are going to the bar

tonight, there’s a good chance it’ll get raided by the cops,”

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someone says, I stopped paying attention to who is saying

what.

“But the Celtics are playing, and the bars are the best
place to watch,” Dante protests.

“I doubt people will go,” Tom reluctantly argues. “It

just isn’t the night.”

“We should go to a hockey game,” I say. “Nothing’s

better than getting drunk and going to a hockey game.”

“Fuck that,” Jeff snaps. “Last time we got drunk and

went to a hockey game you got us kicked out because you
wouldn’t stop glaring the mascot down. You tried punching
him in the head, remember?”

“Asshole looked like he wanted to throw down,” I

defend.

“He’s a mascot! How’s he gonna look anything? He

doesn’t have changeable facial features!”

“Well…fuck him, that’s not my problem. No hockey

then. Concert?”

“Anyone cool playing?” Dante asks.

“Grunge cover band, should be cool,” I say.

Tom shrugs uninterested. “Might be fun. House party

could be cool too.”

“So let’s check the house party out,” Dante suggests.

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“Agreed,” Jeff says.

I raise my glass and nod. “Fuck it, it’s the weekend

after all, right? Why not?”

We all cheers again and kill off the rest of our drinks.
Jeff and Tom go get more beers and a few more cans of Coke
from the fridge and Dante and I begin making more drinks with
the remainder of the open cans.

“So this kid, Luke,” Jeff starts, walking back to the

pow-wow circle with booze in hand. “Kid is fucking crazy. I
was talking to him the other day, just shooting the breeze. I say
to him, ‘you know man, these streets aren’t safe right now. A
lot of kids are getting stabbed,’ and he answers ‘that’s why I
got a gun. Had to shoot at four of those pricks the other night.’
Shocked because I know he’s serious I say, ‘what do you mean,
some dudes try to fuck with you?’ and assume that yes,
someone had tried to break into his house or something
because he lives off campus and these things happen. He says
‘no, I shot at ‘em cause they were walking the wrong way.’
Now I’m starting to wonder just what his deal is, so I say ‘did
you kill any of them?’ and he says ‘I wish, but I would’ve been
behind bars before I could tell this story.’ I said to myself ‘fuck
that’ and got up and left the table.”

Dante’s eyes are like saucers. “And we’re going to this

kids house?”

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Jeff shrugs. “Well, other than the fact that he’s a Neo-
Nazi racist, he throws good parties.”

Even Tom is looking like he’s having second thoughts.

“This definitely is not the same kid from my Civ class.”

“How do you know?” I ask.

“Cause the kid from my Civ class that I’m thinking of

is a black Democrat,” Tom replies. “I know who this crazy
fuck is. His name is Luke. He’s definitely got issues.”

I pound my drink and, even though I’m feeling good,

make another one and drink that as well. “I cannot believe
we’re going to this kid’s house,” I admit, although a large part
of me is convinced that Jeff exaggerated the story to an
extreme measurement. Believe none of what you hear.

“Yeah, but a lot of people are, so how bad can it be?”

Tom says, trying to justify the logic.

I nod reluctantly, trying to play both sides of the fence.

I don’t believe Jeff, but I don’t want to go to this house party
either. I have to play my hand in this matter carefully if this
party will be avoided. “Mass thought isn’t necessarily the right
thought.”

Tom is indifferent. “I’m not disagreeing, I’m only

saying that it might be fun, and if other people go they might
think it’ll be fun too. We got nothing to lose. What’s Luke
gonna do, pull a gun on one of us?”

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 Daniel James

“I thought his name was Jorge,” someone says.

“It’s Luke.”

“At least God is watching over us,” I murmur. Tom

hears me and gives me a confused glare.

“This shit again?”

“What’s he talking about?” Jeff asks the peanut

gallery.

“He heard some guy at the bar last night say that it was
great that God is watching over us, and Dominic would not
stop laughing about it.”

“It was weird,” I say. I wait for someone to challenge

me, asking me why the laughing man experience was so
strange. Nobody does. I become upset that nobody cares
enough to ask me about why I was laughing at him, or why
something like that is so funny. I think about bringing him up
again, but I realize that will do no good. I can feel the whiskey
running through my veins, and while I wasn’t paying attention
the amount of beer cans on the table had multiplied from four
to eight. We’ve all become louder and looser with our words.
Trying to talk about God watching over us now would be like
trying to sharpen a pencil with a machete – it can only lead to
disaster.

“I’m fucking hungry, I think we should eat,” I decree.

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“Fuckin’ A we should,” Dante seconds, standing up

and stretching his arms.

I stand up and my legs feel numb. I have to sit back

down for a minute before I can try standing up again. In no
more than a second everyone else realizes that they’re just as
drunk as I am. We all sit, laugh, and stand back up. Time
moves quickly. I try to explain Einstein’s time relativity theory
in my head to make myself understand how time is moving so
quickly, but I can’t figure out the concept and ideas behind a
genius, much less relate them to my intoxicated state of
existence. All I can think about is food. Food and God. He’s
watching over us. But why does He only watch?

Why do I care?

The dining hall is vibrating at the walls with people

chatting away about their stressful weeks, fun filled weekends,
and distaste for cafeteria food. Even before I swipe my student
ID to get into the dining hall I know that the meal will result in
massive disappointment. The pasta is always overcooked with
the gravy tasting like the tomato sauce you’d find at a two-bit
pizza place, the hamburgers are always undercooked, the
lettuce to the salad bar is dried, and I shouldn’t even get started
on what the deli meat looks like sometimes. All and all, the
dining hall is where people go to eat fried food they don’t like
because they’re too poor to eat out every meal of their college
careers. But I am drunk, and when I get drunk enough I’m
liable to put anything into my body. Thanks to the whiskey I’m

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able to pile hard pasta on top of greasy, soggy pizza and not
think twice about it. All the while I’m walking around the
cafeteria, food in hand, with a smirk on my face because these
assholes around me don’t know about how drunk I am and for
whatever reason my drunken state finds that hilarious.

I bump shoulders with someone about half my size in

both height and mass. My distant mind takes half a second to
realize that the bump was not by accident, taking another few
moments to realize who in the crowded cafeteria just brushed
up with me. Angel stands tall for being only about five feet tall
with a couple of inches thrown in the mix, and although she’s
half my size she makes up for it with her toughness, playfully
glaring me down through her glasses. I still grin, ear to ear, and
try not to laugh.

I put on some accent that came out of the blue and start
talking. “Ah’ you lookin’ fo’ trouble?”

“Always,” Angel replies, laughing at me. “What the

hell kind of accent is that?”

“Is mah’ talkin’s to voice,” I snicker.

Her eyes suspiciously scan over me, like a detective

examining a guilty criminal. “Are you drunk?” she questions
curiously.

I can’t help but answer with honesty. “Yeah, kind of.”

“Do you have any idea what time it is?”

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“It’s a good time to be alive.” I sound like a smartass,

despite my intentions to be sincere.

“You’re ridiculous, Dominic.” Angel shakes her head.

“Who else are you here with?”

I look around the cafeteria, trying to find the rest of my

posse. I spot them by the entrée line, with Jeff looking down at
a plate of food with disgust. Dante is looking at Jeff’s plate too,
and debating with the lunch lady about his own. Tom is
standing behind Dante, shoveling fries he got from another line
into his mouth by the fistful. I point with my free hand in their
direction.

“Them.”

“Is Dante arguing with the lunch lady?” Angel

rhetorically asks.

Dante, and this is a commonly known fact throughout

campus, will debate any lunch lady about the quality of his
food when drunk. That says a lot about how much we drink and
go eat. I’ve always had a strange respect for Dante and his
ability to not only bite the hand that feeds him, but do so in a
way that’s almost better than any food service survey. I guess
I’m also a little flabbergasted that he’s able to get away with
tormenting our cafeteria workers, since none of the lunch ladies
ever seem to spit in his food even though they must know him
by face.

“Who are you here with?” I ask, changing subjects.

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“I’m sitting over there with Janey,” Angel answers,

pointing through the mass crowd to the rows of tables. I squint
but my vision, which was poor even prior to drinking, can’t
make out Janey at any of the tables. “You’re welcome to sit
with us if you want.”

“Yeah,” I accept. “Let’s just see what Dante is yelling

about…”

By the time we are within range of hearing Dante

(practically standing next to him) he’s already turned away
from the lunch lady, bearing a pissed off look in his eyes. I
don’t understand what his problem is until I notice the watery
piece of chicken with slimy mashed potatoes plopped on his
plate. I immediately understand his frustration. Not that I blame
him because I have to eat that for dinner with limited options as
well, which is a complete turn off for me. Sure, he didn’t have
to choose to eat that course, but what better options did he
have? These things get frustrating, but not as frustrating as
knowing that we’re still gridlocked into eating here pretty
much every meal of the day.

In my drunken state of mind, I can feel my blood boil

just thinking about it.

Dante looks as angry as a bull in Saturday morning

cartoons. “Let’s go fucking eat,” he snorts. “This food is
already killing my buzz.”

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We wait for Tom and then walk over to the table where
Janey is sitting. She looks happy to see us, almost bouncing up
and down in her seat. Once we come closer and she sees the
irritated looks on our faces, her own smiles fades.

“What’s wrong?” she asks instinctively, knowing the

answer from our mouths.

Dante drops the pile of nausea and piss-poor quality

food on the table with a loud clank. I thought for a second the
plate broke in half from the noise. “Look at this shit they’re
feeding us!” he angrily stomps, though not loud enough to
silence the concert-like volume in the cafeteria.

We take our seats, sobering up quickly from the

realization that this food will destroy our insides more than the
whiskey or alcohol will.

I poke at my pasta and come to terms with the fact that

even though I’ve lost my appetite I’m still going to need to eat
everything on my plate. Despite the greasy food absorbing the
alcohol and thus keeping me going in the night, I have become
very serious about not wasting food.

“Janey,” I begin, keeping my focus on the jabs at the

hard pasta. “Any good plans for tonight?”

“I heard a house party at some shady place, also heard

a lot of people were going to the bars. Probably more to the
bars than the house party.”

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I slam my open palm on the counter, looking up at the

rest of my group with my eyes gleaming. “I told you stupid
motherfuckers that people were going to the bar! None of you
wanted to believe me!”

“Well, yeah,” Janey chimes in, “the Celtics are

playing. The bars are the best place to watch.”

“That’s exactly what I said! Are you two listening?” I

turn to Jeff and Tom, who are preoccupied with trying to
dissect their pieces of chicken.

“Fuck off,” Jeff says, not turning away from the

operation at hand. “We’ll go to the bars after the house party if
the house party is lame. That’s the best place to get drunk.”

“What about the hockey game?” Angel suggests.

“Already been discussed,” Dante rejects quickly,

ending the conversation before I have a chance to argue my
justification of assaulting the school mascot last time we went.

“Well, I’m skeptical of the house party,” Angel quietly

admitted. “That place is nothing but trouble.”

“What, the gun thing?” I ask her.

Her eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. “You

mean you haven’t heard the rumors?”

I can feel one eyebrow push down on my upper eyelid

as the other one raises. “The gun thing. How he has a gun and,”

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I swallow and try to pick my next few words carefully so I

won’t offend Angel, “how he hates people of color.”

Angel dons her ‘what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about?’

face and shakes her head. “Old news, Dominic. Everyone
knows he has a gun – look at where we our school is situated.
Despite the prestige the school has I wouldn’t necessarily call
this a great place to live. I think he’s fine for owning a gun – I
hate how he claims he uses it. I’m talking about something
else.”

“The rape,” Janey throws out bluntly. “There’s been

rumors going around that someone got raped there a few weeks
ago.”

“No shit!” Tom exclaims, pulling his focus away from

the shambles on his dinner plate that at one point resembled a
piece of chicken. “Who was it?”

“Nobody’s certain. There hasn’t been anyone coming

forward, and the rape victim hasn’t said anything. It could all
very well be a lie, but it’s a persistent one.”

“Believe none of what you hear,” Dante mumbles,

shoving his plate away from eating range, “and half of what
you see. Any witnesses on who the girl is?”

“None. Like I said, it could all just be an aggressive

rumor that won’t die.”

Dante sighs, reciting the facts as he understands them.

“So we got a rumor going around about some guy who isn’t

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that popular raping someone. Nobody has any real references,

but everyone’s just heard something from someone else.”

Janey nods, somewhat defeated. “Pretty much. But

keep in mind that rumors just don’t pop out of the blue. There
has to be some merit of truth, otherwise it would’ve died out a
long time ago.”

I look over at Dante. We’ve been friends for so long

that I can read him like a textbook without second guessing
myself. He could say something completely contrary to what
he believes and everyone would just take his words as truth
rather than challenge them. Now was one of those times.

“You’re probably right,” Dante admits.

What he was really saying was ‘I need more evidence

if I’m going to believe something like this. There has to be
some level of support.’

I can’t say I entirely disagree with him.

“This food tastes like shit,” Jeff defers.

Tom nods. “Yeah, fuck this. Let’s go get pizza later

tonight. I can’t eat this shit.”

Dante stands up and stretches. “I agree, fuck this

place.”

“So are you guys going to the bar tonight or what?”

Angel asks us.

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“I don’t know where I’m going except the ATM,” I

say, remembering I have nothing in my wallet but hopes and
dreams (not an accepted tender at local bars). “Anyone else
need to go?”

“I’m all set,” Jeff replies.

“Me too.”

“I got cash back in the room.”

“I think I have enough for tonight…”

“I’ll go with you,” Dante offers.

I nod with relief that I won’t have to go alone.

“Awesome.”

We grab our plates and walk over to put them on the

conveyor belt that brings the dirty dishes to the back room,
where faceless people do nothing but stand in a line and clean
the plates as they go by. I’ve never once bothered to try and
peek around the corner where the conveyor belt goes to catch a
glimpse of these people. For all I know, there could be Oompa
Loompas working and singing in the back and there wouldn’t
be any way for me to disprove it. I do know this – without them
cleaning our plates, we wouldn’t have any clean plates to eat
off of. The role they play is small, but that same role affects the
basic flow of dining to such an extent that if they were to leave
we’d all be screwed, carrying around whatever food we could
fit in our hands like savages. Maybe that’s absurd, but that’s
also the reality. Without those faceless Oompa Loompas in the

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back, mindlessly singing and cleaning from the first meal

served at breakfast to the last meal at dinner, we’d be crippled.

And on goes the mindless, alcohol induced thoughts.

Dante and I debark from the rest of the group to head

towards the student center. The air is thick and dry,
dehydrating us almost immediately. Neither of us has much to
say. If we have thoughts we want to share, we keep them to
ourselves. The naked trees mindlessly sway back and forth,
rocking in the wind like a 1930s Sock Hop with the frozen,
dead ground as their eternal dance floor. I yawn, tiredly. I’ve
been awake for only a few hours but my body is sore and my
muscles are used. My brain isn’t functioning on logical levels
anymore. My thoughts are useless, repetitive thoughts of the
same old bullshit that I thought of once and couldn’t leave
alone.

Is this what “it” is? Is that the big picture? Reckless

abuse of alcohol and other indulgences only to become as dull
as pencil eraser? And then what? We die? Is that what life is?

“I don’t think God loves us,” I announce somberly as

we walk into the student center.

Dante cocks an eyebrow. “Come again?”

“I don’t think God loves us.”

“Why do you say that?”

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The question is so primal that I almost have the urge to

laugh. What do I say in response to such a question? A simple
enough question, but the answer to such a question is
something I don’t understand.

I settle on the first words that come to mind after a

long pause that leads us into the lower level of the student
center where the ATMs, bookstore, alternative dining area, on
campus bar, and newspaper offices are located. “A hunch.”

Dante rejects my answer, demanding nonverbally that I

continue my thought process. But I can’t, becoming
intimidated by the idea that left my mouth and sparked this
whole conversation. I wanted to explain it, but I didn’t even
know the words to use in order to express what I was trying to
explain. How can I justify that which has no proper words?

Than again, I know myself well enough to know when

I’m just being stubborn. I’m learning to be a writer, and in that
process I’ve learned to put words to a lot of things I fathomed
unexplainable. This topic isn’t one of those enigmas. Deep
down I know that I might start to believe that God doesn’t love
us if I can put together thoughts justifying such a bold
statement. I don’t know if I’m ready to believe that yet.

I take out my wallet and slide my debit card into the

ATM. “Nevermind dude. Forget I said anything.”

Pay the Piper

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The world is a restless and unsettled dark by the time I

return to my room. This is a darkness that seeps in the
windows and walls of the dorms and throughout the city,
creating anxiety and uncertain excitement. The smog that
clouds over the darkness stinks of hollow promises, like
walking into a bakery only to find that all the products are three
weeks stale. I can’t stand the night in any form, but I loathe this
one particularly.

The night changes me in a way. Ernest Hemmingway

said it best in The Sun Also Rises and I have no urge to recreate
what he’s already done perfectly. I will say that there’s a
feeling in the pit of my stomach every time the night comes.
The feeling is abandoned and lonely. I always yearn to look to
the sky and know that even in the night there’s someone
protecting me out there, so if I may not see the sun again at
least I know it won’t be because I was left out to dry (die?).
Knowing that God is watching over me has become like trying
to extract some level of gratification by reading first grade
literature – when I read these kinds of books first grade, it
brought me immense pleasure, but now that I’ve gone beyond
that level of reading the simple text no longer provides any
level of satisfaction. The same goes for the idea of God
watching over me – I’ve learned too much. I’ve learned to
question, and from these questions I’ve become disturbed
because I cannot find answers that satisfy my needs (if I find
answers at all).

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I crack my fingers and turn the desk lamp on, the only
source of light in the room currently. From my desk I pull out a
small cocktail glass I stole from a bar and a 750mL bottle of a
cheap, no-name brand whiskey I found at a liquor store 20
minutes out of town. I keep this bottle separate from the others
I have stashed around my room because I don’t want anyone
drinking the bitter beverage, and I don’t want the drink to be
tampered with unless I’m drinking while I write. I use the
alcohol in this bottle as a way to transition between my writing
and the rest of my life.

The laptop assists in illuminating the room with a blue

glow. I sigh and shake my leg impatiently. I stretch my fingers.
I take an extended sip from the glass that results in some of the
whiskey dribbling down the sides of my lips and along the
sides of my chin. I do everything I can to possibly keep myself
relaxed and even though it’s only been less then thirty seconds,
I can’t wait to write. I can’t wait because I won’t know what
I’m going to write until I the words are flowing onto the screen
without interruption, like ocean waves creeping onto the
shoreline.

After an eternity the word processor is open on my

screen and waiting for my thoughts, opinions, and ideas. The
cursor is blinking every second like a winking eye, anticipating
me like a boxer. And now that we’re face to face staring at
each other I can’t find the words to say what I feel. My mind
floods so quickly that my fingers cram up at the keys,

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paralyzing my ability to write. I feel constipated. I start to type

a word, realize that’s not the word I want, and make the word
disappear. Everything I want to put on paper is trivial and
redundant, inept of expressing what I feel. Either I’m not in
tune with how I’m really feeling, or I’m too scared to write
what I believe.

It all starts with a sentence.

I had a thought today that, in 10 years time, will put

me in a mental hospital.

I scan over that one sentence for 20 minutes, bringing

the whiskey jar back and forth to my mouth while doing so. Is
that how this starts? Will that be what I need to say, or is that
just some insane statement that I pulled from the nether regions
of my ass?

It wasn’t a pretty thought. It wasn’t a thought I wanted

to have and it wasn’t something I wanted to believe. I want to
believe that the world is pretty and maybe this is all a big
misunderstanding. But I’ve started to learn as time goes on that
the world is not painted of the fairytale fallacies that I’ve
worked so hard to find merit in. Here I stand, on the edge of
the world, praying that what I thought is something I’m wrong
about.

I want to crinkle up the computer screen and toss the

display of terrible writing into my trashcan. I’m appalled at my
writing. The taste left in my mouth is the equivalent of bad

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poetry, and the words reek of arrogance and narcissism. I feel

sick. I print out what I have, pin the atrocity from my mind up
to the wall above my computer (where all my writing in
progress stays before I decide on what should be done with my
efforts) and write ‘TRY AGAIN DICKHEAD’ in bold red
Sharpie.

I do just that.

I would imagine this is as close as I’ll come to knowing

what it feels like to stand on the edge of the world, waiting to
jump.

I swallow heavily. Take another quick sip from my

glass before I realize the glass is (already) empty and needs a
refill. I pour another few ounces of whiskey out, the liquid
going to the brim, and start drinking. Why is it whenever I try
to express myself the words always come off wrong? I always
sound like I’m trying too hard. I can never let go and say what I
need to say. I sigh, drink some more, and start pounding at the
keyboard again.

I felt drunk when it happened. I want to lie and say I

was, but if I’m going to be honest, at least it’ll be here. I wasn’t
drunk, but the incident was so terrifyingly intoxicating that I
might as well have handled a handle by myself without a
chaser. My hands are smeared with crimson blood, and all the
rivers in the world can’t purify them. My hands, I could’ve
done so much with them. I could’ve been a writer, a genius

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(maniac?) who spilled honesty onto paper and thereby

enlightened the world. What’d I do instead? I wasted them by
putting down the pen and picking up the glass. Cheers.

My effort to write that lonesome paragraph of

saturation and abhorrence takes me (what feels like) an hour
and four glasses of whiskey. By that point I’m drunk and
starting to feel exhausted. I contemplate giving up and going to
the campus convenience store to buy a Red Bull. I try to force
myself to focus but the whiskey extracts honesty out of me, and
honestly I’m too distracted and frustrated to write. I’m running
in a marathon, begging my feet to carry on just a little bit more
when my body is telling me I want to collapse and die of
dehydration. If I can keep going just a little longer without
giving up, then maybe when I reach my self-set goal and I can
convince myself to push even further before I kick the bucket. I
take a deep breath, trying vainly to exorcise a few more
sentences from my altered mind.

My lungs breathe heavy like a smoker on his last

month. I’m deteriorated. A dying matter that will decompose
into the nothing I originated from. That’s the end. There are no
fairytale endings. There never was. Happily ever after is

The polite and intimidated knock at my door shatters

my concentration like a rock flying through a windowpane. I
can almost feel the raining glass beat against the bottom of my
brain as my concentration breaks to bits. I snort with frustration
and shout at the person at the door, my words coming out

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angrier and louder than I anticipate, complements of

alcoholism.

“Wrong fucking room!”

Another knock. This one more confidant than the

predecessor. I haven’t even begun to collect my thoughts and
already someone is spreading the mess around, making it more
difficult. I clench my fists.

“Fuck off!”

The thought of hurling my whiskey glass into the door

runs through my head. The thought passes, replaced by the idea
of opening the door and smashing the glass over the intruders’
head instead. The little bit of sobriety floating in my mind
objects, contemplating how bad that course of action would be
if an RA was at the door. I realize with a jolt of panic that I
have the bottle of whiskey hanging out on my desk and my
breath reeks of stale booze. If I were to open the door now I’d
be signing my own expulsion papers. Maybe breaking the
whiskey bottle over the RA’s head isn’t such a terrible idea
after all. Knock him out, deal with him later, and use his
unconscious state to clean up.

The relentless knocking at my door snaps me out of my

sociopath thought stream. Goddamn whiskey. I hide the bottle
and the glass and pop some gum in my mouth, flicking the light
on in my room before turning the door handle. I crack the door
just enough to see who’s outside. A frail, insecure looking male

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with shaggy hair stands at my door, looking down at his feet.

He glances up at me when he sees the door open, and then
immediately returns his focus to the ground. There’s no RA. I
almost throw up from the relief.

His voice is trembling and barely above a whisper.

“Hey Dominic.”

I feel guilty for screaming. “Hey Michael,” I slur

slightly, serenity speckled throughout my whiskey breath.

He still doesn’t look at me. His feet nervously capture

his attention. “I was with Dante, he just went to the bathroom. I
was wondering if I could hang out with you guys tonight?”

I open the door welcomingly. “Yeah, of course man.”

He shuffles in and I shut the door behind him, still

paranoid about the RA walking by. Michael stands by the
fridge, examining the chrome door before I give him an
invitation to open the fridge and grab whatever he likes.
Michael lets out an uncomfortable laugh, a signal that too much
time has past between us and he no longer feels comfortable
going through my collection of alcohol. I walk over and help
him, looking through the various brands I have stocked away
like a librarian looking through a card catalogue. Michael
hanging out with everyone has become such a rare treat that I
don’t even remember what he likes to drink.

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“Sorry,” I quickly apologize over my shoulder, “I

didn’t know you were at the door. I wouldn’t have shouted
otherwise. Remind me, what’s your drink?”

Michael takes a seat, relaxation blanketing him as soon

as his ass touches the cushion. “Do you have any vodka?” He
asks shyly.

Vodka, my least favorite kind of hard alcohol, is

something I never have. I loathe the smell, texture, and taste.
Vodka resurrects bad memories in high school of some of my
friends getting drunk off a ten dollar handle and trying to steal
candy from the local 7-Eleven. When the cops showed up, one
of them drunkenly tried to fight the arresting officer. Unless
I’m drinking a White Russian, I will not go near the stuff.
Michael knows this too. Or maybe he doesn’t anymore. God,
has it been that long since we’ve hung out? “No man, no
vodka. I got rum…” my voice drifts, pulling out a 750mL
bottle of Captain Morgan’s from the fridge.

Michael laughs nervously. “Sure, why not? I’m out, so

I might as well make the most of my night.”

“Yeah, definitely man. Definitely.” I take out a Coke

and a clean glass and hand him the three items, which he places
on my table. I yawn, stretch, and take out my bottle of Jack
Daniels from the fridge (what happened to my Jameson?). I sit
down across from Michael, looking him over curiously as he

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constructs his drink by pillowing the alcohol and the soda onto
each other in his glass with careful but amateur measurements.

“How’ve you been?” I finally ask. “Is everything going

well with The Young Disciples?”

He nods, still working on his drink with the pace of a

turtle. “Yeah. That guy Cody is an asshole, but everyone seems
okay.”

“Tell me about it,” I say, rolling my eyes. “He was at

my door earlier today, totally obnoxious kid.”

Dante opens the door and gives me a small wave

before walking over to my fridge.

“Where the hell were you?” I ask Dante as he goes

through my fridge.

“Bathroom. No more Jameson?”

“Did you fall in?”

“Fuck off.” He shuts the fridge, green bottle in his

hand. Why couldn’t I find it? Maybe I am fucked up.

I turn my attention back to Michael, as does Dante. “So

that’s a shame huh?”

“Yeah,” Michael sighs, nipping at his drink, cringing

with each sip even though his drink was weak. “They’re always
so judgmental. It’s like, once you’re in this group, you gotta
spend so much time with them.” He runs his fingers along the
rim of the glass. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around more.”

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“It’s fine dude,” I say, sipping at the bottle.

“We’ve just missed you,” Dante adds. “We hung out so

much last year.”

“I really like what they do and all, all that shit for the
community,” Michael reasons, almost to himself. “But I hate
the baggage that comes with being in the group. Cody doesn’t
even drink or smoke, so he judges everyone else for that. It’s
ridiculous!”

“Why aren’t you with them tonight?” I ask curiously.

“Cody and some other Disciples are hanging out, going

over some things for the group.” I get up and walk over to my
computer, plugging the speakers into the headphone jack. I
scroll through my music, trying to find just the perfect song for
the night. I pause when I see California Dreaming and
contemplate putting the song on for the memories of freshman
year it’ll bring the three of us before deciding not to. New
school year, new song.

“The Young Disciples,” Dante repeats lowly.

I settle with The Rolling Stones. Gimme Shelter leaks

out softly through my speakers, Keith Richards building up
momentum and volume as his guitar intro starts to pick up in
speed and energy.

“Enough of that shit,” I say, turning my back to the

computer and holding up my glass jug. “It’s Friday fucking

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night, and we got Michael back. Let’s cause some fucking

havoc like this campus hasn’t seen in a long time!”

Dante holds up the bottle of Jameson. “To

destruction!”

Michael lifts his cup, beaming. “To anarchy!”

We drink. I think I feel the top of the bottle chip

against my teeth, but I can’t be certain. My teeth have been
numb for about 20 minutes now. Stage one of intoxication,
complete.

“Where are the other two assholes?” I demand.

“Jeff went to visit Amanda, and Tom probably went

with him to hit on Amanda’s roommates,” Dante answers.

I nod. “It’s the original trio tonight I guess.”

Michael arches an eyebrow. “Jeff and Amanda are

dating? The same Amanda from The Young Disciples?”

Dante nods. “Yeah, that one. You know her well?”

“I do, I didn’t know she was seeing anyone.” Michael

pauses, shifting uncomfortably. “Are they…doing it?”

I almost drop my bottle and throw up from sudden

laughter. Dante is laughing too. In between gasps for air, I
manage to get out, “what is this? Fucking high school?”

“They do it like rabbits!” Dante laughs. “Why, you

want in on that action?”

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Michael turns red, smiling even though he’s

embarrassed. “I just didn’t know is all. Everyone acts like all
their immoral actions don’t exist in The Young Disciples,” and
when he says this, he puts ‘immoral actions’ in air quotes.

“Yeah, I have the feeling that nobody in that

organization is a fucking saint,” I state, sitting back down. “No
offense.”

Michael puts up his hand without much coordination,

clearly feeling the effects of the alcohol already. “Don’t
mention it. I have seen the saints; they are sinners with pride.”

Michael is one of the most insightful people I know. I

just wish he didn’t preach knowledge while sobriety is a distant
memory to me. Meanwhile my phone is vibrating on my desk. I
don’t bother to answer it. I know Trish is calling. I need to
break up with her.

“So if Jeff and Tom aren’t coming over here tonight,

are they at least coming out to the party with us?” I question.

“They’re going to meet us there.”

“Then let the trio of the freshman assholes be reunited

in the holiest of college unions! Unhealthy amounts of alcohol
that only leads to disasters and legal mediation!”

I rise up, putting my Jack Daniels bottle on the table. I

suddenly feel very awake. And drunk. My Jell-O legs wobble.
My head feels inflated. My arms are now wet clay. There’s a
70% chance my penis would not be able to sustain a full

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erection, even if the Sports Illustrated swimsuit models walked

into my dorm room soaking wet and only wearing a skimpy
towel. I don’t know why that’s important to mention though.

A couple of hoodies, several opportunities to fall down

the stairs, and a few explicit-laced rants on the weather later
and we’re out moseying around the streetlight night in search
of the house party we planned on going to. The streets echo to
each other with grumbles of failed attempts at finding other
houses, mixed with laughter from the already-sloshed students
who sing with each syllable they speak. Some of the houses are
lit with the shades pulled, but most of them bare a dark, vacant
expression that reminds me of the haunted houses me and my
friends used to seek out when we were younger.

We are shits-and-giggles about every little topic and

thought that spews like vomit out of our mouths until a hooded
person approaches us. I can tell from the way he carries himself
that he poses no threat, but as we pass by him I can’t help but
feel his cold metal stare sink into me like barbed wire. I
shudder as he passes, feeling slightly more sober just for
walking by him.

“That’s Jeremy,” Michael says solemnly, albeit a little

louder than expected (probably effects of the rum). “He used to
be in the Young Disciples too, until he was kicked out. He’s a
junior, but he lives in a sophomore dorm because his
roommates for next year told the administration they couldn’t
live with him. The way things worked out, he got the boot from

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the apartment they were supposed to share, and stripped of his

status in the Disciples.”

“Why was he kicked out?” Dante asks, almost

urgently.

Michael shrugs. “I don’t know. He was kicked out at

the end of last semester, and only Cody knows why, since he
was the one who got him kicked out in the first place.”

“That’s some club you’re a part of,” I comment, unable

to contain my sarcasm.

Michael is shy by nature, but he detects my sarcasm

and isn’t afraid to call me out on it. “Listen, just cause I’m in it
doesn’t mean I support all the things they do. They’ve done
good things too, but all you ever hear about is the bad things. I
know they fuck up, but they do a lot of good too.”

I sigh. I don’t want to argue with him. “You’re right.

Sorry man.”

“Don’t mention it,” Michael backs off.

We reach the house and can already hear the music

blaring from upstairs. There are people on the upper balcony
leaning over, their beer bottles sloshing around in their limp
fingers, watching the people pass by. The orb glow of lit
cigarettes and blunts can be seen, but the faces remain
anonymous. From up top I hear someone say -

“It’s about fuckin’ time he opened the door.”

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And another -

“Dude can I bum one of those?”

And this time a female voice -

“He hasn’t even called me yet! That fucking jerk! I

called him three times…”

I walk inside with indifference about what may be

happening up there. For all I care they can live on another
planet.

There’s someone at the door wearing a black school

shirt with a baseball hat on. The room is barely lit. I hand him
five bucks and he hands me a white, plastic cup that says Bud
Light on it. He instructs me to go to the top floor for booze,
basement for beer pong, and first and second floors for dancing
and all that other dumb shit. I walk past him without
acknowledgement and head straight upstairs. Before I can
make it past the first flight of stairs I hear my name called out
through the roar of multiple conversations.

“Dom! Dominic, over here!”

I turn around and walk back down the stairs, spotting

Janey with her blue baseball hat on and black jacket. She’s
smiling and I receive her embrace I catch a whiff of the light
beer she’s been drinking. She doesn’t appear drunk though, so I
conclude that Janey’s probably just buzzing.

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“Dominic! I’m so glad you’re here!” she says for what

feels like the millionth time. I nod.

“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?”

Janey gets a semi-confused look on her face, cocking

her head to the side. “I thought…nevermind. I’m kinda buzzed.
Just ignore me.”

I pat her on the shoulder. I’ve already lost Dante and

Michael. “Are you with Angel?”

Her face lights up, her smile wide. “Yeah! Angel’s

right over there!” and thrusts her finger forward into a sea of
people. My blurry vision requires me to squint so hard that my
eyes almost seal shut entirely, but I manage to spot Angel in
the distance. She’s talking with Jeff, Tom, and Amanda, who
all seem to have the same sly smirk on their face.

“Let’s go say hi.”

“What?” Janey shouts even though I’m two feet away

from her.

“I said let’s go say hi!” I say, louder this time and

drawing unwanted attention from the people hanging around.
Oh well, fuck them.

We push and shove through the sweaty, the

unbalanced, and the people who wore enough cologne/perfume
to drown themselves in the musky or overly-sweet scents

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before we reach them. They didn’t seem to notice us until the

last few people were shoved aside and we were squeezed out.

“You made it dude!” is the first thing I hear, though I

can’t tell from who.

“Hell yeah,” I say, acting more drunk than I should be.

“Why would I want to miss this?”

Tom and Jeff can already detect my intoxication, but

Angel and Amanda are both still oblivious. My empty cup acts
a shield of skepticism. But I need a drink. Badly.

“Dom, how’ve you been?” Amanda asks, shouting

over everyone else. “It’s been awhile.”

I shrug, uninterested. “I’ve been okay.”

“I was sorry to hear you two broke up,” she goes on.

My eyebrow pops up. “Who broke up?”

Her expression draws back. A look of terror sweeps

over her face. “I thought you and Trish broke up. She’s over
there talking to that douche bag like he’s the last piece of dick
out there.”

“I love your language when you drink,” Angel

comments, but her humor is wasted as my eyes scan to where
Amanda was talking about. In their own chiseled corner of the
crowd I see my girlfriend locking eyes and flirtatiously
laughing with some guy I’ve seen around campus a few times.
I think he’s a senior, and a very stereotypical one at that.

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Popped collar on a polo shirt that he paid too much for, jeans
that look no different then the ten dollar ones I buy except for
his probably cost him ten times as much, and a Livestrong
bracelet that nobody told him went out of style. I’m surprised
at how little I care.

“He looks like a gay,” Tom comments in an attempt to

make me feel better about Trish talking with the random guy.

Trish breaks her trance away from him, still smiling

like a flirt, and catches eyes with me. Her face is drawn back a
little, but he keeps talking and trying to win her over. She
laughs, nervously, at something he says, while keeping her
focus on me. I simply raise my empty cup in a toast and
pretend to drink. I have sunk the nail in the coffin of our
relationship.

“Don’t let it get you down,” Angel offers. I’m a little

surprised at the fact that they still think I care.

I nod and sigh, trying to show some sort of emotion.

“Yeah, thanks. I’m gonna go get a drink.”

Without hearing another word, even though I’m sure

they had more to say, I slip through the crowds like an eel. I try
to contain my laughter. I think I’m insane. Probably just drunk
though. And yet, my thoughts seem sober. My mind still feels
like it produce logical arguments and decision with reason. I
might very well be an alcoholic.

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I find my way to the top of the house where there are

less people in the room and more outside on the balcony or
hidden in rooms. I look around for the keg and find none. I
haven’t seen Dante or Michael either. Despite all this, I have
never felt less alone. I creep around for a keg, and when I find
one, I come to the conclusion (there’s that sober logic) that the
barrel of alcohol must be contained in a closed room. I knock
on the first door I see, which sounds like there might be some
people in it, and wait for an answer.

I wait for a minute before I hear someone say, “dude,

someone just knocked on the door.”

Another person. “Well fucking answer it dingle berry.”

Footsteps. The door cracks open. Suspecting eyes peer

from behind the closed door. Smoke leaks out the door,
smelling herbal with a taint of nicotine. The room sweats
alcohol. “The fuck you want?”

“Who the fuck is it?” I hear someone ask from beyond

the door.

“Who the fuck are you?” The door dummy asks me.

No point in lying. “Dominic.” I pause. “Dominic

Alighieri. You got a cigarette or beer in there?”

“Dominic what? Allergies?”

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“His name’s Dominic Alighieri?” I hear a female voice

excitedly ask. “Is he the one that writes for the school
newspaper? The one who does the short story pieces?”

The parrot at the door repeats the question to me. I cut

him off and answer yes, this is truly me, the newspaper writer. I
feel like a whore.

“Let him the fuck in! What’re you doing making him
stand there?” I hear a male voice shout.

The butler opens the door, apologizing to me. I shrug.

“What’s up with that cigarette and beer?”

“Holy shit, it is him!” The shouting male sitting on the

floor in the corner says, his eyes wide. “Dude, get this guy a
beer! This guy’s a fucking genius! And a cigarette too!”

I’m handed a canned beer and a cigarette. A flame is

offered to me, which I accept. I crack the beer and pour the
frosty beverage in my cup, tossing the can into the overflowing
trash of beer cans and folded up boxes of 30 racks. I take a look
around after my initial puff. There’s about six or seven people
in the room. Their eyes are bloodshot and unfocused. Some of
them have dopey grins on their faces, while others are holding
joints to their mouths and inhaling with a certain Zen. On the
dresser there is a mirror with white powder on it. The walls are
bare and stained with posters peeling off them. Someone sits on
top of a speaker against the wall, playing with a laptop. The

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Grateful Dead is humming throughout the speakers. Many of

the people have piercings.

“I’m Dominic,” I say, somewhat jokingly since

apparently I’m some sort of deity to them. “Nice to meet all of
you.”

“Dude, thank you so much for coming to my party,”

the kid in the corner says. “I read your shit every week, you’re
a fucking genius man! Where do you get your ideas?”

I take a sip, then a puff. I shrug before I let the smoke

out. “Life,” I plainly say, holding back the urge to gag at my
own arrogance. They seem to eat this out of my hands like the
false prophet I am. The whorish feeling I have intensifies.

A girl with an okay face and nice tits nods her head in
agreement from hear seat on the bed. “You’re a fucking genius.
You’re going to be the next Bukowski.”

“I wish,” I laugh, somewhat embarrassed. “I’ll never

be as good as Bukowski. After I read Ham on Rye I knew he
was someone I would just never be able to come to par with.”

“This is so sick,” the kid in the corner praises. He is the

liveliest out of all of them. “I have so many of those student
newspapers saved because of your writing man! Hey, Liza.
Liza! Go in my desk drawer and pull out that issue of the
newspaper.”

A girl, blonde with too many piercings in obscure

places, opens the desk drawer and shuffles through it for a

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minute. “I can’t find anything,” she says dumbly, giggling to

herself. “I think you’re stoned, Luke.”

The kid in the corner rolls his eyes without much

seriousness. “Yeah, I’m the fucking high one…” he mumbles
with the intention of having me hear it. “Sorry, Dom, I wanted
to show you one of the newspapers I kept. It was that article
you wrote where you just listed off things, but you expanded
on the lists and made it into a story. It was actually really crazy
how you were able to do that.”

“Thanks,” I take another sip. This is Luke? The neo-

Nazi? The racist? The gun totting rapist? He looks more like a
burnt out hippie, sitting in the corner with too many drugs in
his system and too many tie-dyed shirts in his closet. He looks
like he can barely handle himself in a squabble with a seven
year old, let alone fire a gun. He doesn’t look like anyone who
could cause harm to a fly because he’d be worried about his
karma. Either he puts on a great first impression, or he’s a
victim of bad press. I can relate to both of those.

The girl on the bed lights up a joint and looks over at

me. “I heard that Random House picked up a few of your short
stories from the paper and wanted you to write a book of short
stories, is that true?”

I smile, giggling a little under my breath. “I wish, that

was just some crazy rumor that got around too quickly because
I said I was thinking about trying to get an agent for some of

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my short stories. I’m not that good though, I’m not nearly
ready.”

She extends the joint towards me, making a gesture to

sit with her. I drop the cigarette in the cup and walk over to her,
taking the tightly coiled paper from her hands. The weed leaks
from the end of the joint and into my mouth smoothly.

“I think you’re writing is wonderful,” she tells me with

a seductive undertone that may just be a figment of my
imagination. “I read everything you’ve written. I even tried
finding those two books people said you published so I could
read those.”

I hand the joint back to her, holding the smoke in deep.

I can feel the weed cling to my lungs. A dumb, relaxing feeling
escapes from the pores on my flesh. I close my eyes gently and
let out a sigh of Zen. “Don’t waste your time on that crap. They
were terrible. I call them my bastards.”

“Where’s my gun?” I hear Luke ask. “Did someone

take it?”

“It’s in the closet man,” the guy on the speakers with

the computer says, switching from The Grateful Dead to My
Morning Jacket. “Why do you even have that thing?”

Luke shifts around uncertainly in the corner. “Drug

dealers.”

A reasonable answer, but something tells me based on

his body language that he’s full of shit. Maybe he is secretly a

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neo-Nazi. Maybe he is a rapist. What if the rumors are true?

I’m too fucked up to figure it out. My mind has been dulled
and the weed is already back in my lips and the girl is
strumming my thigh and someone else is offering me a beer.

And Tom, Jeff, and the rest of them still think I’m
depressed. Trish is still flirting with that boy. Dante and
Michael are still missing. And I’m still here, in an alleged
rapist-racist-neo-Nazi’s room, smoking his weed and
cigarettes, and drinking his beer. The world is still turning. Life
is still being lived. God is still watching over us.

The girl next to me stands up, taking my wrist. “Leave

the weed, come with me.”

I’m already too high to object, and the alcohol isn’t

going to put up an argument either. I thank Luke for the
hospitality and she tells me that we’ll be back in a little while.
We walk out of the room, down the hall, and into another. She
has to jiggle the handle a few times before the door opens. The
room is dark but welcoming. She shuts the door. We both know
why were here. God is watching over us.

I feel her body press up against me, her lips grazing my

own. Her breathing is heavy with excitement. My heart races
against my chest, unable to contain the anticipation. She takes
one of my hands and slides it down her pants.

“I’ve always liked your writing,” she says. “I’m

surprised I never ran into you before.”

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I am a child on Christmas day once again, waiting to

unwrap my presents. She giggles with pleasure. I am extremely
turned on by this.

“So what’re we gonna do in here?” I ask, playfully.

She kisses me. There is no passion, just sexual desires.

“Whatever you want.”

My cock rises like a balloon. She rubs her hand against

the outside of my pants. I run my fingers against her,
massaging her cunt. She shivers and exhales with pleasure.

In the matter of a nanosecond everything goes to hell. I

feel my heart turn cold so suddenly that I need a moment in my
altered state of mind to come to terms with everything. I realize
what I’m doing and I pull away carefully. Maybe Trish is a
bitch, and maybe we are going to be broken up by Sunday.
Maybe she’s cheating on me with that asshole downstairs, or
maybe there’s someone entirely different. Whatever the
situation though, I’m not her. I can’t cheat on her, even if the
opportunity is there. Even if I want her. Even if I need her.

“I’m sorry,” I manage to say, my voice quivering a

little. “I have a girlfriend.”

“I thought you two broke up?” The girl is surprised,

her voice mixed with disappointment and hurt.

I don’t even know her name. “I think she’s been telling

people we have,” I confess. “But we haven’t officially talked

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yet. And since we haven’t talked, I at least owe her that much
respect to stay faithful until we do.”

The girl steps towards me, kissing me with more

affection than before. “I know Trish,” she begins. “She doesn’t
deserve you. Not because you’re a genius writer. Not because
you’re cute. But because you’re something she isn’t; sincere.”

I smile. I will most likely never see her again. I will

never have the opportunity to take her out on a date. We will
never have our passionate first-time-with-each-other sex. There
will never be any arguments about things that don’t matter. I
will never feel remorse if we break up too soon. This room is
as far as we go. Me and my mystery girl.

She opens the door, waiting for me to follow her out. I

do, chuckling to myself from the weed. She has a dopey grin
on her face. Tomorrow everything will be justified as an altered
haze. A drunken memory that we’ll reflect on whenever we
think we see each other. Something to smile and tell friends
back home about. That is the end.

She opens the door to Luke’s room. Everyone is in

their same positions as when we left them (that is the best thing
about stoners – you leave them somewhere and you know that
they’re more then likely going to stay there), with Luke now
totting a gun in his hand. I think about the story I was told by
Jeff (or was it Tom? I can’t remember) earlier. The neo-Nazi.
The rapist. The racist. But what if those are all lies?

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“Thanks again, Luke,” I say, waving at him from the

doorway.

“You’re leaving man?” He asks, a sad look on his face.

“Already?”

I shrug. I feel extremely indifferent. “I gotta go track

down my friends,” I tell him. “But hey, great party man. The
hospitality is excellent.”

I head downstairs. I feel like the stairs are made out of

clouds. My feet tingle with each step. I am incredibly fucked
up. I still don’t know where Dante and Michael went. I just
fingered a girl who’s name I don’t know, and will never find
out. Jeff, Amanda, Tom, Angel, and Janey all think I’m
depressed. I am as high as heaven above. Trish is hopelessly
trying to make me jealous. My pores are leaking whiskey and
beer. I can feel my stomach turn and beat against my flesh in
hunger. My eyes feel dry. I cannot stop smiling and laughing.
This is Friday.

“Where the fuck have you been?” I hear Jeff shout.

I turn my head, stupid grin still pasted on my face.

“Yo, where have you been?”

He looks at me with confusion. Where’s everyone

else? I spot them over in the corner. “I’ve been with our
friends.” He arches his eyebrow. “Is there anymore beer left?”

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I contemplate on nothing because I never found the keg

to begin with. “No. Let’s go to the bar. Grab the caravan and
your six shooter. I got my lynching rope.”

“Dude,” Jeff scans my eyes. There’s no trying to hide

my red eyes. “Are you high?”

“Am I high?” I repeat, extending the vowels in the

question. “Whatever. Irrelevant. I just turned down great sex
with a stranger.”

Jeff sees three heads growing out of my neck and a

dragon body where my human torso once was. That’s the only
justification for the look he’s giving me. “Why would you do
that? That was stupid.”

“I have a girlfriend,” I put my arm around him, leading

him over to the rest of the group. “But not by the end of this
weekend.”

“What not by the end of this weekend?” Janey asks.

My eyes widen and I start laughing uncontrollably.

“Holy shit!” I scream, drawing attention from the few people
that remain. “Holy shit you can hear me! There’s so many
people here!”

Jeff mouths the word ‘high’ to the group. Like good

little peons, they nod understandingly and excuse my absurd
behavior.

“There is no way you guys are all still sober.”

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“I’m not,” someone says.

I look around from person to person, drawing

suppressed laughter by doing so. “Who’s not?”

“Me.”

“The rest of you?”

I guess I’m just way more fucked up than I thought.

It’s ironic too, because I get to a point where I’m so retardedly
gone that I insist on continuing my rampage of liver abuse.
This is my life for now I guess. By thinking this, I’ve already
missed everyone’s answers. I disregard what I think they might
be telling me. I only manage to say three words.

“Fuck it. Bar.”

And it was so.

I don’t remember my legs moving. I don’t remember

suddenly regrouping with Dante and Michael, finding out that
they had been playing beer pong in the basement and won four
games straight. I do not remember leaving the house. My
memory picks up when we’re about 30 feet from Lefty’s
(another bar right by campus with a trot for a men’s room and a
few cheap bottles as their variety of hard alcohol) and I’m
complaining about how I feel like the ground is made out of
memory foam mattresses. By now everyone else has shown his
or her true, drunken colors. They’re all talking and laughing
too loudly about too many stupid things, right along with me.
But this a typical Friday at college.

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We gather around a table, the group of us, talking

incisively about something from Luke’s house. From what I
gather, someone overheard that the girl who got raped was at
the party, and was planning on confronting Luke while there
were people here, but at the last minute she chickened out and
left. Nobody saw her, and everyone just heard from everyone
else that she was there. Another massive lie that people passed
on to each other, and they had all fallen victim to the falsehood
of words.

Dante walks over to our table from the bar with two
pitchers of Budweiser in his hands and several plastic cups
tucked underneath his arm. The place smells like urine and is
so small and crowded that I’d be amazed if we didn’t die of
suffocation.

“Would you guys rather go golfing with a pig, or

kayaking with a penguin?” I ask, pouring myself a cup of beer
and bringing the foamy cup to my mouth.

I am still incredibly high. Dante is the only one who

humors me because he’s the only person at the table who
understands my random thoughts on these sorts of things. If I
were anyone else at that moment, casually overhearing this, I’d
probably think that it was an insane topic of discussion and the
person who said something like that should be put in a mental
hospital. But fortunately there’s nobody like that, so there’s just
little old me spilling my high and drunk ‘would you rather’

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questions and giggling like a ten-year-old who just said ‘penis’

for the first time.

And because I’ve acknowledged this while Dante was

talking, I have no idea which activity he’d rather do. I feel
immense disappointment, but my substance-abused mind
wanders so quickly that I don’t have any time to reflect.

“Not a bad party for a rapist to throw,” Angel says,

nursing her beer in her hand.

Some people nod. “Or a neo-Nazi.”

“Did anyone here that he was doing meth up in the

room?” Someone says.

I was in that room – I did not see any fucking crystal

meth. But I did see his gun. Didn’t I?

“Did you or didn’t you?” Michael asks.

I look at him with half open eyes. The prospect of

‘bed’ suddenly sounds so unbelievably good. “Huh?”

Michael examines me to see if I’m insane. I could just

tell him that I was and save him a lot of time. “You just said
you thought you saw his gun. Did you or did you not?”

I clench my eyes and rub them with my fingers. All I

want is to lie down with a buffalo chicken pizza and something
sugary to drink. “I don’t fucking know. Wait, yeah. I did. He
had a black pistol. He kept it in his closet. Or was it silver?
Fuck I’m high.”

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Everyone becomes soberly silent. I cannot contain my

irritation at their constant battle between sobering up and
getting drunk (if they’re actually getting drunk). Friday fucking
night, and they all have to think about rape and racism in
relation to some hippie that (I’m quickly becoming convinced)
they don’t even know. I chug the rest of my beer, a horrible
idea on my part, and pour another one.

“We should steal it,” Michael stammers. “Steal it and

throw it away.”

“Shut the fuck up,” I groan, sliding the pitcher towards

him. “I met Luke, the kid we’re all convinced is so terrible.
He’s not that bad of a guy.”

Janey looks at me, appalled. “What do you mean?” I

cannot tell if this question is literal or if she’s angry at my
defense of Luke.

I choose my words carefully. “Listen,” I take a deep

breath, pause, and continue. “This guy is a flat out hippie. He’s
so spaced on good pot and Jerry Garcia that he doesn’t know
what the fuck is going on. He damn sure doesn’t seem like a
racist. He said he bought the gun because of drug dealers. He
was so fucking high you guys. And scrawny.”

I can feel the frustration emanate from the table around

me, with support only from Dante and Jeff. Tom seems
indifferent. Angel, Amanda, Janey, and Michael all look like
they have the desire to punch me in the face. For a second I

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contemplate throwing a few bills on the table for the beer and
walking home alone. I do not want to deal with these bias
pricks.

“So you’re telling me,” Angel begins. “That you’re

going to advocate for this racist, neo-Nazi, sexual assaulter?
And you’re doing this,” she extends her words, adding cliché,
dramatic pauses whenever possible, “because you met him
once? Because he had good weed to offer you? I’m just trying
to understand here.”

No bitch, you’re fucking not, I think. She’s trying to

patronize me. And I’m so fucked up right now that she’s
succeeding. I snap at her, saying “and how many fucking times
have you met him?” and excuse myself from the table for a
cigarette that I need to bum.

The outside of the bar is surrounded with frosty air that

smells like wet garbage. I ask the well-bundled bouncer if he
has a cigarette I can bum, and under his fleece hooded jacket he
nods and withdraws from his left pocket the cancer stick. I put
the cigarette in my mouth and he torches me, allowing the
menthol smoke to deteriorate my lungs. I thank him and turn
my sight to the direction of the empty street. I don’t know why,
but I feel compelled to get a taxi and head to the international
airport, get on a plane, and never come back. Running away is
never the viable answer, but I’d like to believe that if I were to
go off on my own I would do it because I’m going towards
something.

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I feel a body move next to me, shuffling feet around

and sparking up a lighter. “You know you were right in there.”

I don’t bother to take my focus off the street. I already

know who would be next to me in a situation like this. “I do
know,” I reply to Dante. “I just don’t know if it makes a
difference.”

“People believe what they want to believe. You know

that.” He pulls a drag from his cigarette into his lungs and,
even though we’re right next to each other, he doesn’t see the
street the same way I do. “It doesn’t matter if it makes a
difference to them, as long as it makes a difference to you.”

“I went to that party with the assumption that I’d meet

a gun-totting sociopath. I found a burnt out hippie who is
probably too stoned to get it up half the time. Where do these
rumors come from?”

Dante exhales. “That’s the thing. They don’t just

appear, they start off small. Someone fucks up a fact when they
tell a story, and then someone else tells that story and fucks up
another fact. There’s a good chance that the story we heard
earlier tonight might not have even been about the same Luke.
But, because we heard the rumors, we free associate them until
we find a way to make them seem true.”

“Two Luke’s with guns living off campus, do you

think the odds are that big?” I am the devil’s advocate.

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“Not impossible,” Dante argues. “So he has a gun.

That doesn’t make him much of anything. And you said it was
because of drugs, right? Did you see any?”

I remember the cocaine on the mirror and nod. Dante

was right. But if Dante is right, and I’m right, how does that
change Luke’s situation?

“Were we the only ones there who thought this about

him?” I ask honestly.

Dante sighs, flicking his finished cigarette. “Once upon

a time I would’ve happily believed yes. The world has shown
me otherwise.”

“Fuck the world,” I mumble, tossing my own cigarette

to the ground and stamping on it.

“Life’s a bitch and then you die,” Dante concurs.

There’s a pause just long enough for him to lead into a new
topic. “But I wanted to ask you about what you meant earlier.”

“I meant it,” I said to him seriously. “I fucking meant

it. This kid isn’t what people say he is.”

“Not that dummy,” Dante corrects. “You told me

earlier that you think God doesn’t love us. What was up with
that shit? You having a crisis of faith?”

I close my eyes and imagine I’m somewhere else.

“Let’s do this when I’m not so fucked up. It’s bad enough
everyone in there is a fucking buzz kill.”

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Dante laughs. “You’re right,” he concedes, holding his

hands up, palms open like someone is sticking him up for
money. “You’re right. Tomorrow we’ll talk about this.
Tonight, let’s go back, throw on a movie, and drink until we
black out.”

I smile. It feels genuine. “Now we’re getting

somewhere.”

And that’s exactly what we do. We never go back into

the bar because there’s nothing left for us in there except
alcohol we don’t want to pay for and commentary we don’t
want to hear. I felt somewhat guilty about ditching Tom and
Jeff, so I text them and let them know I’ll pay them back for
the beer tomorrow. I also ask them to tell Michael and
everyone else that it was fun seeing them, even though I’m not
sure I mean that. I don’t bother checking the voicemails or
texts I’ve accumulated because I don’t want that shit weighing
me down. I once again feel like this is enough, that just
drinking and blacking out with my friends can fill all my needs
in life. We go to Dante’s room, put on a movie even though his
roommate is sleeping, crack open the few beers he has left, and
pass out. Once upon a time, this would’ve been the nightcap to
end all nightcaps. And now, the older I get, the harder it
becomes to stop pretending and accept the fact that I need
more.

Zombie Killer

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A mound of mud so thick that I can barely move

surrounds my body. I can feel myself sinking down deep into
the earth that consumes me like fresh produce. I don’t need to
be told that I’m going to die. I can feel the flesh on my skin
decompose from the muscle tissue it was once connected to. I
have lost my once golden hair. My tan cheeks have rotted to a
green mold, with chucks gone completely, exposing my once-
protected teeth. The more I try to move my body up, the
weaker I become. I can’t believe I’m going to die.

God is watching over us.

My fingers have become bone thin, with flesh lamely

hanging off of them like wet towels on towel racks. I can feel
my lungs start to give way. I don’t fight it much. I guess there
are worse things then dying. I try to let the earth swallow me,
but the ground takes it’s time, savoring my decomposing body
as best it can. I’m forced to watch the environment in which I
will die, memorizing every last detail of the earth that stands in
front of me. There’s not much worth remembering, certainly
not enough to write home about. Grey skies over an empty,
acne-scorned field.

And people; the people that God watches over.

They all have skin hanging off their bodies like tattered
and torn clothes. Their faces are undistinguished and
featureless, embedded in a blanket of shadows and mystery.
Not one of them stops to notice me. Not one of them cares.

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They walk limply over me, all of them walking in the same
direction (away from me), never noticing me or looking down.
I am resentful, but I have enough time to come to terms with
the fact that if I were in one of their positions I wouldn’t stop
either. I would continue my mindless wandering towards
nothing. Isn’t that where they’re going?

I look up. I see a wall of light consume the bodies that

walk into the glowing wall like a tidal wave engulfing a surfer.
Beyond the wall I cannot see anything. I have an overwhelming
desire to head towards the wall along with everyone else. I am
a mosquito attracted to a bug zapper. The light promises
goodness, but logic reminds me that this wall I want to be
embodied in may not be all it’s cracked up to be. But I can’t
resist the feeling. I imagine the wall feels like being wrapped in
a bundle of blankets on the coldest night of the year. I want to
be coddled by the ambiance. I yearn for the glow like a heroin
addict. I am intoxicated.

I try to reach my arm out to crawl towards the pulsing

light, but my boney limb is weak and unresponsive. The
ground continues to chew on me. My mind struggles with the
idea of giving up now that I know there’s something better, but
I’m strangled by my own weakness and gridlocked by the
hungry earth. I try to plead for help to those faceless figures
around me, but all that comes out of my mouth is dust and air.
Existence cannot end like this. There must be some way to
keep forward. I stretch my arm out again.

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The futon creeks and moans under my weight as my

eyes shoot open. For a moment I’m worried that it will close in
on me like a Venus Flytrap and I will be forever gone in an
armpit stinking futon. One of the things about smoking a
reasonable amount pot is you always find ridiculous things on
the internet. I once found a list of the insane ways people have
died. I feel confident that if Dante’s futon were to eat me I
would make that list. The prospect of internet fame is not as
tempting as I thought it would be.

Another thing I’ve learned from smoking pot is that, no

matter how little or long you sleep, you will have some crazy
dreams and wake up feeling lightheaded and useless. Today is
not an exception. I’m tangled in the spider web of blankets I’ve
accumulated over the night, my head resting on a pillow that
isn’t meant for intense sleeping, and I don’t feel like doing
anything. My head also hurts, but I can’t tell if that’s from the
drinking or the awful night of sleep I must have had. Or both.
There is no reason to get up, and there is every reason to go
back to bed.

I yawn and remember what I wanted to do today. I

wanted to break up with Trish. I don’t want to put this funeral
off anymore. I’m uncertain if my motive for leaving her is
because of all the girls I’ve passed up sleeping with, or because
our relationship is not working out anymore. Probably both.
Either way, this relationship needs to end, and I need to end it
today. I’ve come to terms with the fact that for whatever reason

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we both kept up the shenanigans of faux-happiness and smiles,

but I can’t live like this. I’m drowning in my lies. I cannot
survive with Trish in my life anymore.

If only I didn’t feel so Goddamn useless.

I roll onto my side, the futon squeaking and whining as

I do so. Dante, lying across the room in his bed, squints his
eyes from dehydration to look at me. I flick my head in and
upwards motion, acknowledging him. He does the same and
asks me what’s up through his dried throat.

“I wanna go back to bed,” I say hoarsely,

unintentionally whispering.

“Do it,” he encourages.

I pause. The invitation is almost enough to make me go

back to sleep. But the idea of sleeping and waking up still in a
relationship seems foul. I can’t help but smirk. “Nah man, I
gotta go dump my girlfriend.”

Dante stretches his arm from his bed to his desk,

pulling out a cigarette from a carton. “Take this,” he says,
holding it in front of him like a staff. “You’ll need it. Trust
me.”

I rub my head, a concealed grin on my face. “Nah man,

you know I don’t smoke often.”

He laughs at me. “Bullshit, asshole. Take it.”

“I won’t need it.”

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I take it anyways, tucking the tobacco rolled paper

behind my ear. What the hell, just one cigarette won’t hurt
after all.

I give Dante a fist bump. I don’t know why but I’m

incredibly anxious. I can feel the jitters in my stomach like a
package of Mexican Jumping Beans. My leg hairs are tense
from the brail that’s eroded on the skin they stem from. I
almost wish I could throw up just to relieve some tension. But
why am I so nervous now?

I go back to my room and change. I take off my jeans

from last night, change my boxers, and put the same jeans back
on. I throw a gray t-shirt on and encase the loose cotton with
my black leather jacket. I snatch my sunglasses off the counter
and put them on to conceal my tense, exhausted eyes. The UV-
protection is relaxing, and I can feel my eyelids loosen within
seconds. I check my text messages from last night before I
leave the room. They’re all irrelevant, most of them from Trish
or Jeff or Tom, asking me where I went.

I went to hell and back. Rock and roll.

I walk out of my dorm and the cold, icy November air

sneaks up on me. From the inside looking out I would’ve
assumed today to be a nice, mild day. But I grew up in New
England and I know that November weather means constant
battling between the neighboring seasons for climate control. I
am glad winter is coming. Maybe everything can die finally. I

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look at nature and all I see is the old, decrepit, and forgotten
simplicities that enable us to paint pictures and write terrible
poetry. It’s about time natures inhabitants died for a while. Let
them all be reborn in the spring, new and strong. For now ‘so
long and fair well.’ Or maybe more like ‘good riddance and
fuck off.’ I’d ask a poet, but they’d just vomit a bunch of
useless words that supposedly have some sort of meaning to
them that only the poet gets and everyone else is left stupid and
dumb to their illusions of genius. Throwing up loads of
whiskey into a toilet with fecal matter floating around is dining
at a five star restaurant compared to some of the poetry I’ve
heard.

Someone should really tell poets that symbolism is

dead. Video killed the radio star, and symbolism committed
hara-kiri when the literary world shoved their heads up their
own asses and couldn’t detect a smell. Fuck Freud too, because
I’ve always blamed that douche for trying to make dreams into
more than what they are. Dreams have to relate back to
everything in life that you don’t understand, but a cigar is just a
cigar. Fuck you Freud – either everything means something, or
everything means nothing. I don’t buy any of that trash. I say
give me a cigar and let me sleep.

Maybe that cigarette will come in handy, I’m

surprisingly bitter today.

Having walked across campus and up three flights of

stairs to her floor, I now am only a few feet away from her

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door. Something kicks me in the gut when I’m only a few steps
away and I suddenly start to second-guess myself. We were
happy once before, so why not maybe again? Why should we
end here? What if I could change this by going in there and
talking with her about the direction we’ve been going, and how
I want that to change? This doesn’t have to be this way.

I remember the boy from last night. Our relationship

needs to end this way. The final nail was put in the coffin, just
throw that sucker into the ground. I cannot deal with her shit
anymore. My shit may be fucked up, but hers was never
screwed together correctly. It’s a cold and bitter world that’s
full of hate and injustice, but at least I don’t need to deal with
her shit anymore.

The door is already propped open, welcoming me in.

One of Trish’s roommates is standing in the kitchen area when
I walk through the door. She’s cleaning off the stove with a
rag, still in pajama bottoms and one of those tight tank tops
with the thin straps. She looks over at me, smiles. I wonder if
she remembers when I accidently flashed her my penis.

She has a silly smirk on her face. “How’s the trouser

snake?”

She remembers. I smile back. “Incredibly shy and a

little embarrassed,” I answer back. “Is Trish in her room?”

The roommate twitches a little, and her smile fades like

an old painting. “Yeah, but you may want to come back later.”

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I shrug. I haven’t taken my sunglasses off. I’m not

going to. “No worries.”

I think her roommate tries to stop me but I can’t be

sure. My hand is already on the doorknob when I can sense that
I’m going to regret whatever I see. Something in my gut telling
me to just turn around and run. I can do this another day. It
doesn’t need to be like this right now.

The door muffles most of the moaning. When I crack

the door I can actually comprehend the gasps and groans. Even
though my eyes see the fornication, they don’t know how to
acknowledge and interpret the act. Trish is on the bed, naked,
her legs spread over some guy. Her back is arched, her breasts
bouncing up and down in rhythm with her lateral movements.
Underneath her is some pale male with a tattoo of a Celtic
cross on the right side of his chest. His eyes are focused on her
body that’s riding him with a vengeance. I remember being
underneath her like that once, but those days are over now.

I can’t help but realize that I don’t care at all.

“Is this a bad time?” I ask extra loud. She jumps,

looking at me startled and then instinctively covering her body.
I can’t help but laugh. “Hey baby.”

“Dominic, what the fuck?” she screams at me,

mortified.

“I’m dumping you,” I say plainly, lacking any form of

interest in my voice. The guy is looking at me like I’m insane.

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I turn my back and shut the door to the room before I

can watch her expression change from surprise to shock over
the fact that her boyfriend just dumped her while she had
another man’s cock inside of her.

Over at the kitchen area, the roommate looks sad.

“How you doing over there, champ?”

“Splendid, it’s a huge weight off my shoulder.” I can’t

tell if I’m being sarcastic or not.

She’s not convinced. I take a seat at the kitchen counter

in front of her. “Do you want to talk about it?”

I shrug. “What’s there to say? It was bound to happen.”

I pull the cigarette out from my ear. Dante, you fucker, you
were right again. “You got a torch?”

She grimaces. “You shouldn’t smoke.”

“Hun, I just walked in on my girlfriend molesting a

cock other than my own. Even if I don’t care I’m still gonna
need a smoke.”

She nods her head from side to side. “Fair enough,”

she agrees. She opens a drawer and pulls out a lighter, sliding it
to me. I take it from her and my fingers brush up against her.
I’m amazed at how silky her hands feel.

I light my cigarette and take a deep breath. “It could be

worse I guess.”

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The roommate, resuming her cleaning, looks at me

curiously. “How so?”

I shrug. “Fuck, I don’t know. I was hoping you’d just

agree with me and that would be that.”

She laughs with a high pitch and a sense of innocence,

bowing her head and embracing a smile that I haven’t seen in a
long time. “You’re ridiculous.”

“It’s what I do.”

“Uh huh,” she says, still smiling. “That and indecent

exposure, right?”

“Aw c’mon, you’re gonna make me feel bad that I

accidently let my baby arm swing out?” I pause, realizing I
have no idea what her name is. All this time spent in this
apartment, and I barely left Trish’s room except for when her
roommates were gone. No time like the present I guess. “I’m
Dominic, by the way.”

“I know who you are, you’re here a lot.”

“Right, but I don’t know your name.”

Her grin widens. “Oh? And what do you plan on doing

with my name, if that’s what you’re after?”

“Do I look like a guy with a plan?” We both laugh.

“I’ll tell you what I won’t do with your name though.”

“And that is what, sell it on the black market?”

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“Well, I wasn’t thinking that but rock on.” I throw up a

metal sign with my hands. “I won’t forget it.”

She bites her lip, averting her eyes from the flow that’s
occurring like a river current between us. “Andrea, my name is
Andrea.”

“Well, Ms. Andrea,” I say, doing my best to staple that

name to the mental picture I’m refining in my mind. “It’s a
pleasure to make your acquaintance, albeit the regrettable
circumstances we’re introduced under.”

I stand up, puffing the last bit of my cigarette smoke

out and letting the burnt out butt hang limply from my mouth.
“Until next time.”

“You plan on there being a next time?”

I hear Trish’s door opening cautiously and timidly.

“It’s a small campus.”

I head for the door, removing myself from any

situation I would later regret putting myself in. I know that if
Trish tracks me down and keeps me in that apartment, I’ll
either take back what I said to her or I’ll inadvertently cause a
hurricane storm of a fight and will not be able to escape
without my blood pressure shooting to unnatural and unsafe
levels.

“Dominic,” I hear her shout when I’m already down

the hall. “Wait! Can we talk about this?”

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I don’t give her the courtesy of turning around. “I said

my piece. Not really interested in yours though.”

I walk out the apartment building and throw up in a

bush. I’m a free man, whatever the hell that means. My
stomach squeezes together like a tub of toothpaste that’s almost
empty. As I stand there, hunched over like the hunchback of
Notre Dame, spewing out my anxiety and uncertainties about
the future of my relationships, supposedly set free, I can’t help
but wonder to myself if this is the end of the road. Is this as
good as my life gets? Will life be forever equated with
spontaneous moments of good and bad, acknowledged by
human intellect and emotion? Is this the plan that God has in
stored for me?

My stomach stops beating against itself, but I continue

to gag and dry heave instinctively. The putrid aroma from the
vomit makes me want to continue adding to the soggy pile even
though I’m drained by this point. Is this God watching over
me?

God I could use a cigarette.

Why fucking now? Why all of a sudden this shit?

Goddamn it when I’m not fucked up or surrounded by the walls
of shit that I’ve built for myself I can’t help but question
everything. Once upon a time it was enough just to believe that
God loves me, but those days have long since past. All this
useless time wasted doing what? Drinking, fucking, smoking

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myself into oblivion. I spent time on a parasite that I should’ve

left for dead months ago, but I stayed with her because the sex
was just too entertaining. And when I was ignoring her calls I
just so happened to be drowning myself in the bottle of
whiskey that I seem to have crawled out from. And this is the
love God gave me?

I don’t hesitate. Every step I take it a step towards my

room. I don’t know why and I don’t understand how but
somehow puking in that bush has triggered a rage in me that I
didn’t know existed. I storm across the campus, sunglasses
draped over my scowling eyes, with an ignited passion. I soar
up the stairs, not bothering to acknowledge the kid I bumped
shoulders with on the stairs, and charge down the hall to my
room. Music is playing from someone’s room. In another the
door is open and everyone’s screaming about a basketball
game. I violently punch the combination to my room into the
door, fling it open, and slam it shut behind me.

My ass slams against my chair, but before I’ve even

had a chance to sit down I have a notebook in front of me and a
pen gripped tightly in my left hand. I write a reminder at the
top of my blank notebook page.

Don’t try.

Bukowski believed the words so much that when he

died they put the phrase on his gravestone, and in so many
ways he was right. I’ve used the two words as a way to nurture

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my writing ever since I heard them in tenth grade. Even though

my writing is terrible in my opinion, I would be much worse
off without those two simple words as a guide. I write them
over and over in my notebook, becoming more frustrated every
time my pen strokes the final ‘y’ in the phrase. The ‘d’
becomes more aggressively written because of this. I have no
idea what I’m doing.

I feel blocked, trapped inside a dark cave with nowhere

to go. Although my options are limitless, the darkness presses
against me and barricades me into submission (of what?). The
cave could be infinitely big or miniscule, and I wouldn’t know
because something is keeping me from moving. There’s
nothing I can think of to blame, so I turn my blame inward. My
self-loathing strangles me like a savage animal, drooling at the
fangs. Without even realizing it, I write something among the
repeated ‘don’t try’s that I didn’t expect.

I fucking hate you.

Who? I wanted to shout it out loud. Who do I hate?

Who was the ‘you’ I’m talking about? Or maybe I’m the one I
hate. Maybe the hate is derived from all the years of apathy and
disconnection, turning me into the self-loathing, alcohol-
abusing bastard I am. But why now? What changed? What
triggered this, and how can I correct this?

Against all my better instincts I reach in the drawer,

take out the bottle of Jack Daniels, and start drinking like the

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whiskey is a repellant for cancer. I don’t even want to be

drinking, but I can’t help myself. Alcohol become my only
solution. If I’m not drinking, fucking, smoking, or writing then
chances are I’m caught in a sea of hatred from which there is
no escape. And all the while I was taking that extra drink, and
looking for that extra girl, I hadn’t even realized that this is the
person I’ve turned into. All that denial, all that ‘laughing-it-off’
when someone came to me with a legitimate concern about my
recreational use of alcohol and drugs have finally been put into
perspective. I think of an optical illusion I saw in seventh grade
– a picture that from one perspective looks like a beautiful
young woman, and from another looks like an old, ugly witch.
Solutions to problems through alcohol work the same way.

I remember when I used to believe that God loved me.

That was all I needed, once upon a time. That was all I wanted
to have. Fuck drinking, I didn’t need to be changed. I had love.
And then, Jesus I don’t even know what happened, I just
started experimenting because why not, everyone else was
doing this shit anyways. So I took a drink, and I liked it. And
then I took two. Two turned into three. Before I knew it I had
my head in the toilet and couldn’t stop puking. I woke up in my
room unsure of how I got there, confused about what time it
was, how long I’d been there, and where everyone else had
gone. And then the next night I did it again. Somewhere
between hanging out in clouds of marijuana smoke and
swimming in alcohol-flooded ponds I lost my faith. And

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through all the warnings I never caught on. I always said I had
this under control. I always said to not worry, and to stop being
so uptight, and that maybe if people acted more like me they
wouldn’t be so Goddamn tense all the time.

Deep down, as I bring the bottle to my mouth without

even realizing, I know that’s all a lie. No matter how hard I
pretend to make that lie something believable, there were much
more honest reasons I started drinking. Those same reasons are
the reasons I lost my religion. Fuck you. I fucking hate you.

What do I have to show for it now? I have an addictive

personality and a bucket list of regrets that I can’t go back and
change because they’ve already changed me into what I am. I
can’t change anything until I change myself. Fuck if I know
how I’m going to do that.

I think about buying a gun and putting a bullet in my

head. This would all be so much easier if I just said fuck it and
goodnight. I don’t need to keep this charade up anymore. I
haven’t been able to write anything decent in years, if ever, and
yet people still tell me how talented I am and how much they
love my writing, like there was something to love. I am my
writing, and there is nothing to love about me. Writing is all
just the same nonsense that we pretend is beautiful, like
looking at a painting. Maybe at the time of viewing the strokes
of color are revered as genius and introspective and glorious,
but then the painting fades and people move on to the next
thing, the more interesting thing, the exciting thing. That’s all

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my writing is. And if I define my existence on the only positive

thing in my life, my writing, by basic logic I can conclude that
my life is nothing more than meaningless words scattered on a
page without any reason for love or forgiveness. Give me a
fucking gun already, the words will not do the job.

And this is what life is supposed to be? This is the big

fucking gift I was given by God? I feel like I’m at a swimming
lesson and the instructor throws me into the deep end without
any support in the first five minutes of the first class and says
‘go for it! Make something happen!’ and just like that I’m
supposed to survive. Sink or swim. Fuck.

I fucking hate you.

God loves us all.

Just in time I pull out the trashcan that’s tucked under

my desk and throw up all the whiskey that I had been drinking.
I feel my insides cling together once again as I watch the thick,
clear coated brown vomit escape from my mouth in quantities I
don’t remember putting in. I should really consider quitting
drinking.

There’s a knock on my door. I want to hurl the bottle

of Jack Daniels in the direction of the knocking, mostly to
watch the bottle of whiskey explode and dribble against my
dorm room door. If I can’t escape the clutches of my
alcoholism willingly, then I will destroy the iron grip the bottle
has on my life.

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“Who?” I demand, drooling vomit-laced saliva from

my mouth into the trash can I’m hunched over.

“It’s Dante.”

Thank Christ. “Come in.”

From outside I can hear him jiggle the handle and push
against the door. “Dude it’s locked.”

I mumble all sorts of bad words under my breath while

I get up and open the door for him. His expression draws back
in surprise when he sees me. I must look like shit. “Did you
just get in a fight?”

I’m almost compelled to laugh. “Yeah. With the bottle.

And I lost.”

“There are no winners,” he says, mocking a

philosophical voice. “Only survivors.”

“Fuck off,” I say, extending the door open to him and

letting him inside.

He walks in and his nose curls up like a pig. His eyes

squint and I can tell the puke-stench in the room is bothering
him. He covers most of his face with his shirt and points to my
hand that clutches the bottle of whiskey. “Dude, really? This
early?”

“I had a bad fucking day,” I say before realizing that

it’s only been a few hours into the day.

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“Were you puking in here?” I point to the trash can.

“You sick son of a bitch.”

“Here,” I pick up the trash can, cringing from the

smell, walk over to the window, and throw the trash can out.
“No more puke.”

“Leave the window open.”

“You don’t hear me arguing,” I put the bottle down on

my desk and walk over to my closet, looking for a clean towel
and some toiletries. “What’s the good word?”

“I came to see if you wanted to come out to lunch with

me, Michael, Jeff, and Tom.”

“What about Angel and Janey? Or Amanda, for that

matter?”

“They’re not around.”

“Oh,” I am disappointed and relieved all at once. “Did

they say anything to you about last night?”

Dante shakes his head no. “I haven’t talked to them.

Michael said he felt like a douche bag and apologized to me.
He also admitted that you were right. Jeff was fairly indifferent
about the ordeal, as was Tom.”

“They didn’t really do anything,” I pause, “and neither

did Michael, Amanda, Janey, or Angel. They’re allowed to
have opinions I guess, even if they are assholes by having
them.”

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“What was that thing you always said about opinions?”

“Opinions are like butts, everyone has them and all of

them stink except for mine.”

He laughs enough to take some of my depression and

anger away. “Well played Dom, well played.”

I can’t help but crack a smile. If the entire world is

meaningless, and all that I do is for nothing, then at least I have
good people to spend it with. I take comfort in that, like sitting
by a fire when the snow outside starts to build up on the
ground, blanketing the earth in a tomb. “Yeah, sure, I’ll come
to lunch. Just give me 15 minutes okay? I need to shower.”

Dante nods. “Take your time. But not too long.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be quick. I’m fucking starving.”

In 12 minutes I shower, brush my teeth, comb my hair,

and throw up in a toilet (finally) for good luck. By the time
Dante was back at my door, I am fully clothed and feeling
more or less back to normal. I welcome Dante, Michael, Jeff,
and Tom with a better attitude about life and myself. Maybe
my mood swing was just a side effect from my hangover and
the frustration with breaking up. I feel relief crawl over me.

Michael approaches me while I am rereading the

bullshit I wrote in my notebook and everyone is standing in my
room talking. “I’m sorry I got upset with you last night.”

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I don’t bother looking up at him, though there is no

personal reason why. “Shit happens, I don’t hold it personal.”

“Can we talk later?”

I could hear a tone in his voice, that distinct nervous

tone that people use only when there’s something urgent. There
is something of dire matter and can’t be spoken about publicly.
The tone sent chills down my spine and anxiety through my
body like adrenaline. His voice made me want to defer eating
until the problem was addressed, discussed, and solved. I look
up at him and see the concern leak through his eyes.

“Of course we can,” I say quietly.

“Yo can we fucking eat already?” Jeff shouts.

“Yes,” I reply immediately. “Yes, we absolutely can.”

We take off for a 10-minute hike to some sandwich

place a few blocks away on the nicer side of the neighborhood.
There aren’t usually stabbings or shootings or gunshots, which
is good except for the fact that no students who party own a
house in this neighborhood which leaves the area utterly
useless. We walk through knee-deep piles of leaves that were
left on the sidewalk and dodge branches hanging limply from
trees. Once upon a time branches like these would’ve been a
source of inspiration to write a horror story focusing around
Halloween and some sort of supernatural terror, but those days
have long since past when I realized that I’m not any good at
writing, let alone any good at writing scary stories.

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And yet, through all these distractions I still can’t help

but realize that the conversations we’re having are carbon
copies of previous conversations. I’ve heard about how Jeff
fucks his girlfriend and the good pot he purchased from the
drug dealer down the hall. I remember Dante telling me about
the same house parties with the same themes as the ones he’s
talking about now. Tom wanting to get drunk and pick up
bitches tonight is nothing new to me. Michael being reserved
and laughing somewhat uncomfortably at all the audacious
things that Dante, Jeff, and Tom say has become redundant and
predictable. I find myself wondering, as my legs shuffle
through another pile of leaves, is this it? Is this what the rest of
days have in stored for me? I’m lucky for the people I get to
spend the ride with, but is this all we can amount to when
we’re together?

I can’t help but come to terms with the fact that even
though my mental spasm was a little crazy and anger-induced,
that probably wasn’t very far off from being truthful. I spend
all my time abusing myself, and now that I’m out with my
friends doing something else we can’t find anything
intellectually stimulating to talk about? Maybe that’s just how
life is supposed to be – having real conversations all the time
can make your head spin. I know that I wouldn’t want to talk
about the meaning of life every second of every day. But I
wouldn’t really want to talk about this shit every second of

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every day either. And God is watching over us. But I fucking
hate you.

We finally arrive to a place that smells like grease fires

and sodium. After ten minutes of waiting in line order our food
from some Hispanic looking guy who teases us about our food
in a friendly manner we pay some white, acne-plagued townie
who looks incredibly unhappy to be working there and sit
down to eat. For a few minutes the only noise emitting from
our mouths is the chopping and chewing on chicken parms,
steak and cheeses, and chicken Cesar wraps, intertwined with
the slurping and sucking from straws. Occasionally someone
will shove a Sun Chip or a Doritos chip in his mouth and
crunch away, but nobody has anything to say. I don’t take that
as a bad thing at all upon the revelation I experienced on the
walk over.

Michael takes a verbal hammer stuffed between his

sandwich-filled cheeks and shatters the din of crunching and
chewing. “Do you guys hate the Young Disciples?”

Everyone looks down uncomfortably for a moment,

unsure of how to answer. I shift my weight around in my chair,
trying to pretend I didn’t hear the objective question. We all
know Michael had a strong passion for organizations he gets
involved in, as well as his faith. But Michael knew how much
we detested the group for how some of the members carry
themselves (him and Amanda excluded). Even though his
question, albeit random, seemed innocent enough, we all know

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better. What Michael is really asking us is whether or not we

approve of his decision to be in the Young Disciples.

“I don’t hate them,” Jeff answered all too quickly. “I

mean, whatever, right?”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Michael

unintentionally instigated.

Jeff sighed, putting his sandwich down and strumming

his fingers on the table anxiously. I could drown in the waves
of discomfort that escaped his aura. “I don’t…I don’t fucking
know, man, okay? Amanda’s in it, she’s my girlfriend. You’re
in it, you’re a pretty good friend of mine. What do you want me
to say here?”

I am almost awestruck at the audacity that Michael is

showing by continuing the question. “I want to say what you
feel.”

Dante drops his wrap onto the paper it came in and

brushes his bangs upwards. “Michael, there’s nothing wrong
with the Young Disciples.”

“So why do you hate them?” Michael asks, eager to cut

off Dante.

Dante, for all it’s worth, is a classy person. Both him

and Jeff are able to stay level headed in situations where
uncomfortable questions and quick accusations fire at them like
bullets. Tom seems to watch the argument as if it was a tennis
match, unaffected and unmoved by anything being said. Inside,

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I am a volcano of rage and frustration ready to explode on

Michael for causing a disturbance in the mirth that we were all
surrounded in prior to his questioning.

“I didn’t say I hated them,” Dante calmly points out.

“Neither did Jeff. All I was going to say, and I’m sure everyone
at this table will agree with me, was that some of the people in
the Disciples are a bit radical about their beliefs.”

“You’re talking about Cody.”

“And circle gets the square,” I mumble with irritation,

running my finger in a circle around my beverage cup. I know
Michael hears me, but he ignores me because he doesn’t want
to get into an argument.

“The thing about Cody is that, as extreme as he is, he

holds his beliefs close to his heart. He’s willing to die for them,
and to be seen as an asshole for them. In a way, his
unwillingness to compromise to society standards of conduct in
religious affairs is almost admirable.”

“A painting is only as genius as a person seeing it

believes such,” Dante retorts. “Maybe that is true about Cody,
but that’s also the kind of talk that religious radicals use to
justify putting a pipe bomb in a Planned Parenthood or an
abortion clinic because they think that the ideals of that
organization go against the word of God.”

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Michael nods, his eyes processing the table. “I see your

argument, but Cody isn’t like that, with the pipe bombs and all
that I mean.”

“Of course he’s not, very few people are. But those
people exist, and they use the same rationale that Cody uses to
justify what they’re doing as morally correct. And let’s not
forget some of the other things that Cody has done either.
Maybe it’s not pipe bombs or death threats, but he has openly
marched against gay pride movements that have been held on
campus.”

“He wasn’t the only one. We go to a Catholic

institution, the school doesn’t even allow a Gay Straight
Alliance group to be approved. There’s a number of people
who feel the same way about gay rights that Cody feels.”

“But Cody is one of the few who openly opposes

them.”

“So you disapprove?” Michael sneers, showing more

courage then ever before. “You disapprove of me being in the
Young Disciples?”

I catch and stop myself within seconds of slamming

my hands on the table in triumph and screaming ‘I fucking
knew it!’ at the top of my lungs in the restaurant. Michael
notices this, and deters his attention to me. “Do you have
something you want to add?”

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Unprepared, I look around nervously and try to think

up something on the spot. My mind races a mile a minute to
think up an excuse. “Uh, well, I just agree with Dante. I don’t
feel like we need to disapprove of your choices because we
disapprove of some leadership.”

Michael looks at me to try and see if I’m speaking

genuinely or not. I do my best to make sure I am. “Okay,” he
yields. “That’s fair. I get what you’re saying, I really do.”

“The things I hate the most is that I never get to hang

with you anymore,” I continue, almost against my better
judgment.

Michael suspiciously looks over me. “It’s time

consuming.”

“And nobody’s arguing that,” Dante swoops in, giving

me a glare as he does. “We all know you’re busy with it. You
knew what to expect when you agreed to join. We just enjoy
your company.”

Michael allows his defenses drop, revealing some level

of sadness. “I know. I enjoy being with you guys too. But I’m
extremely dedicated to this, and I just want you to guys to
know that even though you all talk shit about it, I’m fully
committed to it. I know not everyone is an A+ Christian, or for
better or worse maybe they are, but that doesn’t change who I
am or what my beliefs are. I’m still going to be a Christian no
matter how many radicals cause problems for us, and I’m still

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going to be in the Young Disciples no matter how bad some of

the high-ranking members make us look. We do a lot of good,
and that’s why I’m involved with it. It’s the same reason why
I’m still a Christian and still faithful to God – we do good
things when we don’t consume ourselves.”

“Fuck it,” I say, holding up my soggy paper cup half

filled with soda. “I’ll drink to that.”

Dante, Jeff, Tom, and Michael all lift up theirs, joining

my cup hovering over the middle of the table. For a moment,
everything is perfect. We are united not by what we believe,
but by the brotherhood of humanity. We all believe different
things, come from different backgrounds, act different ways
about different things, and will all go unique places in life. But
at that moment we are all sharing what we have in common,
and appreciating each other for it. And even though the
moment passes in the time span we allotted, I can’t be too upset
that it’s gone because I got to catch a glimpse as it passed us
by. In a given day, there could be a million of these moments
that I miss, but it’s hard to get upset over the ones I miss
because I’m grateful for the ones I caught. God loves us all.

I miss Christianity sometimes.

“Anybody want to go to the mall?” Tom asks. “I kind

of want to go buy some music.”

Nobody objects. Next stop, the mall.

Fear and Self-Loathing

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I should probably confess a few things.

Once upon a time I was young. I won’t use the term

child because child is much more limited than young. You age
out of being a child, but you can only shed youth from
experience. So I was young, and by transitive property I was
inexperienced. I had a vision of God sitting in heaven watching
over the world smiling with content. His love was pure for all
of humanity because, as He promised to us, we were created in
His image and therefore loved by Him to the highest degree.
There were terrors yes, and even though those terrors existed
they were not of the norm. And even though these terrors
ranged from genocide to homicide, rape to sexual assault,
sociopaths to misguided youth, everything was still okay
because God loved us all - a view that blanketed me with
comfort when the bitter insecurities and terrors of the world
tried to run cold fingers down my spine and send goosebumps
on my flesh like small pox. Everything happened because of a
plan, and I was a part of that plan that would guide me in the
right direction. I was protected, and I was loved. I felt
untouchable.

It wasn’t until 8th grade that I started hanging out with

a “different” crowd. This was a crowd that didn’t have the
greatest of reputations for their actions, but for the most part
they were a nice group of misguided kids. To say that they
were terrible kids because they smoked pot and drank would be
unfair, since that is what most of the student population

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assessed their opinions on at that time anyways. Even though I

didn’t drink or smoke, I was able to find the good within them.
Judge not lest he be judged I guess. They were nice guys, all of
them charismatic and entertaining in their own respect. It
would be wrong of me, in a Christian sense, to say that they
were bad kids because they got drunk and high.

Middle school made a seamless transition into high

school, and just like that we were in a new environment with
older people who were doing things that were ten times worse
than anything the people in my group were doing (I was still
politely refusing to partake, reasoning that I didn’t want
anything conflicting with my writing). High school, I was told
at the time, was a place where we needed to learn to grow up.
The only people that could show us how to do that (since we
believed that our parents were against our experimental style of
growth, and would rather keep us locked in our rooms after the
sun went down) were to learn from the upperclassmen, if they
were even willing to take us as understudies.

And, to my fortune (I was told), they were willing to

take us on. The much older version of our group had taken an
interest into the activities that the members of my group were
involved in and wanted to hang out with us. The ‘passing of the
torch’ they called it. They had promised us that they were
going to look after us. We would learn how to cut class, how to
get away with smoking cigarettes, how to capitalize on taking a
full period for lunch rather than just a third of a period. They

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were going to be a guiding force to us when we needed one.

This all sounds very stupid in retrospect.

“Dom, you coming?”

So there we were, the whole pack of us. The younger

of us shelling out cash to the older ones with fake IDs to get
cigarettes and vodka. Weed turned into cocaine for some, while
others tried hallucinogens. I saw friends bow their heads over
powder coated mirrors and five minutes later they would turn
the white cocaine red with watery blood that dripped from their
noses like a leaking faucet. I remember one night I saw my
friend drink half a bottle of rum in the matter of an hour.
Twenty minutes later he was hunched over in a bush, staining
the green leafs white with his milky vomit. I remember, in a
lapse of stupidity, thinking ‘well, at least I’m here to take care
of them.’ It was hard to leave a group that I had build up such
strong friendships with; especially a group whose senior
members enjoyed my company. I felt like I was living the
dream, no matter how upsetting our lifestyle got at times. I
began to think that if I were to leave, I’d have nowhere to go,
so I might as well stick around.

And then there was that warm summer night where the
breeze would cut through the backyards and disrupt the warmth
of the barbecue we were all circled around. The school year
had, at long last, ended. The youngest of us were flooded with
confidence and relief from the knowledge that we were no
longer going to be the youngest class, while the older kids were

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excited about starting their senior years so they could either get
their high school degree and be done forever or move on to part
time community colleges. Everyone was talking and sipping on
beers (I had been given soda because I was still not drinking
despite being around this group almost every weekend), and a
few people in the circle were passing around a blunt. Girls
were giggling, stoned out of their minds, and the guys were
passively taking turns insulting each other, calling one another
‘fags’ and ‘pussies’ for whatever unmanly deeds they may have
been accused of doing.

Inside the house we were hanging out at there were a

few more people, including a rising senior girl that I had
developed a crush on. We had talked a few times, but
communicating was always difficult because I knew that she
had seen me as the youngest in the group (it didn’t help that
while everyone was pounding back beers and getting high I
was standing around observing, occasionally contributing
minor insight and nervously laughing at every insult, joke, and
gesture that occurred), but that didn’t matter. We had gotten to
know one another over time and I heard, through the grapevine
of mutual female friends, she thought I was cute. Cute was
more then enough to keep me interested and hopeful. Even
though my heart would skip a beat every time she brushed her
blonde hair away from her silk skin on her face I had learned to
keep my composure around her, something I had never been
able to do with a girl before. I was hoping that within the

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summer we would start hooking up, and since tonight was one
of the first nights of summer I couldn’t see a better time to try
making moves.

I remember when one of the supposed friends in the

group came out to get me and a few other senior members. He
had a mischievous grin on his face and told us to follow him
and not ask any fucking questions. Right away I should’ve
been suspicious, but I was so thrilled to be acknowledged and
accepted as a part of the older end of the group that I did what I
was told. I followed the herd inside with a sense of pride,
knowing that all the friends I had gone to middle school with
were watching from their places at the barbecue with approval
and excitement for me. I was hoping that where ever my crush
was, she was seeing that I was accepted. I felt like I was on top
of the world.

All five or six of us followed the leader through the

workings of the house, turning around corners and into
different rooms. The home felt more like a labyrinth by the
time we got upstairs, and I was almost paranoid that if I were
left alone upstairs I wouldn’t know how to get out again. All
the while, the leader had been telling us to get excited and to be
quiet. We walked down the end of a white walled, tan carpeted
hallway. There was a white door that was closed, and the leader
tiptoed towards it and gently put his hand on the golden door
knob, as if we were going to sneak in and attack whoever was
in there. He reminded us one more time to shut the fuck up and

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asked us if we were ready for what was on the other side of this
door. My imagination, running wild with anticipation, couldn’t
even grasp on what this surprise could be. Giggling to himself,
the leader opened the door slowly and crept inside, with us
shuffling in behind him.

The first thing I had noticed once my eyes could

acknowledge everything was that she was naked. Her breathing
was still, almost unnoticeable if you were watching her
stomach. Her well-shaped breasts were the only indication that
she was still alive. I was watching them slowly lift up half an
inch, and then sink to their original position a few seconds
later. Her gentle, pale skin reflected nicely off of the leaking
sunlight from the pulled shade. Her nipples were grapefruit
pink, a perfect ratio to her tits, just as I imagined. Her body was
stretched out, arms pulled over her head and her wrists tied to a
bedpost I noticed. Her eyes were closed, head drooped to the
side, resting along the side of her left arm.

My idiotic brain took a second to realize what was

going on. I stared at her, my crush, in disbelief. I was
mesmerized with fear and denial. My brain was racing, trying
to put some sort of humane logic on the situation. The word
immediately crossed through my mind before I tried to reject it
and replace it with something else. I did my best to make up a
story. She must’ve been sick. She got drunk too quick too soon,
and they needed to take her away. She was fighting so they had
to tie her up. I had stopped myself halfway through, realizing

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how absurd that sounded. I knew the difference between a good

story and the truth. And even though my mind tried to create
something else, I knew the reality of the situation.

A firm slap on the back of my left shoulder caused me

to snap out of my trance. Someone in the back of the room
made a remark on how excited I looked (excited was the last
thing I was feeling at the time). I looked over, dumbfounded, at
the owner of the hand. The person who led me into the room
held my shoulder firmly, eyes gleaming with excitement. I tried
open my mouth to speak, but before I could he began
explaining to me that, because they all knew how much I
‘wanted to fuck the shit out of’ this girl, they would give me
first go. I felt dizzy. There was a black hole in my stomach that
was sucking at me from the inside, stripping me of what I used
to refer to as my youthful innocence. I thought I had seen a lot.
Turns out all I had dealt with was a bunch of drunk idiots. This,
however, was what was going to destroy me.

“Dude, did you hear this album? Do you know if it’s

any good?”

I responded with a fearful, terrified, quiet no. I didn’t

know what else to say as the black hole inside of me ate away
at everything I once felt to be good. I wanted to cry, but no
tears came. I felt emotionless. I was useless. I always imagined
myself as someone who would rise to the occasion in situations
like these. I had mental images of being a hero, helping those
who were unable to help themselves. A true Christian. And as I

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stood there, face to face with the evil reality of a situation I

thought I could face once and if the time ever came, I realized
that I was nothing more then a young punk paralyzed with fear.

I repeated myself without any confidence. No, I

wanted no part of this. I wasn’t interested in raping her. I told
them that rape was against all I held sacred (though I did not
mention that everything I held sacred was being shattered
inside of me), and that I wouldn’t do it. I heard someone call
me a pussy, and another one ask me if I was a fag. One even
had the audacity to mention how he too was a Christian and
this wasn’t bothering him one bit. I said nothing. I didn’t know
what I could say or do. I just stood there, watching her lie
naked on the bed, knowing full well of her impending terror
while she remained unconscious. The idea of saving her
seemed so impossible and foreign. Even though my mind
yearned to rise up and be the hero I always thought I’d be, I felt
myself shuffle out of the room, terrified. As I stood in the
hallway, the sun shining through windows, I raised a hand up
as if to say something only to have the door slammed in my
face. And then, there was nothing. A numbness in my stomach;
a hole in my throat; a reality that nothing was good.

I stood in front of the empty door for a while because I

didn’t know what else to do. I tried to think of all my options as
I stood in front of the white door, the shadow-draped curves
and haunting indents being burnt into my mind with each
passing second. I could barge in there and try to be the hero

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before anything happens, but I know that a few of them have

knives and even if they don’t use them they’ll still be able to
beat the shit out of me. I could try to reason with them, but I
knew that if they were capable of drugging a friend they
wouldn’t care much for reason. I did the only thing I knew I
could do, as I stood in front of the door with fear. I turned to
God and asked – fuck that, pleaded – to grant some sort of
divine intervention through love. Whatever was going to
happen, make it stop. If that was too much to ask, at least don’t
let her feel it. Make sure she’s okay. Protect her. Please.

From the other side of the door, although I wasn’t

entirely sure if it was possible, I heard a scared, pain-filled
female whimper. I wanted to cry and kick in the door to save
her, but instead I stood there frozen in fear while her scarring
whisper of violation and pain echoed through my mind like a
canyon.

I guess it wouldn’t be too much of an understatement

to say that I died that day. I might sound dramatic, and I might
sound unreasonable, but I don’t know how else to compare
what I felt when I heard that whimper. I left the house wanting
to throw up. I got in my car and drove the streets of my town
for a while; revisiting the playgrounds I used to play at with my
friends when we were younger. I drove by the sports
collectable store where I bought my first pack of NBA trading
cards. I went past the building that used to have a doughnut
shop where my mother would take me every Saturday because

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the doughnut shop was themed as a train station and when I

was young I used to love trains. I passed by the fire station that
my father used to take me to visit on weekends sometimes with
my plastic, fire-red firefighter helmet and I would sit in the
driver’s seat of the fire engines while a firefighter would ask
me if I was ready to go out and help people. I always said I was
ready to go out and help people. What a world we live in.

By the time I got home I felt like deadweight. It was an

effort just to put the car in park and turn the engine off. I felt
the weight of the world on my shoulders, and for the first time
in my life I had no knowledge of how to remove it. Although I
wasn’t the one who had suffered, I couldn’t get past my own
pain. My once puerile state of existence had been slaughtered
the moment I heard her painfully whisper out, and yet I did not
shed a tear for either of us. The black hole in my stomach had
devoured me like an appetizer. The only logical thing to do was
to try and go on living, but how does that even work? For
awhile I tried to pretend that nothing had happened. I never
told anyone, even Dante, about what occurred that day at the
barbecue. I disconnected myself from that group entirely,
ignoring phone calls and neglecting to give any sort of answer
to their concerned queries about my state of being. No matter
how much I pretended though, that day would always haunt
me. I would never be able to walk past a child and not think
about the horrors that their future has in store for them. Things
that reminded me of my own childhood sent me into neurotic

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bouts of depression. I would respond to emotionally charged

situations with apathy. I could not bring myself to feel again,
because to feel would be to acknowledge what had happened to
me.

There’s more. My writing changed dramatically.

People noticed too. What I once shared with them had happy
ending after suffering through dark times. There was upbeat,
albeit corny, humor. My friends would compliment me on the
happy endings. That all changed. My writing became darker.
The humor that once existed was erased, replaced with
emotionally damaging situations. There were no happy
endings. I no longer left the possibility of hope in my writing.
My friends asked me if I needed help. My mother wanted to
know if I should be put on Prozac, or if I wanted to talk to a
counselor. After awhile I just stopped showing my friends and
family my writing altogether.

And then there was the substance abuse that developed.

My drinking vigils were done alone, performed by stealing any
booze I could get my hands on from the liquor cabinet. I tried
everything my house had to offer before settling on the
whiskey. Whiskey was the only drink that truly burned the
whole way down. This brought comfort to me because the
burning meant that I could still feel something. Later, when it
became much more normal for me and my other friends (like
Dante, who was never a part of that group to begin with) to
have a drink, I would buy cheap whiskey in large quantities to

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keep for myself, but my friends never thought of my actions as

problematic. I also started smoking weed because that was the
only time I could laugh at nothing. When I wasn’t high I
wouldn’t want to think about anything except for my own
demise. Death was the only thing that brought comfort.

“Are you more of a Sabbath fan or Ozzy solo? I need

your opinion.”

Wine is fine but whiskey’s quicker, suicide is slow

with liquor.

When I got older (I guess around my senior year of

high school) I was a complete closet case with my substance
abuse. I was drinking alone nightly, smoking weed for the sole
purpose of feeling happiness, and sleeping with about two or
three different girls in order to feel some sort of
companionship. Nobody knew about my depression because
nobody had read my writing or knew about my habits.
Everyone assumed that I was just being a teenager in a
generation that does these sorts of things. For a while, even I
was convinced that all this was normal. I remember that
changed when I heard my mom and her bible group talking,
and someone mentioning God’s unconditional and universal
love. I was only passing through the room, but I caught and
almost had an anxiety attack right then and there. Before my
mom could come over to help I had fled to my room to process
what I heard. ‘God’s unconditional, universal love’ I repeated
to myself. It seemed foreign to me that God would be able to

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love us unconditionally. We were all such terrible people, and

yet He was able to love us. My mind began peddling
backwards, trying to retrace to where the idea seemed illogical.
My intense reflecting resulted in revisiting night of the
barbecue with the rape, when one of the older guys in the group
sarcastically reminded me that he was a Christian and didn’t
have an issue with rape. God loved him to, just as much as He
loved me?

I had always viewed God’s love as the purest form of

love there could be. As humans we are flawed, and therefore
our love is flawed to a certain extent. Since God is perfect
however, that would only make His love pure and perfect as
well. But then, how could it be that God had the ability to love
a degenerate as equally as someone who would give his or her
entire life to Him? How could God love me and the rapist
equally, if I had done nothing wrong? These ideas made God’s
love seem impure, tainted with the feeling that His love for
humans was too easy to obtain.

I knew long before this that I had unintentionally

rejected His love of me. The presence of God’s love in my life
provided me with happiness and fulfillment. I had rejected his
love for the empty promises of drowning in a bottle of whiskey
that would never be able to love me. I tossed out the happiness
He provided to get high and create my own chemical illusion of
happiness. The comfort of His wisdom once gave me
fulfillment, and that was easily replaced with the hollow

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promises of satisfaction that was impossible to reach, no matter

how many girls I had been inside.

The problem isn’t with God’s love. The problem is

with me. While I drown in a sea of worthless promises of
happiness and fulfillment I am constantly drifting away from
the love that is actually worth something. Charles Bukowski
once said that if you’re losing your soul and you know it, then
you still have a soul to lose. What scares me is that I know I’m
losing my soul with every drink I take, with every hit I take,
with every girl I enjoy, but I don’t know how to save myself.
I’m waiting for the other noose to drop. If I can’t see the pure
love that God tries to give me, and I’m constantly rejecting that
love, I will never be able to receive the love of others. I know
this. I just don’t know how to save myself from this fate. As
much as I try to see the love that God provides, I can’t help but
feel the humane hate that flows in the air like parasites in the
world around me.

“Dude, are you okay? You’ve been awfully quiet.”

No, I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay and I don’t

know how to be okay. I’m going to die out here. I’m dead
inside but if I can just find something to hold onto as I float
away from everything I know is good in this world than maybe
I’ll be able to come back and be okay again. I am going to be
swallowed by my own fears of love, with too much ease found
in the hate. I don’t know how to avoid the easy way out.
Please, help me from myself. I am no hero. I am not ready to

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go out and help other people. I fucking hate who I am. Save me
before it’s too late. Don’t let today be like all the other
predecessors. Let today be the new day for me. I’m begging
you.

“Never better, why?”

The Watchtower

I am a shell of what I used to be.

By the time I’m able to make it back to my room I feel

like a zombie. Every step I take is just another step towards the
inevitable that I’ve tried for years to delay. And no matter how
long I try to avert death, regardless of how many precautions I
take, I will eventually expire given enough time. In a way,
everything I do is just another vain attempt to keep me
occupied until I finally come crashing into my own mortality. It
wouldn’t matter if I were doing everything with every possible
minute of my life though, because if I do something with every
minute of my life or if I waste every moment sinking further in
a sea of whiskey, I’m still going to die.

God I need a drink.

My phone vibrates for attention in my pocket as I walk

into the door of my dorm room. Without checking the caller ID
I lazily answer.

“Hello?” Silence. “Hello?”

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“Dom?” Trish cautiously says through the speaker. A

wave of regret crashes against my stomach and twists my
insides like they’re caught in a hurricane. My throat clamps up
in an emergency procedure action. My brain halts like a crash
test car colliding with a cement wall. This is a routine test.

“Yeah?” I barely say through my wooden, fist tight

vocal chords.

“Can we talk?” Her voice is filled with remorse. Upon

hearing those words I am overwhelmed with a sensation of
hate. I want to destroy her. I want to remind her of all the times
we talked and how awful those turned out. I want her to cry. I
want to evoke painful emotions from inside of her, like pulling
endless weeds from a once beautiful garden.

I tell her no and hang up the phone before I realize I

had started talking. There is no point. I have no desire to
reopen old wounds and guiltily give her the chance to drool her
venom back into my heart. I’m not that person.

I need a drink.

I fucking hate you.

I open my desk drawer instinctively and remove a

bottle of whiskey. With rehearsed skill I twist the cap off and
pour the contents of the bottle into my mouth, pulling away
only to gasp for air. I am not a good person. I do not tell stories
to make people smile or feel good because I do not feel good
about myself. Ever.

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I am a hopeless soul who once upon a time saw a girl

he thought he liked get raped by a pack of wolves. I drown my
humanity in booze and strangle my existence to death with pot
and break my soul in pieces every time I find physical
satisfaction. I am incapable of feeling anything except hate. I
can’t stand who I am, but I can’t change it either. Enough.

I take another drink. And then I take another after that.

Before I realize what’s happened, the bottle is gone and my
sober state is a distant memory. Once again, this is the time of
night where everyone is donning evening attire and getting
ready to go out, maybe eating a late dinner and running to the
ATM. Everyone shares an electrifying energy that I respond to
like rubber no matter how many chemicals I take to help
elevate my mood.

The phone rings again, only this time I’m smart

enough to check the caller ID. In bright LED lights, the name
‘JANEY’ flashes on the screen in big, bold letters. I answer
with relief.

“Yo,” I say flatly into the phone.

“Dom!” she shouts enthusiastically, telling me that any

anger she may have felt from the previous night has dissipated
as time elapsed. Either that or she’s drunk. “What’re you doing
tonight, man? We have to hang!”

My mind reels, trying to recall any previous plans. The

alcohol impedes my ability to think, derailing my train of

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thought every chance it gets. “No,” I finally settle. “I have no

plans tonight.”

“Come out to the clubs with us!”

I can’t help but laugh under my breath at her

enthusiasm. “Who’s going?”

“Me, Angel, Amanda, Jeff, and maybe Tom.”

“What about Dante or Michael?”

“They didn’t want to,” Janey says without much of a

second thought. “Amanda was skeptical too, because she had
some dumb Disciples meeting or whatever.”

“Why isn’t she going?” I ask, enticed by this piece of

information. “I thought that you get in a shit ton of trouble if
you skip those meetings.”

I envision Janey sighing over the phone because she

knows that there’s nothing I love more then ranting about the
Young Disciples. “I guess that’s something to ask her when she
comes out with us tonight. Michael isn’t coming for that
reason, so maybe she got out of it somehow.”

I instantly feel drunken sympathy for Michael,

projecting a victim of war image onto him. I also am forced to
acknowledge that I’m way drunker than I thought, and can’t
help but giggle a little at my own stupidity. I get off the phone
with Janey by telling her I’ll call her back, and automatically

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bring a new bottle of whiskey to my lips that I don’t remember

retrieving from anywhere in the room.

There are a few reasons why I can’t stand the

Disciples. When I was first visiting this college in high school,
the idea of the group seemed fine to me even though I was still
struggling with my faith. As far as I was concerned, people
were entitled to celebrate their religious beliefs through way of
organization, and it was pretty much expected since this is a
Catholic school. My mom was even encouraging me at the
time, telling me that this might be a good way to build a closer
relationship with God. I shrugged her advice off, but never
ruled out the possibility completely until I arrived on campus
and started to learn about some of the things that the Disciples
had done. At first I had tried to brush it off as rumors, but the
more I got to know the individual members the more I realized
that the lore that surrounds their activities may not be so
farfetched.

It started with a sexual awareness program sponsored

by the Woman’s Will Coalition during orientation. One of the
few things I learned from it was that sexual activity in college
was at the highest point during the first six weeks of freshman
year (at week seven, I realized this was a crock of shit). Due to
that, Woman’s Will had a bucket full of condoms with a sign
that said ‘TAKE AS MANY AS YOU NEED’ which ensued
giggle fits from the still immature males, who grabbed a fistful
making the bold declaration that they’d be done with all those

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in a week (I like to pretend that is the proceeding events never

happened those condoms would still be rotting away in their
sock drawers three semesters later). But even in their
cockiness, at least they’re better to be safe than declaring with
equal enthusiasm plans to impregnate half the campus by
Columbus Day. I know this because the girl working the
condom table (their wording, not mine) reminded them of that
with a smile on her face, reiterating how lucky we were since
the Catholic tradition doesn’t believe in contraception and
therefore we wouldn’t normally be allowed to have condoms
distributed on campus. Whoopee.

All seemed fine and fucking dandy – we got our

condoms, and the Woman’s Will felt like they had done good
by protecting us from pregnancy. That night however, an
urgent email had been sent to our newly-validated school
emails, warning us in a panic that the leftover condoms they
had their packages poked through with needles, therefore
making them ineffective. We were told to check the condoms
we took for any holes or punctures that might make them
unsafe to use. Of course nobody had used them yet (despite
whatever someone might’ve said otherwise) and it turns out
that all the condoms had been damaged in the same manner as
the leftover ones. Long story short – Woman’s Will got in a lot
of trouble for not taking responsible measures to protect the
students and were not allowed to distribute condoms at their
sexual awareness programs during orientation since. Since

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Woman’s Will took the blame publicly, everyone just assumed

they had done something dumb and the matter was left alone
for the most part. Stupid rumors of conspiracy had started
surfacing through the grapevine, because there were girls in
Woman’s Will who were also in the Disciples, that members of
the Disciples had destroyed all the condoms on purpose. These
rumors would never be confirmed, and they never escaped the
whispers of the cafeteria at dinner, but they existed.

And that was just the first time I had heard about the
Disciples doing something like that. There were other incidents
that were more commonly known and proven to be true, such
as when the Disciples took a stance against a Gay-Straight
Alliance organization being recognized by the school, since
homosexuality went against Catholic values; or the Disciples
ensuring that information about pro-choice was distributed off
campus. These incidents weren’t putting anyone in harms way,
only the Disciples using their influence to help ensure that the
Catholic tradition of the school is maintained. I don’t have an
issue with that.

If there is anything I have an issue with, then my issue

is with all the shady rumors that surrounds that group. The
condoms incident was just the first thing I had heard about, but
people who were openly gay would claim to get threatening
letters slipped under their door, reminding them that ‘GOD
HATES FAGS’ in big, bold letters that the campus police
would never really investigate to figure out who would leave

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such a hateful message. There was the rumor about the girl
who had accidently gotten pregnant with her boyfriend and had
the baby aborted, and that night woke up in a puddle of pigs
blood with the note on her desk that said ‘GOD HATES
CHILD MURDERERS’ while her Disciples-member
roommate happened to have been out of the room at the time.
People who have been openly pro-choice or pro gay marriage
have received hate letters and threating images stuffed under
their doors. And while the Disciples are always rumored to be
behind this phenomenon, the school nevr takes action and
nothing ever gets proven. Instead, they are awarded for
promoting the Catholic faith through their on campus and off
campus efforts - all boiling down to their motto that they stamp
on every pamplet, flyer, brochure, and poster they can.

‘GOD LOVES US ALL’.

Again my phone rings. I am unusually popular tonight.

I check the foggy caller ID, my vision quickly become as
useful as a man with cataracts. I drunkenly answer.

“Yeah?” I demand, my breath filtered with the pungent

smell of whiskey.

“Dude, what’s wrong with your phone. You sound

drunk.”

It was Luke. I don’t even remember putting his number

in my cell phone. A quick vision of him raping a girl floods
into my mind, betraying the person he’s proven himself to be.

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“Maybe I am a little drunk,” I confess, feeling pressure

on my forehead from the inside of my skull. My eyes can’t find
anything to focus on. “What’s up?”

“I’m having people over tonight if you want to stop

by,” he politely asks. There is a small pause that reveals his
caution. “I heard Trish dumped you.”

I laugh as my eyes roll in the back of my head

involuntarily. The sides of my skull are swelling. “I broke her
up, motherfucker.” I pause because the earth suddenly shifts a
little and I stumble into a drunken dance around my room
before finally landing chest up in my bed. “She didn’t do any
dumping, just humping.”

I can’t tell if Luke is freaked out or stoned, but there’s

another pause that gaps the conversation. I wonder if I’m even
forming the words properly as they leave my mouth before
quickly realizing that I don’t give a shit if I do or not because
the words don’t matter anyways. I wait longer for Luke’s
response and think about getting some water and maybe a nap
in before going out tonight.

“Dude, I’m sorry to hear that,” he says empathedically.

“If you wanna fucking talk or anything…”

“Words are for suckers,” I stammer drunkenly. “Words

are just…man…” I am unable to complete my thought.

Luke’s voice is flat like an audio textbook. “You’re a

writer.”

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I stretch my empty arm towards the ceiling, letting it

flail around when it’s fully extended. “The irony!”

Luke, to my unmoving surprise, laughs at this. “I’ll

catch you later tonight. My house?”

I say something that sounds like ‘poor horse’ and hang

up. I feel my stomach rumble, and my head start to beat like a
bongo drum. I am going to throw up. I can feel the whiskey
rising back out of my stomach like a volcano set to erupt. I
look around for my trashcan before remembering I threw the
puke-covered reciprocal out the window. I cuss out loud,
suddenly feeling the rush of whiskey rapidly crawl up my
throat. Out of options, I open the window and shove my head
out of it, hurling down a projectile of thinned out whiskey. My
stomach compresses and I feel a second wave coming, which I
don’t try to resist. There’s a lot of pressure on my face, like a
pimple being squeezed and popped. I throw up for a third time
before I’m finally able to catch my breath and recuperate. By
the time I do my face feels inflamed and my skull feels
crushed. Thankfully nobody is around to see my display of
alcoholism.

I pull my head back through the window and stumble

into the bathroom. I shove my head into the sink and let cold
water run through my mouth, occasionally letting it accumulate
and then spitting it out, trying to rinse out any lingering chunks
of whiskey that have deposited in my teeth or the corners of my
mouth. Once I’m positive that all the vomit is cleaned out, I

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swallow a few gulps of the cool drink and almost immediately

feel better. I pick my head out of the sink and look at myself in
the mirror. There is a stream of drool hanging about eight
inches from the corner of my mouth, bungee jumping from my
chapped lip. My face has broken out in dark red freckles as a
result of all the pressure I forced while I was throwing up. My
eyes are burnt, exhausted from life. I catch a glimpse of myself
twenty years down the road if I don’t change the way I’m
living. If I only knew how. If I only cared.

I splash water on my face in a vain attempt to refresh

myself. This does me little good, like watering a dead plant. I
need to take a nap. I need to get my shit together.

“Christ, you look like hell,” Jeff says, appearing next

to me with his hands under a running faucet. “And you reek of
whiskey dude. How much have you had to drink already?”

The words escape my mouth rehearsed. “Enough.”

He nods in agreement. “So are you going out tonight?”

Phone calls from Janey and Luke flash through my

mind, while the prospect of going to bed early, maybe writing a
little beforehand never appears. This means something, but I’m
still too drunk to figure it out. I mumble a response of
uncertainty about the future of my night and take another drink
from the sink. The water tastes like there’s hair caught in the
faucet, but that doesn’t stop me from slurping the water into
my mouth like a caveman.

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“You’re hanging out with Amanda?” I ask in between

sips. “Janey mentioned you were.”

“Yeah,” Jeff admits uncomfortably. “Amanda’s

coming by tonight. She says we have to talk about something,
and that it’s something serious.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence hanging between us

after he announces her reason for coming by. We’re both
thinking the same thing, but neither one of us would have the
courage to say the words out loud. Still, almost no good can
come from serious conversations like this when you’re in a
relationship with someone. The mystery of what could be so
serious engulfs the possibility of anything visibly positive.
However, there is an off chance that if it’s not a break up, she
wants to try and rectify the situation by talking, rather than
letting the problem get worse with time. This is a skill that was
elusive to Trish’s concept of a relationship, and I guess in part
mine as well.

I try to find the most encouraging words I can, but all I

can come up with is “well at least she’s not pregnant, right?”

Jeff breathes a sigh of relief, laughing nervously. “Yes,

thank fucking God she’s not.”

I splash more water into my mouth and pat Jeff on the

side of the arm. I walk back to my room feeling empty inside. I
contemplate once more over the options I have for tonight but
nothing feels exciting. I crawl back onto my bed without

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thinking and shut my eyes. I hope that this will be the last time
I have to shut them. I have no desire to continue doing this.

I try to imagine myself somewhere else, anywhere to

escape the place I’m at now. Nothing feels right. I try to
envision myself alone on a beach somewhere with nobody
around for miles. The only sound comes from the ocean
charging from the horizon and desperately trying to crawl as
far onto the shore as possible, stopping just inches away from
my feet while the waters salt-ingested smell infiltrates my
nostrils. The sun is setting in the distance like a clichéd
painting, but I don’t mind much. I try to find peace in the
moment of this setting, but what should be rehabilitating to the
soul is instead hollow and unmemorable. I don’t care for the
horizon and the setting sun; given enough time the fiery star
will do the same thing again. The proclaimed majestic in the
ocean is nothing more than a natural, dirty bathtub. The beauty
in a masterpiece of nature is eluded by nature’s emptiness and
inadequacy to nurture the most basic human needs. This place
is nothing more than a pretty face with no substance – fun to
look at, inept to properly provide. I don’t stay at this place
long.

I imagine that I’m lying in a hospital bed with a bright

light over me. My body is exhausted and there’s a group of
people huddled around me. One of them fixes a clear mask
around my mouth and nose, and even though I think about
resisting for a moment there’s nothing I can do to stop the

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future. Everyone is covered in shadows. Someone in the corner

says ‘he’s brave for going out like this, so Goddamn brave’ but
at that moment I have never felt more indifferent in my life.
My mind reels while I try to remember why I’m there. Cancer,
I heard one of the shadows say. I have cancer in my brain that
will eventually turn me into a vegetable. I had the option of
staying around like a lifeless drone until my body expires, but I
chose instead to be euthanized. They tell me it will not hurt. I
try to ask them to take the mask off and give me a shotgun
instead, but they cannot hear me. I wait patiently for death
while he takes his time to arrive. I kill time by wondering if
there’s anything I should have told my friends. The gas starts to
creep in through the mask and into my body. The air smells an
awful lot like vomit and seawater. Funny, I always thought
death would’ve smelled more like the cheap whiskey I used to
buy.

Fists of rage pound at my door with muffled voices

calling out my name. Startled, my eyes shoot open and my
body pops out of bed as if launched from a catapult. I can hear
females giggling from beyond my door, but my heart is still
racing too quickly to put all the pieces together. How long have
I been out for? I look at my cell phone frantically – 10:45 PM
with 7 missed calls. I’ve been in a coma for almost two hours.
My shirt is soaked in sweat around the collar, as well as the
brow on my forehead. I wipe myself off with my sleeve and
walk over to the door, which is being slammed repeatedly with

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a hammer. Annoyed, I swing the door open to demand what the

hell is going on.

There was never any giggling. In fact, giggling was so

distant from the reality of the situation that was almost stupid
of me to think otherwise. I wasn’t greeted by smiling girls in
clubbing attire with a buzz halfway to the city brewing in their
membranes. Instead of perfectly applied makeup there was
smeared and soggy eyeliner and bloodshot, swollen eyes.
Those same eyes that used to dance at life and always held
hope were now shrink wrapped in heartbreak and horror. What
the hell happened to Janey in two hours?

Paralyzed with the abrupt scene placed before me, I

usher her and Angel in as quickly as possible before shutting
the door. A memory of storming off from the bar the night
before crawls back into my mind and I wonder if Angel is still
mad at me, but now isn’t the time to worry about that. I shut
the door and resist the urge to reach into the fridge for a bottle
of whiskey that may not even be in there. Janey, still sniffling
and hiccupping, sits on my bed and immediately drops her head
onto Angel’s shoulder. It’s terrible because all I can think about
doing is drinking.

“What happened?” I ask, my throat dry. I inhale

through my nose and feel my throat crust over with
dehydration. I take a water out of the fridge for myself, pause,
and then grab two more.

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For a minute there isn’t a response. I hand the waters to

Angel, who encourages Janey to drink some of one. She wipes
some snot away from her nose and refuses, but eventually
bends after more persistence from Angel. She chugs a quarter
of the plastic container, wiping the string of saliva away from
her mouth as she puts the bottle down. This whole time I am
reeling through the different places I put bottles in my room.
The fridge, the freezer, the top drawer in my desk, the closet
shelf behind the extra sheets, inside my gym bag with my old
Tae Kwon Do equipment, my pants drawer…by the time I
finish thinking about where all my booze could be I realize that
I may have drank everything. For the first time in my life the
words ‘ALOCHOL ABUSER’ scroll across my mind in red
LED lights.

“Angel,” Janey forces from the depths of her voice

box, “can you please explain to Dominic what we found?”

Angel reaches into her back pocket slowly and pulls

out an inconspicuous piece of paper that’s been folded many
times over. She extends her arm out to me, and I snatch the
paper and begin to unfold it. At first the objects seems like a
blank piece of paper, but the more I unravel the paper the more
red ink bleeds through. By the time I finish deconstructing each
fold, an 8.5x11.5 piece of paper with bold red scribbling is in
my hand, the message loud and unavoidable. I want to escape
the hate but by the time I realize what I am holding I’m too

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late. There it is, ‘GOD HATES FAGS’ written so explicitly

that the message jumps off the page and burns into my brain.

I wasn’t sure how to react. I knew I should’ve been

angry. Not just angry like getting a toe stubbed against a wall
or misplacing money mind you, but angry. My blood should be
boiling so hot that my skin should be crawling from fingertips
to my face with goose bumps. I shouldn’t be able to breathe
normally. My hand, that quivers when there’s no reason
normally, should be trembling with a fully developed sense of
rage from the adrenaline that’s pumping through my veins like
heroin. I shouldn’t be able to see straight. I should care.

I don’t feel a thing. I go through the motions of

emotions, but inside I don’t feel anything. Even with all the
hate fueled writing staring at me plainly, I simply can’t find
empathy anywhere inside of me to care. I’ve checked out on a
long vacation without any reference of when I’ll be back. I’m a
shell with a gooey filling – nothing more, nothing less.

“What’re you guys going to do?” I finally manage to

ask. When Angel gives me a dumbfounded look while
consoling her friend I realize that I’ve basically asked them to
accomplish time travel.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Angel reminds me,

surprisingly without a tone that matches the look of disgust and
resentment on her face. “Dom, you know that there’s nothing
we can do. You’ve heard about how these things never go

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solved; they never get handled. It’s like that note in your hand
doesn’t even exist to the rest of the world.”

Sniffling on my bed, slowly trying to regain her

composure, Janey asked the rest of the room what we were
thinking. “If God loves us all, then why do His followers hate
me?”

Morning After Pills

I pick my head up off the pillow and collide with a

freight train. This is how every Sunday has started since I
began drinking. My head feels swollen and the room always
feels too bright, even if it’s pouring rain and dark out. The
bourbon I burnt my throat with is now extinguishing itself in
my stomach after burning it like savages on a midnight raid to
an oppositions’ village. There is nothing left of me except for a
migraine drowned in emptiness. One Sunday I won’t wake up
at all. Until then things will never change.

I bring my laptop over to my bed (scanning the room

for a bottle of water which I eventually find rolled underneath
my desk) and open it. Without much thought or reason, I open
my word processor and start writing.

In the immortal words of Kurt Cobain, all in all is all

we are.

I guess lately I’ve been feeling that things don’t equate

past what they are. If that makes sense to you then God bless,
because I don’t know how to put it any less complicated. Well,

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I guess there is another way to put it: it is what it is. You can
call a hangover a bad morning or an awesome night, but either
way it’s still a hangover.

I feel like life is a lot like that. At the beginning, say the
first 18 years or so, you think you’ve got the world by the balls
and you’re able to do anything or anything. The idea of change
is more of a promise that will be kept if you strive for it. The
idea of limitations is foreign. And then, after those 18 years, it
becomes a slow deflowering of the fantasy that was
constructed. Promises you thought would be ensured through
hard work and ambition turn out to be unreachable because
things do not change. After awhile, all that we’re doing is
taking the same traits and qualities that make us who we are
and trying to rearrange them to sound like something else. Life
doesn’t change through our efforts, just as we don’t change
through life. The only thing that happens is we learn more
about ourselves and think that we can change if we don’t like
what we learn, but that’s just not the case. We can’t change
ourselves because then we wouldn’t be who we are.

Take me for example. I’m 20 or 21 years old, honestly

so hung over right now that I can’t even remember. I’m an
alcoholic. I abuse substances. I’d be able to love the people in
my life if I wasn’t consumed with my own self-hatred. I have
constant dreams of overdosing on Valium, a drug that is meant
to decrease anxiety, which to me only says that I will try so
hard to relax from the burden of self loathing that I’ll end up

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killing myself. That last part probably isn’t so far off – if you
take out how unlikely it is that I’ll die by being murdered, and
discount the fact that I’m fully capable of suicide, than the most
reasonable way for me to exit stage right is overdosing. And
that’s not going to change either. Before I started this
substance escapade I was still an alcoholic, I just never drank.
If I ever went to rehab for drug use, or to AA, that wouldn’t
change who I am, that’d just be denying a part of me. Sure, I
could show of my one-year coin, or talk about how many
months sober, but I will never be able to say I’m not an
alcoholic, or I’m not a drug addict. Nothing ever changes.

I wonder if I was ever capable of love. I used to love,

and I used to love with everything in my heart. Lately, however,
I’ve found that it’s hard to feel anything remotely related to
what the sensation of love should be. My apathy has become a
plop of quicksand that is slowly digesting my humanity. And
through this I find myself in internal debates over whether I
was faking the ability to love, or if I am faking the inability to
love. I wonder if I’ll ever cry again sometimes.

I wonder if God is like that too.

I should explain. Last night my gay friend (literally)

Janey came in my room, crying hysterically, with a note that
said ‘GOD HATES FAGS’ in unmistakably hateful letters. I
have a very good idea on who wrote this note, and who left it
for her, but it’s irrelevant because it’s only a name to you.
Anyway, this isn’t the first time someone has found a note like

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this. People have been constantly reminded why God hates

them by anonymous judgers. Some people have had God hate
them because they’re fags, others because they’re child
murderers, some because they’re scarlet whores…hell I even
remember finding a note under my door that said God hates me
because I was a Christ killer. This was a week after
announcing how I used to study the Judeo faith as well as
Christianity, so the note wasn’t just a coincidence.

And yet, according to every Christian I’ve met, God

loves us all. I’ve been told that it doesn’t matter what you’ve
done or who you are because it’s His nature to love. So why is
it that God loves us all, but God hates us individually? Were
we not made in His image, as I’ve grown up to believe? Even
more, why is it that the closest followers of God are the ones
who hate the most? If we’re made in God’s loving image, and
we can’t change who we are, then why would He or his
followers hate us?

The most viable solution I can think of is that either

there was never unconditional love to begin with, or the love
that does exist has been overshadowed by something that is
unnatural and forced by the consciousness of humanity. All in
all is all we are.

I wasn’t sure of what else to say, so for a while I just

sat in my bed, head still throbbing, looking over everything I’d
written. I wondered to myself that if by saying any of this I’d
be one step closer to liberating myself from the hate I have for

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everything in this world, but I couldn’t think of any reason why

I would be able to free myself from all this. It doesn’t matter to
me anymore. I’m sure I’ll die soon enough anyway.

I get out of bed and try to make some calls about going
to breakfast. I call Dante but he doesn’t answer. Tom has his
phone off. Jeff answers, but says that he is with Amanda and
that they were just going to stay in bed and watch a movie
since the weather was so awful. Michael is unsure if he can
meet up because, according to Cody, he is in a lot of shit with
the Disciples making a ‘drunk spectacle’ of himself Friday
night at Luke’s house. I tell Michael that my grandfather had
called me and wanted to know if Michael was done borrowing
the word spectacle because my grandfather’s generation
wanted it back. Michael called me a cocksucker, laughed, and
hung up. Angel and Janey are both still asleep when I call.

Another miraculous adventure to the cafeteria by

myself on a rainy Sunday.

I imagine my life in photographs. I put on day old

clothes and don’t bother to clean myself up or put my contacts
in. My breath is rotten, my hair is greasy, and my teeth feel
slimy. I’m fairly okay with all of that. I walk reluctantly across
the campus, the rain beating down on my body while my mind
is miles away. I swipe into the exhausted cafeteria with my
baggy, glazed eyes squinting for the coffee dispenser. I pour
myself a cup of black caffeinated coffee and drop into an
empty booth alone.

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And then, while my eyes stare down through the black

cup of hot water, someone sits down across from me.

“Hey stranger,” Andrea greets with a soft and happy

tone, sliding into the booth across from me. Her smile is
genuine, a rarity for anyone at Sunday brunch. I try to smile
back but my mouth feels chapped and fragmented across my
face. I am embarrassed at my own inability to give a pleasant
look without struggling.

“Good morning sugar magnolia,” my cracked and stale

mouth manages to form. “Fancy seeing you here. I figured that
with your own apartment Sunday brunch would be avoided in
favor of a home cooked breakfast.”

She laughs under her breath and drops her eyes to her
coffee cup that’s coiled up in her hands that seem to just barely
fit around it. “That apartment is an awkward place on Sunday
mornings.”

My eyebrows arch. I lean back into the booth and

motion for her to continue. “I’m all ears.”

“Well it’s awkward cooking for yourself and having a

random guy walk out of your roommates room in his boxers to
ask if he can ‘mooch on my cinnamon rolls’ if you know what I
mean.”

I nod. I have no idea what she means. “Fair enough.

It’s still probably better than finding your roommates boyfriend
in your kitchen with his dick hanging out though.”

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She laughs. “Compared to some of these sketch balls

that Trish brings home you’re not that bad. Penis and all.”

“So there’s been others?” I ask, smiling coyly.

I can see the discomfort start to run through her body

as she shifts her weight and averts her eyes. “I thought you
knew…I’m sorry.”

I shrug and take another sip of my coffee. “All things

considered, I really don’t care that much. I know that sounds
insane, but I’m not bothered by it at all. The relationship is
dead, has been for awhile.”

Andrea looks back up at me and nods slightly. “I’ve

been through things like that.”

There’s a moment of silence between us. I don’t think

much of it. She sits across me and sips her coffee in short
intervals while I slide my fingers against the mug. I can’t think
of much to say, so I remain quiet. I steal a quick glance at her
in between her sips of coffee and feel a quick jolt of surprise in
my chest, but the shock dissipates as quickly as it came before I
can understand why it happened. I try to shake off the
electricity.

“So tell me about yourself,” I finally spit out jaggedly.

“What do you want to know?” Andrea asks, looking

back at me normally. I feel a comfortable awkwardness
between us whenever one of us isn’t speaking. I feel
intimidated and eager. I find myself hanging on her every

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word. What the hell is going on in the silence? I don’t actually

like her, do I? I don’t even know her.

“Anything,” I instruct instinctively.

She laughs. “That’s the most generic answer you

could’ve given me. When people say they wanna hear anything
about someone, what they’re really saying is that they don’t
care or they’re too scared to really ask a question. You don’t
strike me as the timid kind, what with your cock hanging out in
my kitchen space two days ago, so ask me a question.”

A question from my interview with the newspaper

flashes into my head. Without hesitating, I ask her. “If you
could identify yourself with one musician who would it be and
why?”

She smiled. “That’s a good question…but I have no

idea.” She sips her coffee and shoots another smile my way. “I
really have no clue. I’ll have to get back to you on that one.
Who would you say? Let me guess…Kurt Cobain? Jerry
Garcia?”

“Warren Zevon,” I replied, pausing for a moment

before reluctantly admitting that yes, I probably would also
have said Kurt Cobain. “How’d you guess?”

“I’ve read your writing and, I don’t know, I guess all

things considered if Cobain had been a writer or you had been
a musician you would sound similar to each other. That, and
you like quoting Nirvana songs.”

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I nod and feel my lips form a small, honest smile on

my face. I begin to understand why my heart jolted, and why
there’s a thick atmosphere between us. “Why’d you say Jerry
Garcia?”

“You called me ‘sugar magnolia’ like 10 minutes ago

when I sat down. You act like I’ve never heard American
Beauty before.”

I raise my coffee mug up as if to make a toast. “I’m

incredibly impressed that you caught that.”

She puts up hers and clanks the two mugs together.

“My dad was a huge deadhead. He followed them everywhere.
I grew up listening to The Grateful Dead on vinyl and listening
to The Allman Brothers Band live on cassette. Most girls had
posters of teen pop queens in their bedroom, I rocked The
Clash and The Rolling Stones.”

“You’ve got awesome taste.”

“Thank you,” she’s beaming with happiness. “I

remember my dad took me to a used CD and record store when
I turned 12. I got Nevermind used for five bucks and listened to
it from start to finish three or four times that night in my
room.”

“Pick a time and a place, because you are definitely

someone I’d want to listen and talk about music with.”

She laughs. “You’re just like him. My dad, he used to

always have his friends over to sit around and listen to music

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with. Sometimes they’d get inspired to pick up my dads Fender

and try to strum a song out, but could never do it because none
of them knew how to play very well. What’re you doing later?”

I shrug. “Like later today later? Nothing, why?”

“Because I just downloaded Shine a Light by The

Rolling Stones and would love to hear what you have to say
about it.”

“Well then what’re we waiting for?”

We get up and put our coffee mugs on the conveyor

belt to be cleaned by the gnomes in the back and walk out,
talking about the nature of Keith Richards and how The
Rolling Stones will always be better than The Beatles. I learn
that she is a psychology major. She had her first boyfriend
when she was 14, her first kiss when she was 15, and her first
break up when she was 17. I am tempted to light up a cigarette
when we approach the door to her room, but I forget why I
would need to smoke.

The door swings open and standing in the kitchen

space, just as Andrea had predicted, was a random guy who I’d
never seen before with nothing except his boxers on. He looked
hung over and confused. His hair was sticking out in all the
wrong places on his head. His eyes had bags that looked
inflated with water, and his skin reminded me of sandpaper. He
stared as us blankly, his eyes squinting with pain.

“Do you live here?” He asks.

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“Wouldn’t it be weird if I didn’t?” Andrea asked,

irritation in her voice.

He shrugs. “Do you have Tylenol? My head is fucking

killing me.”

“Nope,” Andrea replied, walking towards the other end

of her apartment to her room. I stand in the door space, staring
at the confused mammal for a moment.

“Who’re you? Her boyfriend?”

“I’m just another brick in the wall,” I answer,

uninterested.

“What?”

“Nothing, forget it. Were you bangin’ Trish?”

The mammal chuckles, proud of himself. “Hell yeah. It

was awesome.”

“This must be a proud day for you.”

“Dom! You coming?” Andrea shouts from the other

room.

I walk by the mammal. “Nice meeting you.”

“Dominic?” A confused voice from inside Trish’s

room chirps. I don’t bother waiting for Trish to come out and
try to talk to me again, instead walking right past her room and
into Andrea’s, shutting the door once I’m in.

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“Lock it,” she instructs. “We don’t need that crazy slut
or her most recent boy toy coming in to try and make amends.”

I do as I’m told. “Why would you room with her

anyway? You strike me as someone who’s above rooming with
nymphomaniacs.”

Andrea rolls her eyes, clicking from window to

window on her computer screen. “My friend, who was
supposed to be living with me and the two other girls in this
apartment, got in trouble with Res-Life on drinking violations a
couple of times. She ended up in a freshman dorm as
punishment, and we ended up with Trish.”

“Seems like cruel and unusual punishment.”

“It is,” Andrea agrees, “but you dated the little

sociopath. What’s your excuse?”

The sex pops into mind, but I come to terms quickly

with the fact that I had no excuse. Looking back on it, I didn’t
have a clue as to why I would even bother dating someone like
Trish. Maybe I was just lonely. All things considered, Trish
was probably someone I met last year who put out quickly and
then wanted a relationship the morning after. Uninterested but
apathetic, I probably agreed. That sounds about right.

“I guess it was because I was an idiot,” I reply, finding

a seat and pulling up next to her. “I used to say that we were
happy at first, but looking back on it, I never even cared that

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much about her to begin with. I don’t know why I wasted my

time.”

Andrea nods as the opening guitar riff to Jumpin’ Jack

Flash vibrates out of her speakers. “You know, reading your
writing, I could tell that you don’t care about much.”

I didn’t have the energy to deny it. “I wouldn’t say I’m

so bad off.”

“I don’t think you’re that bad either,” she concurs.

“Actually, I think you’re more emotional than 90% of the
people on this campus, but you want to hide it. Your writing is
your way of talking about everything that bothers you or makes
you happy.”

“You’re going to be a pretty good psychologist if that

turns out to be true,” I compliment.

She smiles and lowers her eyes. “I’m only telling you
what I think.”

“What else do you think?” I encourage, curious about

how she perceives me.

“I think that you’re honest, even when the story is

fiction. I think you’ve gone through a lot in the past and you
probably blame yourself for it, because your main character is
always talking about his self-loathing. If I were to guess
though, I’d say that you know you’re a good person because
the characters in your stories are always good people who just
hate themselves for things beyond their control.”

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I nod, rendered completely speechless for a moment. I

don’t know if I should make a joke, compliment her, or call her
insane and leave. The fact of the matter is that I’m not bothered
by what she said or how she said it. I asked for her to say it,
and I should’ve anticipated anything to come my way. Hell I
did brace myself for her to say anything, no matter how far out
to left field it could have been. I guess that was the problem all
along though – I expected her to say anything except for
something right.

There’s a small silence between us. Andrea is focused

on listening to the music, but I can’t get into the song right
now. Something is blocking the music off from my brain, like a
clasp around a throat that makes swallowing hard. Instead of
being my main focus, the music is merely background noise
that’s muted by a tidal wave of thoughts streaming through my
head. I imagine myself trying to dig a grave for these thoughts
so I’ll never have to deal with them, but my effort is useless
because digging this grave like trying to dig through cement
with a plastic shovel. Andrea can read me like a book, and that
was just from things I put on paper. Given enough time with
her, she’ll learn everything about me that I’ve tried for years to
hide. All my fears, doubts, hopes, aspirations…everything I’ve
worked so hard on forgetting will be in plain sight for her. And
in a lot of ways, I want that. I want to know that there’s
someone out there that can understand my bullshit, even when I
fail to understand.

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There’s a rush of anxiety that shoots up from my

stomach into my throat and for a second I think I’m going to
explode like a volcano. The moment passes and I regain my
breath, but is replaced by the sudden need to go to the
bathroom. Chalk it up to cafeteria coffee.

“Can I use your pisser?” My cracking voice chimes

out.

Andrea laughs a little at the sound of my fragmented

voice, which causes me to nervously laugh too. “It’s better than
using my shower.”

I get up and walk over to the door, trying to open it

before remembering that I had locked it in order to keep a
sociopath ex girlfriend from coming in and talking my ear off
about things like closure. I unlock the door and make way for
the bathroom. The whole time I keep vigilant for Trish, like
trying to avoid a vicious dog lurking in a friend’s house. I make
it to the bathroom all right, quickly pissing and flushing the
toilet, but when I open the door Trish is standing in front of me
waiting. The startling sight of her causes me to gasp, but that
doesn’t keep her from bombarding me with questions almost
immediately.

“We need to talk. Why’d you break up with me?” Trish

demands.

I clutch my heart to try and slow it down. “Jesus Christ

you scared me. Don’t do that, it’s creepy.”

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“Dominic,” she says sternly, “I asked you a question.”

“Wrong,” I counter. “You asked me something you

know the answer to and you want me to give you the window
of conversation by answering it.”

She looks irritated. This brings me some level of

satisfaction that I’m ashamed to admit is there. “Did you learn
that from the Freudian slut that I live with?”

“Don’t start,” I protest indifferently, trying to sneak by

her and get back to Andrea’s room. “There’s no point in
fighting.”

Trish’s eyes engulf themselves in flames. I realize that

the only real reason she’s mad is because I’m hanging out with
Andrea, instead of giving her attention. “Do you even care why
I cheated on you? You must, we were dating for months.”

I shrug, causing my eyelids to collapse around my eyes

tiredly. “You think I care so much about why you did it, like I
need some sort of closure on our relationship. Truth be told,
our relationship has been closed for months. There was no
emotional attachment and, to be honest, if I hadn’t caught you
cheating on me I would’ve broken up with you anyways. There
was nothing left except for sex and fighting, so in a way I don’t
even blame you for cheating on me because you probably just
wanted someone who could give you that emotional fulfillment
that we could never get right. You can tell me I wasn’t there for
you, or that I wasn’t a good boyfriend, but that’s who I am and

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you know that. It works for me, and it’ll work for some people,
but for us it just didn’t work. I thought there was something
wrong with me because I didn’t care that you cheated, but to be
honest I think the only thing that was wrong with me was that I
didn’t have the common decency to break up with you months
ago when this stopped working.”

I walk past Trish without saying anything else. She

stands there, watching me go, her jaw hanging open and
pretending to be surprised. I believe that deep down, she
probably felt the exact same way. I don’t bother to look back
and see if Trish is watching me walk into Andrea’s room
because, honestly, I hope that she’s got the balls to turn around
and walk away too.

I walk in, lock the door, and sit back down.

“How was the pisser?” Andrea asks casually.

“Wouldn’t know, I used your shower.”

She laughs and pauses the music. “Listen, if what I

said just now was offensive I’m sorry. Ever since I was little
I’d always have the same problem of telling people too much
about whatever and I accidently end up offending them. You’re
a nice guy, and I don’t want to piss you off. No hard feelings?”

“None,” I shake my head and smile. I get up and walk

over to her, looking at her computer. She leans her head in next
to mine as I examine her iTunes, looking for some new music
to play. My focus stays on the computer for all of four sections

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because I feel her eyes glancing over to me and I can’t keep

mine from glancing back at her. I turn my head slightly and our
cheeks brush up against each other. She looks over to me and
smiles shyly. Everything in my head goes numb for a moment
and all I can hear is my heart beating inside my chest, the
nervous air coming in and out of my lungs. She turns her head
to face me and leans in so carefully that if I weren’t paying
close attention I would’ve missed it completely. I lean in with
her, close my eyes, and kiss.

Writer’s Hangover

When I get back to my room the thrill of the day has

worn off and the reality of the day starts to set in. It’s still
raining out. I still have work to do. There’s still a story for the
newspaper that needs to be written. Today has become just
another Sunday.

I unlock my door and walk into my room feeling

useless. I have no inspiration to write once my foot steps in the
door. Everything I’ve written beforehand as a backup seems
unfulfilling, and the ideas that I carry in my head when I’m not
by my computer have now camouflaged themselves to the
point where I don’t recognize them anymore. I’m the bottle of
whiskey that’s been emptied too soon. I served my purpose, but
I went about it too quickly and easily, my integrity and talent
pouring out of me before anyone had a chance to savoir it. Now
I’m hollow and useless. Years of alcohol abuse have taught me

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that the only thing you do with an empty bottle of whiskey is

discard it and buy a new one.

I sometimes wish I could be reincarnated as something

more then a piece of shit that will never make anything of
himself.

My eyes catch the wall where I’ve pegged my short

stories. Looking over them I feel nothing past inadequacy. I
come to terms with the fact that, no matter how much I try to
become a great writer, that magic touch is just simply not there.
I don’t know what I missed or if I contracted some useless trait
that weighs me down every time I try to put words on paper,
but the title of literary genius is not in the cards for me. I will
never be Charles Bukowski. I could never reach the level that
Bret Easton Ellis is on. Stephen King? Hunter S. Thompson?
Forget it.

But I am Dominic Alighieri. And as long as I have a

pen and a paper (or, in this day and age, a MacBook and a
bootlegged copy of Microsoft Word) that I can use to jot down
every dumb story, stupid theory, and ridiculous philosophy that
comes to mind I’m going to keep trying. If I don’t make it to
the plain that the greats reside on, I can take some security in
knowing that I’m leaving evidence that I existed.

A strange calm suddenly comes over me as I look at

my writing. My fingers curl into my palms and then stretch
themselves back out. My heart no longer beats, my brain no

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longer providing any sort of feedback to my body. The oxygen

that pumps into my blood stream is tainted with a heavy
sedative. I am no longer myself. I reach forward to the wall and
begin gently ripping off every ink-stained sheet I see on there
until there’s nothing left but an empty wall. I am renewed.

My head is a balloon that is tied to my body via my

spinal cord. I shut my eyes and try to relax. When they reopen I
am in front of my computer. My fingers are vigorously typing,
but for the first time I am reading the words as they appear on
the screen, rather than reciting them from mind and
imagination.

When I was in my senior year of high school I tried to

kill myself.

It wasn’t meant to be some sort of statement. I wasn’t

going to say ‘fuck you’ to the world over some girl, or some
low level of depression. I wanted to kill myself because I didn’t
see a point in living anymore. Like a stale relationship that’s
kept around long after it’s lifespan, I was just going through
the motions of the mundane, everyday style of life. I would
wake up, go through the day, and sleep. Everything I did just
became another filler until I reached death. I was just waiting
for the noose to drop.

Life changed for me when the girl I had a crush on my

freshman year got raped. Because it’s another story that only
builds up to this one, I won’t bother talking about it. All that

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needs to be said is that it changed my opinion on God forever

because, for the first time in my life, I started to believe that
there wasn’t a point to His love or His protection. Maybe he
does love us, sure, but what does that love mean if we’re
constantly suffering? Why are we allowed to continue living if
we’ve done such sinister acts? There’s only .01% of the
population who even have the potential to become the next
Hilter or Pol Pot. However, so many people will rape, kill,
abuse, lie, cheat…the list goes on for miles, and they’re all
allowed because of the gift of free will. How does God’s love
protect us then?

And as I thought about all this, during the months

leading to my attempt, I couldn’t find an answer. The next best
thing seemed to be death, and there I was just waiting for it like
a child on the Saturday before Easter.

So I decided to kill myself.

I didn’t have anything to make the noose from at the

time that wouldn’t look suspicious, so I grabbed my bathrobe
and said I was going to wash it downstairs. I took the white,
cotton rope from the robe and did my best to make a noose out
of it. I tied one end to the exposed wooden beams in the
basement, and looped the other end around my neck like a
collar.

I was standing on a plastic white chair with legs that

would bend easily, and while I was tying the noose the chair

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slipped and I lost my footing. The chair fell, but I stayed

hanging like a Christmas ornament on the ceiling. I struggled
for a little bit as the adrenaline kicked in, instinctively trying to
save myself. But I felt the gasps of air becoming further and
further out of reach. Life was surreal now. I didn’t have any
flashbacks as the basement turned red before fading to black.
There were no cinematic recreations of everything that I’d
done. I took comfort in the fact that I wouldn’t have to relive
my life.

And then, at the greatest moment of my life, I fell to the

ground. I landed partly on the plastic chair, it’s rigid impact
causing me to snap out of the hypnotic trance that had begun
devouring what was left of the life inside of me. Everything was
back to normal. Blood, oxygen, a pulse, brain activity –
completely uninterrupted. It was as if nothing had happened. I
wasn’t even sweating. When I touched my neck there weren’t
any bruises or burn marks from the rope.

There wasn’t a feeling of rebirth. I didn’t have a

revelation about God, or what I needed to do. I didn’t feel a
sense of purpose…although maybe I should have. When I
looked as the noose, I mean really examined it, there was no
way I should’ve fallen off of it. I was tied to it correctly, I had
done everything right. But the noose was untied now, just a
piece of rope that belonged to a bath towel tied to the ceiling,
hanging limply. The only logical explanation is that God had
intervened, just the once.

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In all honesty, that had pissed me off quite a bit. Why

me? What had I done to deserve his intervention? Why would
God choose to save some degenerate bastard, who didn’t
deserve the life he was given, instead of saving someone who
needed it? Why were so many left unprotected by Him when
nobody else was there to save them? What did I do to deserve
this?

It wasn’t until literally a few hours ago that I began to

figure it out. I felt like I had assembled the first few pieces to a
1000 piece puzzle. What was once a chaotic mess had begun to
take form into something much bigger then what I could see.

I’m not going to tell you this honest story just to lie to
you now and say that I’m here for a purpose, and that purpose
is to change the world somehow. It’s too cliché, and completely
bullshit. I won’t change the world. I’m too simple to do
something like that. But I’ve been impatient – I’ve expected
God to find me while I constantly stare Him down. It doesn’t
work that way. I found Him, but now I need to do something
with it. God doesn’t blindly give us His love like I assumed. He
loves us specifically, but we need to return that love in some
way. It doesn’t need to be heroic. I don’t know how to do it, but
I’m figuring it out. I know all the wrong ways, so I have a good
feeling that sooner or later I’ll stumble on the right one.

I sit at my desk for a while with a numb taste lingering

in my mouth. My brain is a sound wave in an empty room.
Nothing is processing, and for the first time in a while I feel a

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strange comfort from the stupidity of my own cogitation. I read

over my words once, uncertain of where they came from and
simply trying to absorb. The second time I read them over, my
eyes are instinctively hungrier, picking and choosing the bits of
knowledge lace my piece. The third time through leaves me
lost, the writing’s meaning eluded by my own inability to have
a more abstract mind. The words, then, do not liberate me; they
imprison me. I wonder if I will ever be able to exist through my
words, rather than jot them down on paper.

My phone violently vibrates on my desk. I watch it

tremble around, shifting itself slightly with each little shake.
Luke is calling me. Luke the rapist. Luke the not-so-bad-guy
that I’ve come to realize was just a victim of circumstances.
Luke who obviously wants something. Luke who falsely sees
me as the second coming of Hemingway. I think about letting
the call go to voicemail, but before the phone stops ringing I’ve
already pressed the phone against my ear.

“Hello?” I flatly say.

“Dom, it’s Luke,” Luke informs with an

uncharacteristically serious tone in his voice. Although his
words sound spacey and drugged, there’s a greater sense of
urgency. I listen carefully. “I want to show you something. Can
you meet up anytime soon or are you busy?”

I contemplate my options. I need to get my work done,

which requires me to be focused at my computer. I still need to

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submit something to the newspaper, which needs to be in by

midnight. That’s a problem because, even with this new story
in front of me, I don’t have anything of note to submit. If I go
out now, this could potentially bring something bad on me
because he may want to show me where he buys his cocaine.
Maybe he wants to show me his gun. Maybe he’s not the okay
guy I think he is.

“Sure,” I say automatically, semi-regretful as I hear the

syllable leave my mouth. “Where should I meet you?”

“Just start heading towards my house as soon as you

can. We’ll be outside.”

I thought about questioning who made up the ‘we’

Luke was referring to, but I hang up before asking. Like a robot
I walk over to my closet, put on my black hoodie, and leave the
dorm. Looks like I’ll be writing late again tonight. Typical
Sunday.

I feel hollow. Something lodged inside my throat tears

apart my insides and leaves me with nothing but skin and
bones. I’m simply not human anymore. Even if I spend every
waking moment trying to grace the pages with insightful
thoughts and well-constructed stories, in the end everything
falls to shit. I feel like crying as I descend the stairs of my dorm
because, for the first time in a long time, I have no idea what
I’m doing anymore. I feel lost, susceptible to fade to darkness
at any given moment. I am an enigma that will deteriorate with

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time. The God who put me on this earth had planned for that,
and maybe He had plans for me to help the time pass while I
wait. I am unable to fulfill them. There is no purpose to me. All
the stories and persuasion is nothing to me at the end of the
day. If there is something out there for me, I can’t find it.

By the time I’ve made it outside specs of water are

running down the sides of my cheeks. I do not know why. My
tears seem selfish and fake, but I cry anyway. I pull my hood
over my head, let the wind cut through my soulless existence,
and cry. Tears do not justify my humanity, they only prove it.
But if I’m human, than what’s next? Join the herds in pseudo-
pursuit of a higher authority’s approval while dehumanizing
those who don’t fit the profile? Do I forget the existence of
God and try to forget Him like I forget how natural my body
inhales and exhales?

God is watching over us. Where do we go now?

When I reach the hauntingly silent and dark streets off

campus that my tears have finally ceased. The neighborhood
has settled from the weekend. Empty beer cans and plastic cups
with Bud Light written on them are littered throughout the
sides of the road. For the past 48 hours the streets had been a
festive place where people were out laughing and having a
good time. Now that the excitement has ended, there’s a
depressing taste that the air brings.

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Before I can find Luke’s house along one of the side

streets I spot him and another hooded figure standing in the
middle of the street, both of them looking in my direction.
Luke puts up an arm and waves, and I reply by waving back
and jogging over. Even up close I can’t tell who the other
person is, so I wait for formalities from Luke.

“You ready?” Luke apathetically asks, skipping

introductions.

“Ready for what?” I question.

A curious smile draws over his face and he pulls out a

silver gun from the waistline of his pants. Jesus Christ, I’m
about to go on a drug deal. “This will keep us safe for where
we’re going. There’s been a lot of stabbings in this area
recently.”

“Where are we going?” I demand, this time with a

firmer tone. “Is this another drug thing?”

Luke raises an eyebrow. “What’re you talking about?

You’re crazy Dom. I don’t use this gun for drugs.”

I don’t bother bringing up Friday night because either

he doesn’t remember saying that he uses the gun for drug deals,
or he was lying. Or maybe he’s lying right now. All are within
the realm of possibility.

“Don’t worry about it,” the stranger next to Luke says

without much reassurance in his voice. “Where we’re going is
totally safe. Just getting there and back again isn’t. We’ve

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almost been stabbed quite a few times, and we got mugged

another time. The gun is only for protection because the people
in this area carry either knives or guns, but they’re not going to
bring a knife to a gun fight and people don’t want to go around
shooting off guns.”

“Is it loaded?”

“Wouldn’t be very useful if it wasn’t.” The boy

extends his hand out. “I’m Jeremy by the way. I’ve seen you
around the dorm. You hang out with Michael, right? The
Disciple?”

Suddenly his facial features set into place and I

recognize Jeremy from all the times I’ve bumped into him. He
looks different tonight…happier, if that’s logical.
“Yeah…good to meet you man.”

“All right,” Luke says, putting the gun back into his
jeans and throwing his gray, torn up poncho over it. “let’s get
going. We’re going to be late. Keep your hood on and your
head low, try not to draw too much attention to yourself.”

I do as I’m told. There’s no point in arguing or running

back. If I leave now I’ll always have to watch over my shoulder
for Luke. Or, more importantly, he will have been taking me
somewhere important and I would’ve blown this off because of
paranoia. I try to weigh out the consequences. The whole time
my head stays low, staring at Jeremy’s feet in front of me. I
want to ask Jeremy why he was kicked out of the Disciples. In

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fact, the question is burning at me. But I can’t bring myself to

verbalize anything because I’m being too cautious. Every
shadow that dances in the distance steals my glance. Every gust
of wind causes me to look over my shoulder just to make sure
nobody is following. If someone were to try and rob me right
now I’d be a sitting duck.

As we draw closer to where Jeremy and Luke are

taking me they become more talkative. Conversation opens up
between the two of them. Most of the talking is about people
I’d never heard of before, with the two of them discussing
responsibilities over matters that didn’t relate to me. I keep
quiet and numb. We begin to approach a shack in the distance
that has dim lights glowing through the windows like eyes in
the dark. There was a humble and respectful silence emanating
from the shack. Outside of the old building, a few people in
torn up clothes and beat up hats stand to smoke cigarettes.
They talk quietly amongst themselves. As I am observing,
Luke drops back in his pace to talk to me.

“What I’m taking you to right now is a condemned

building that the homeless people in the area have converted
into a church,” he began. “I found this place one day while I
was out on a walk. Two of the homeless people invited me to
come back that night for a service. I did, and it changed my
perspective on religion entirely. I brought Jeremy, who had
been a friend of mine since we were young, since he was in the
Disciples and had the influence to get more help for these

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people. Evidently, he brought the idea to Cody, who objected

with the reasoning that since it wasn’t part of our college, it
wasn’t part of our problem. Jeremy quit after arguing with him
for an hour or so, but Cody started the rumor that Jeremy had
been kicked out.”

I have so many questions I’m not sure where to begin.

Do I ask to continue with the story, explain more, or ask Luke
why he decided to bring me here? “Why wouldn’t Cody want
to help these people out? I thought that was his responsibility
as a Catholic?”

“Helping the least of these, yeah,” Luke acknowledges.

“But just because he’s part of a club that says he’s a man of the
Gospel doesn’t mean he is one. Cody is selfish in his
motivations, believing the notion that it’s better to destroy
those opposing rather than to help them understand. If you
don’t fit the profile, you don’t belong in the status quo, or some
shit like that.”

“So why am I here?” I asks.

Luke places a firm hand on my back and opens the

door to the shack for me. “Because you need this. I can tell that
from your writing – everyone can.”

Luke, Jeremy, and I all take a seat on a rusted park

bench that sat crooked on the ground. A handful of people were
already scattered about, with others filing in quicker and
quicker by the minute. I sit and observe, too shy to try and ask

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anything else to Jeremy or Luke. I’m completely out of my

element.

The service starts after a few minutes past eternity.

Everyone is silent, listening to the man in the front speak. His
voice is rugged and starved, but somehow is sprinkled with
enthusiasm and perked with a heartfelt love. The homeless
chime in their grateful amen’s and prayers. The people who
have nothing but their lives are here praying, thanking God for
just that. I should be moved. I’m not. This does not strike me in
the least. If anything, it’s making me anxious. After about 20
minutes into the service I feel so hot and claustrophobic that if
I don’t get out soon I’ll pass out. They are all grateful for God.
Not one person is bitter, or angry, or looking for vengeance.
They have all suffered. They don’t have a proper place of
worship. And yet they all say their amen’s with such an honest
and heartfelt warmth that I become dizzy. I get up and excuse
myself.

My instinct is to throw up as soon as my front foot hits

the outside pavement of the converted shack. I am nauseated by
something. What could make me sick? Is it the love for the
highest being emanating from the lowest? Have I wandered so
far from who I used to be that I am repealed by any form of
religion? What the hell happened to me?

“Need a smoke?”

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I am not alone outside. There is a tall, dirty looking

man with gruff facial hair outside with me smoking a cigarette.
His outstretched arm is draped is beaten up and torn jackets
that aren’t any cleaner than he is. I can smell the cold, rainy
nights fumigate off of him like an air freshener that was made
in a toxic chemical factory. At the end of his arm is an open
pack of cigarettes with three or four clumped together at the
edge of the carton, as well as a lighter. I shouldn’t be smoking
those. I take one anyway, something I immediately regret. A
privileged, spoiled bastard taking from the homeless. Maybe I
should just wander to hell.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. I share what I can.”

“Must be rough,” I hear my voice echo as the cigarette

quivers as I fumble with the lighter. It takes six or seven flicks
before I’m able to hold a flame, and then another minute for me
to light the cigarette because my lips are shaking so badly.

“It’s not so bad,” he says. “We’ll all die eventually, but

I think I can rest a little easier knowing that I’ve helped out
someone while I was here. Even if it meant just offering them
something I could spare.”

I take a long drag but I still shake like a patient with

Parkinson’s. “Even sharing with a guy like me?”

“What makes you think a guy like you so different

from the rest of the guys?”

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I didn’t have an answer. Strip away everything I have

and what am I?

“You know what I do when I’m out here?” he asks

me, his voice relaxed and tainted with purity.

“Smoke cigarettes?” I answer half-heartedly.

He gives out a thunderous laugh. “Yes, but that wasn’t

what I was thinking. No, I like to come out here and look at the
sky. There’s something reassuring about knowing that God is
watching over us.”

Not this again. I try to think up something new to say.

I don’t want to call him crazy. I don’t want to make him mad
about what he said. What if he believes those words? Fuck,
what if he’s right? Then what? I might as well ask him while I
have him here.

“What makes you think God is watching over us?”

Another laugh. Puff. Exhale. Smile. “What makes you

think He’s not?”

I try to choose my words carefully. The end result is

this: “Shit happens.”

“Of course shit happens. Does that mean He turns a

blind eye, or isn’t even there.”

“So why does it happen?” I ask, coming off more

demanding than I’d like. He doesn’t notice.

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“Because it has to happen if it’s going to be for a

reason.”

“What if the world is nothing but random chaos?” I

hear myself blurt out before realizing that I’m only trying to
antagonize him. This does not stop me from continuing. “What
if He’s not watching over us, and the world is just some
random occurrence? There could be no reason behind anything
at all.”

Puff. Exhale. Laugh. Smile. “I’ve heard a lot of people

say things like that. They claim they believe it too, probably
because of some bad thing that happened to them in the past.
They find it easier to blame God for what happened and write
Him off altogether rather than confronting it and accepting it as
a part of something better. But let me ask you, do you find any
solace at all in the idea that whatever terrible things happened
in the past were just random events that happen simply because
of life?”

I think about watching that girl get raped. I remember

how I survived my own suicide attempt. I realize that so many
people who’ve been smarter and safer than I have were the
ones who ended up getting hurt while I recklessly abused
myself, numb to the idea of vulnerability. At the snap of a
finger, nothing seems less comforting than the idea of
everything happening without a reason.

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I take a long drag and flick the cigarette, holding the

cancer in my lungs as long as possible. If I die before I can
exhale, then at least I’ve accomplished something from that
cigarette. “You’re pretty smart.”

He pulls the cigarette from his lips and puts the

burning end out with his fingers before placing the decayed
remains in his pocket. “What makes you think I wouldn’t be?”

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” I defend. “All I meant

was that you really seem to have taken the time to think these
things through."

“I got a lot of free time. I’ve seen people with pieces of

paper that say they’re genius’. Those pieces of paper say
‘Harvard’ and ‘Brown’ and ‘Yale’ and they think it gives them
knowledge. I’m not saying I’m any smarter than them, but I’m
not any dumber either. I just think about what I’m told rather
than simply assuming something to be true or false.”

I hate the words that come out of my mouth. “Well you

changed my mind about some things, I can tell you that right
now.”

He laughs and pulls out another cigarette. “Come on

now, don’t put that on me. If your mind was changed that
easily either you don’t believe me or you never believed
yourself before. So many people assume that life changes
happen in an instant, but they don’t. You can’t just turn and
starts walking down a path, thinking that because you’ve taken

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a couple steps you’re already a new person. You have to live in

it, and experience it. Change takes time.”

“So how’d you end up figuring all this out?” I ask,

trying not to sound humbled. I still refuse to be shown up.

“I’m just playing a role,” he replies. “If all the worlds a

stage, and the people in it are but players, then you have two
choices. You can either play the role you’re meant to play, or
you’re going to try and be someone you’re not. That’s one of
my biggest issues with religion, almost every diehard religious
nut thinks that there’s only one way to do things, and that’s
their way. That doesn’t make it the right way, but if that’s what
they do then they assume that must be what everyone should
do. The world doesn’t work that way though, and once we’re
able to embrace all types of followers…well, that will be a
very special time for us as God’s children.”

If I were to laugh, it would only be out of fear.

Cautiously, moving like I’m afraid of angering a tiger,

I remove my hoodie from my body. I can feel the cold air bite
into my flesh as soon as the comforting warmth from the
hoodie is elevated from my body, but I don’t care. My arm
heavy, I extend the balled up sweatshirt out to the homeless
man, shivering as I do.

He gives me a confused look, raising his eyebrow

while his cigarette dangles from his lips. “What are you
doing?”

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“Take this,” I tell him humbly. “It’s cold out. This will
keep you warm. Take this.”

He chuckles. “You look like you need that more than I

do.”

Through my quaking shoulders, I’m able to perform a

nonchalant shrug. “It’s cold. I share what I can. You probably
know someone who needs this.”

The homeless man extends his paws and takes the

hoodie from me. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

“All right.”

I feel a firm slap on my shoulder that makes my skin

jump off my back and whirls my body around instinctively.
Luke, with his baggy eyes and innocent half-smile, is looking
at me with bemusement. “How you doing, Dom? You’ve been
gone for almost the entire service. Didn’t you have a hoodie
on?”

I glance over in the direction of the homeless man I

was talking to, but he’s already walking away. I decide not to
bother telling Luke about him because, plain and simple, there
isn’t a point.

“I’m fine,” I reply with short breath. “No, no I didn’t.”

Jeremy is talking with a few homeless people, his

hands and his mouth moving rapidly. I have never seen him

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like this before. If someone had told me he would be this kind

of person I wouldn’t have believed it without seeing it for
myself.

“Let’s start heading back before it gets too late. You

don’t want to see what this place is like when it gets late.”

Back to reality, but what do I do now?

Hell Week

In college, there are a few given weeks that are planned

to be stressful. Midterms and finals are the two big ones that
come to mind, but there are also little pockets throughout the
semester that are bad for any number of reasons; massive
amounts of homework, projects, regularly scheduled tests, or
just a lot of student organization activities that collide at the
same time. The prime example of these, however, is when a
perfect storm of problems, emotions, and conflicts occur and
destroy everything in the matter of just one short week. These
weeks happen to everyone, and it’s a part of growing up, but
that doesn’t make surviving any easier.

Monday was the start of the week, and it began like

any other. The weekend still lingered heavily in the spirits of
many, which weighed down the campus’ tolerance for
academia. Alcohol withdrawal makes a home out of these
kinds of people, myself included. Nonetheless, I always found
Monday classes to be easier to attend because waking up was
easier knowing that I would just have to do the same thing

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again the next day, and the day after that, and still the day after
that. Friday was my struggle, but Mondays were never a
problem.

Except for this Monday.

This Monday was the worst one I’ve had since I was in
high school. I felt like I was on the edge of a razor and strung
out on cocaine. At any minute I was susceptible to punch
someone who looked at me the wrong way. I felt anxious. I
thought about asking the kid down the hall with the Klonopin
prescription to sell me a few of his pills, since I hear they do
wonders for anxiety. Ultimately I decided against the idea,
since I’ve finally reached a point where I can be sober for a few
hours and not freak out. I don’t need to start substituting
alcohol with pharmaceuticals.

But that may not have been such a bad idea, given how
awful the day was going. I had to frantically email my editors
whatever story I could find with a lengthy apology note for
being tardy. Every minute in class went by like a year, and
something in the air made me sick with vomit. My leg
wouldn’t stop shaking. I was about to drown myself because of
all the sweat that was bleeding from my skull. I wanted to die.

The weird thing is, I knew the lack of alcohol wasn’t to

blame. I’ve come down from binges worse than the one I’ve
been one and still been okay. Or rather, I’ve never been so bad
in my aftermath that I thought I was going to die. The thing

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that did this to me, the reason I’m so high strung today, is
because of what had happened to me yesterday at the shack of
a church. Something had been riled up inside of me, and I did
not know how to respond to it. I am a lost child in a department
store, looking desperately for a familiar face, but still scared to
move for fear of further losing myself.

I make it to the cafeteria for lunch feeling like I’m in a

foreign country. Everything that felt familiar to me is new and
intimidating. The cafeteria lines are awkward and unsettling to
stand in. I feel vulnerable waiting for a drink at the fountain
machines. Relief flows over me when I spot Dante, Tom, Jeff,
and Michael sitting at a booth, but the relief is short-lived and
is replaced by the flooding tension felt as I sit down at the
booth with them. Uneasiness and edginess radiate from Jeff,
who’s clenching his eating utensils like they’re weapons.
Michael, on the other hand, looks completely opposite of Jeff.
A sedated, bland expression drapes over his face, while his
insecure eyes lazily stay dropped to the half eaten food in front
of him. Already I know something is wrong.

I try to offer as neutral of a greeting as possible. “Hey

guys, what’s going on?”

Jeff snarls while his head averts to the window.

Michael glances up cautiously, once again like a timid animal,
before reverting back to the table. Both Dante and Tom,
completely aware but unaffiliated by their tension, return
pleasantries.

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“Finally done with classes for the day,” Tom answers

first. “Thinking about going back, taking a nap, maybe
listening to some Soundgarden. Whatever’s good for the day is
good for me.”

“Must be nice,” Jeff mumbles under his breath, still

looking out the window.

“I’m just on a break in between classes,” Dante says,

avoiding Jeff’s comment altogether. “Although I’m thinking
about skipping my math class and running into the city to take
care of a few things.”

“How many classes do you get to miss before it affects

your grade?” I ask.

“No attendance policy,” Dante replies, although he’s

catching on to the superficial conversation as quickly as I’m
becoming aware of it’s existence. We both want to know
what’s going on with Jeff. Tom, oddly, seems completely
uninflected by any of Jeff’s passive aggressive comments.
Either he’s not aware of them, or he doesn’t care. Tom’s lucky
either way.

“What’s going on with you over there?” I ask Michael,

trying to coax him out of his shyness.

He glances up and me and laughs under his breath

before dropping his eyes back down. “It doesn’t matter
anymore. None of it matters.”

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I catch eyes with Dante again, and we nonverbally

agree that there is something unusual going on. Jeff just doesn’t
get angry. Michael is never this withdrawn and depressed.
Something must’ve happened.

I decide to change the subject. “You guys want to hear

a crazy story?” I vainly ask, already knowing that I’m going to
tell them regardless of what they. Dante seems interested. Jeff
sneers and stabs at his food. Michael gives a soul-heavy sigh.
Tom nods while keeping his focus on a cluster of three or four
girls eating across the cafeteria with mini skirts and tight shirts.

“So the other night Luke decides to call me up. He tells

me that he has something to show me, and he can’t tell me
what it is over the phone. Immediately I start getting sketched
out, but I decide to go anyways. So I start walking to his house
and I see him outside on the street with that weird kid from our
dorm who always looks like he’s going to shoot up the school
at any moment; turns out his name is Jeremy. Michael, I think
you mentioned that he was in the Disciples before?”

Michael, upon hearing this, nods and gives an even

heavier sigh. I feel that at any moment he may start to cry. I
continue with my story.

“Anyways, when I meet up with the two of them I ask

them where we’re going but neither of them want to tell me.
Luke shows me his gun that he uses for protection, and says
that we’re going somewhere dangerous. I immediately start to

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think that it’s a drug deal, and become completely nervous and
want to leave. Turns out that it wasn’t a drug deal. Luke has
found this church that the homeless people in the area built out
of a shack, and him and this kid Jeremy go there every
weekend to pray and help out. I was completely baffled.”

“Let me guess,” Jeff interrupts with an anger-induced

tone. “You went to the church and found God. Your whole
perspective on life changed. You’re suddenly a new person.
You’re a born again Christian maybe. You’re going to devout
your life to missionary work and saving the world, one
homeless crack addict at a time.”

I’m so taken aback that I don’t know if I should ask

Jeff what’s wrong, defend myself, or just punch him in the
mouth. Before I can react, he violently shoves his plate off the
side of the booth, causing a loud crash to be heard throughout
the cafeteria. The cafeteria is suddenly so quiet that you could
hear a pin drop. Jeff looks at me with a passionate rage. I might
as well have been the person who told him that his parents
were dead and I killed them.

As soon as the conversation cautiously resumes in the

cafeteria, Jeff’s verbal assault restarts. “You act like problems
can be solved in a heartbeat, but you’re wrong. They can’t.
You can’t solve anything by just sitting in a seat for a couple
hours once a week. You need to take action and do something.
I’m sick of all the idiots who think that they can get away with
everything by perching themselves in a holy house, just like

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I’m sick of the people who think that they can solve the
world’s problems by destroying half of it.” His glare, finally,
turns off of me and onto Michael. Michael continues to numbly
stare at the table. “People hide behind their bibles as if it
justifies their actions. In the end, it’s the fucking words in that
bible that we’re going to have to answer for.”

Jeff violently shoves his way out of the booth and

storms off, catching a few confused glances from the people he
passes by. I am completely stunned and confused by what has
just happened. And I have absolutely no idea how to begin
fixing it.
“That was weird,” Dante finally says. “I wonder what
the hell that was about?”

“Did you ever think that maybe he was right?” Michael

snaps, emerging suddenly from the trance that the table held
over him. “What if Jeff actually knew what he was talking
about, and rather than considering his opinion we all just blew
him off?”

“What’s your opinion then?” Dante replies, starting to

show flares of aggression in his tone. “Why don’t you
elaborate, since you’re some theological crusader these days?”

Michael’s hand clenches into a frustrated fist. “And

just what the hell does that mean?”

Dante conjures a look of astonishment. “What does it

mean? You know exactly what it means! Ever since you joined

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the Disciples you’ve become nothing more than a ghost around

us. And you carry yourself like you’re the second coming of
Jesus Christ. I know for a fact that those douche bags you
choose to associate yourself with are out to destroy this campus
for not fitting a Catholic-perfect mold, and if I could prove it
you’d bet your ass that I’d be out to destroy them in a
heartbeat. I would go at them the way that they’ve gone at
everyone else who they see as less than them – relentlessly and
unmercifully. Now what confuses me is that you’re smarter
than half the dickheads that composite that group, but you
choose to associate with their stupidity rather than change it. So
you tell me, being the wunderkind of human thought, what the
hell did you mean by what you just said?”

Using every bit of strength left in his soul-torn body to

hold back tears, Michael begins speaking slowly and shaky.
“You want to destroy the Disciples? You really think you can
do that? Because I’d be more than willing to help you at this
point.”

Michael, like Jeff, gets up and storms off. Unlike his

predecessor, Michael does his best to keep his dignity together
and hold back tears rather than violence as he leaves.

Once he’s out of earshot, Tom finally begins to speak.

“That was insane.”

“The food sucks today,” Dante begins piling used

napkins and silverware on top of his plate. “They both deserved

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to hear it. I’m sick of their shit. They’ve been like that all
lunch.”

“Don’t blame Jeff too much,” Tom tries to defend. “I

know he acted out of line, but he has his reasons.”

“Yeah?” Dante snorts. “Can you justify his actions?”

“I can guess them,” Tom offers, his voice even and

collected. “His girlfriend, Amanda, is roommates with a girl I
hooked up with over the weekend. Cute girl, nice rack. Nothing
really there personality wise, but they can’t all be winners.”

“Go on with the story,” I encourage, uninterested in

hearing about how Tom’s latest sexual escapade went.

“Well, we were talking during the morning after and

while we were Amanda had thrown up. I thought it was
sickness because of drinking, but the roommate reminded me
that Amanda doesn’t drink, and she hasn’t for a couple weeks
now. At first I brushed it off, but then I saw a used pregnancy
test in the bathroom trash can,” Tom leans over the table and
close to us before continuing, “and the test was positive.
Whoever had taken it was pregnant.”

Dante and I looked at each other, eyes wide and

shocked. We were completely sucker-punched by Tom’s
information. A million questions of concern and intrigue came
rushing to mind, but I did my best to let them be and not dig
any deeper in business that doesn’t concern me.

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Fortunately, Tom continued talking anyway. “When I

asked Amanda’s roommate what was up, she starts telling me
all this crazy stuff about how Amanda realized she was
pregnant and it was definitely Jeff’s child. They weren’t sure
what they were going to do since they were exploring options.
Jeff was freaking out and considering about dropping out,
getting a full time job and supporting Amanda and their
newborn, but at the same time he was trying to suggest
abortion to Amanda. Amanda wouldn’t want to hear about
abortion because she was Catholic, but at the same time she
didn’t know what to do and would be sent into hysterics.”

“We shouldn’t be talking about this,” I whisper without

any heart in my voice whatsoever. As much as I knew we
shouldn’t be discussing such a topic about one of our best
friends, I also knew that my interest in this story was so thick
and full that I was about to burst at the seams with curiousity.

Tom takes a glance at his cell phone. “I think I’ve said

too much,” he uncaringly confesses, sliding out of the booth.
“Listen, don’t tell anyone I told you this okay? The girl made
me swear I wouldn’t tell anyone, but obviously I’m going to
tell you guys because Jeff will probably tell us at some point
anyways.”

“So this is all from Amanda’s roommate?” Dante asks.

“You haven’t heard anything definite from Jeff or from
Amanda?”

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Tom nods, picking up his dirty plate. “That is correct.”

Dante, uncertain, nods in approval before nudging me

to scoot out of the seat. No longer bearing any sort of appetite,
I decide to leave as well.

“I’m going to head to the student center, take care of a

few things. I’m thinking about going to the bookstore. Do
either of your want to come?” Dante offers.

I suddenly remember I not longer have a hoodie since I

gave it to the homeless person last night. “Yeah,” I say. “Sure.
I need a new hoodie anyways.”

I’m gonna head back too my room and take that nap
I’ve been needing,” Tom answers. “But I’ll hit you guys up
later.”

We leave the cafeteria and depart from Tom. Dante

and I began walking to the student center, both of us in utter
silence and discomfort over everything that’s happened. You
could stick a knife and let it hang from the thick tension that
surrounds us. Jeff is on our minds, and there’s absolutely
nothing we can do or say to help him right now because he
doesn’t want to be helped.

When Dante speaks, I am again surprised by the turn of

events he brings up. “What happened with Jeff…that doesn’t
explain Michael’s behavior.”

“Huh?”

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“Michael, the way he was acting today,” Dante points

out. “He wouldn’t have known about Jeff because only Jeff,
Amanda, and apparently Amanda’s roommate and Tom know.
Whatever is bothering Michael, it doesn’t have anything to do
with Jeff.”

“Well both him and Amanda are in the Disciples,

maybe they found out?” I suggest. “That could explain the
tension between the Jeff and Michael.”

“Maybe,” Dante yields, although noticeably unsatisfied

with the idea. “But did you hear some of the things he said?
The way he talked about the Disciples? He knows that
something is going on, and he knows that whatever is going to
happen could severely change things for a lot of people if the
situation plays out a certain way.”

“Well then we have to figure out what it is that he

might be talking about, and how that would affect the
Disciples.”

Dante’s nod of agreement, although genuine, is mostly

because of his concern. “Whatever’s going to happen, it can’t
be good.”

My phone begins to vibrate as we reach the student

center. Andrea is texting me, saying hello and asking me how
everything is going today. I text back the best answer I can
think of, ‘things have never been so swell’.

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I have never been so happy to see Tuesday morning

roll around in my life. I’m not a particularly strong fan of
Tuesdays, Mondays, Wednesdays, or pretty much any day of
the week. The fact that Tuesday was here, however, meant that
Monday was finally over, and I could put all the bullshit from
the previous day to bed. Tuesday would be a normal day after
Monday’s hell raising catastrophe at lunch.

I’m still amazed at how wrong I can be at times,

especially on topics like this. If I had known better, I would
have known that everything from Monday would have been
perpetuated by a thousand. That Monday was a paradise
compared to the steaming pile of shit that Tuesday is.

The day began exceptionally okay. I didn’t have to

wait to use a shower in the bathroom, and I was on time to
class. I had been given a few Nutri-Grain bars for breakfast
from Andrea when she came by to visit on Monday night
because I had told her about how much of a pain it was to have
class non stop from ten in the morning to one in the afternoon
without having a chance to eat. Class went smoothly, and when
I was called on at random I was able to provide a somewhat
logic-based answer without sounding like an idiot who didn’t
do the reading (I did not do the reading because I never do the
reading). Even for a day in mid November, it wasn’t that cold
out, and I was able to get away with wearing the new hoodie I
had purchased from the bookstore without feeling too cold or
hot. Things were going smoothly today.

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But, as I should’ve known, the good day wouldn’t stay

that way. On my way to my 11:15 class, Angel catches me at
mid-campus. Her voice is frantic and rapid, with strong levels
of fear. When she speaks her words are in short, anxious bursts.
After several minutes I am finally able to calm her down.

Her eyes are sweltering. “Where the hell have you

been? I’ve been trying to call you since last night!”

I suddenly realize my cell phone is missing. I may have

lost the phone in my room sometime last night while Andrea
was over. “I lost it I guess. Why, what’s going on? Is
everything okay?”

Angel shoves me, but not out of anger. “No! Nothing is

okay! Don’t you realize that?”

“Apparently not,” I confess. “What happened?”

“Janey is in the Goddamn hospital right now! Did you

not hear about this?”

I am five and have just stuck my finger in an electric

socket. I cannot pull it out. “What? What the fuck are you
talking about? How did this happen? When?”

“Last night!” Angel stammers with frustration. “It

happened last night! On fucking campus! She was walking
back from the library at night after a meeting she was in got out
and three guys jumped her and beat her so bad that she had to
go to the hospital!”

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“Did they figure out who the guys were?” I demanded,

each millisecond feeling like hours.

“No,” Angel disappointedly answered. “The official

report is that whoever did this probably doesn’t go to school
here. They think that it’s a bunch of guys from the community
who came on to campus to try and mug students who wouldn’t
be able to defend themselves, since this has happened in the
past.”

“Was she able to identify them?”

There is a pause in Angel’s voice. I can see her slowly

begin to sober from her state of angst. “Yes,” she begins. “But
that’s what bothers me the most about it. The people she
identified don’t match the same descriptions as the people
who’ve been described for the muggings. Janey’s description
sounded more like students from this campus than townies.”

I raise my eyebrow. I can see Angel verbally holding

something inside of her. “So what aren’t you telling me?”

Angel rubs her eyes. People are starting to head into

buildings and get ready for class. I already know I’m going to
miss my 11:15, and probably my noon class as well. “We can’t
talk about this for too long because I don’t want anything going
around. Do you remember that note that Janey got the other
night?”

“Distinctly.”

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“Well that wasn’t at random. Janey is a lesbian, and is

very proud of it. You may not know it from the surface, but
there is quite the gay population on campus. But they have to
keep themselves quiet because of certain groups with ideals
that conflict with those that Janey and other members of the
homosexual community might have. But Janey didn’t want to
take anything sitting down. She decided to get a group together
and attempt to form an underground Gay-Straight Alliance.
This group, which may or may not be officially recognized by
the school, would help promote gay awareness and pride
throughout campus.”

I stop Angel right there. If she wants to keep her

explanation as short and discrete as possible, then I don’t need
to hear anything else. I only have one question for her. “Who
do you think is responsible, or know who is responsible for
this?”

Her dumbfounded look answers my question for me. A

flashback of yesterday’s argument between Dante and Michael
comes to mind. Things are starting to piece together now. But I
still know only third-party facts and assumptions. Without any
sort of evidence, I have nothing. I know exactly the person I
have to talk to in order to get the information I want.

Without wasting time I head back to the dorm and

charge directly to Michael’s room. The door is shut completely.
I jiggle the handle, hoping that he is inside or he is out to class
and forgot to lock the door. Either way, I want answers. He

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must have something in there that will lead me in the right

direction. His words from lunch keep replaying in my mind.

You want to destroy the Disciples? Because I can help

you with that.

We would need all the help we could get if my

suspicions are correct. But his door is locked. I slam my fist
into the wooden barrier, so loud and angry that if he were
asleep he would instantly snap out of his slumber and answer
the fucking door. But I get no such luck, and the door I was
expecting to have open up for me is sealed shut, with
everything I need just beyond the four inch wooden block on
hinges.

Damn it, what the hell do you know Michael? Why

were you defending the Disciples only a couple days ago, and
now you’re willing to help get rid of them? What changed for
you?

I turn to walk back to my room but before I can even

take three steps Jeff is in the hallway, calling my name. I turn
my shoulder to face him. The frustration and anger that infused
him yesterday is gone, replaced with a much more familiar
looking Jeff. But he isn’t the same Jeff I’ve known for so long
now. He is burdened with fear and confusion. He looks
helpless, calling my name out. Yet as I approach him I notice
that he does not tremble with fear like I might’ve if I were in

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position. Despite his uncertainty, he seems to carry a sense of

confidence that he needs at a time like this.

“Come inside, I need to talk to you about something,”

he requests. When I walk in the room I see Amanda sitting on
the bed. Her make up is runny and her eyes are bloodshot. The
room stinks of tears and sadness. I simply stand like a statue
and wait to hear what I already kn0w.

Jeff begins to explain how it happened. He says that

they had been having sex for awhile, but they had been using
protection. They never did “it” unless they had a condom, and
they were always careful not to let on how often “it” took
place. Most of these details I tried to block out while still
respectfully listening.

And then, one day, Jeff says they were talking and
everything just seemed to appear. They don’t know how or
why it happened. There was never a broken condom, never a
drunken mistake. Amanda had been getting morning sickness,
and when she missed her period and took a test (nay, three) it
came back positive. Blood work from the school nurse
confirmed it. Almost seemingly taking a step towards a decided
fate, Amanda called Cody afterwards and told him she was
quitting the Disciples, effective immediately. She offered no
explanation for why she was quitting.

“So what’s your plan?” I stupidly blurt out.

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Jeff sighs. “We’re still not sure. We were hoping you

could help us, since you’re one of the more level headed people
we know.”

I want to laugh at that comment for the irony, but I

don’t have the energy so I tell them to continue talking to one
another about their options.

“Well, we know that we’re not going to abort it at this

point,” and when Jeff says this Amanda draws the faintest
smile of relief across her face, “but we still don’t know if we’re
going to keep it. We’re thinking about putting it up for
adoption, since she’s due in July or August. We could have the
baby over the summer and nobody would know – it wouldn’t
interfere with school.”

“The other option,” Amanda continues, “is that we

keep it and raise the kid. The plan for that is that I finish out the
fall and spring semesters here, and then do night classes once
the baby comes. Jeff would get a full time job in construction
or something, and take care of the baby at night while I’m at
class. Do you think that’s a good idea, or do you have a better
one?”

How the hell am I supposed to answer that? I am

completely taken aback by the question, and haven’t a flying
fuck on how to respond. Do I have a better idea? I don’t have
any idea – the thought of getting a girl pregnant at this point in
my life pretty much ruins any future I may have had for myself.

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What would my plan be? Cry in a corner and wish it away?

Pray? Jesus, I don’t know. I don’t have any sort of plan.

The silence is almost enough of an answer for them. I

think about excusing myself, before I hear myself say, “listen, I
know you guys are scared and you want to weigh out your
options and pick right away. But this is life changing, so don’t
rush into any one decision on a whim. Think about it for a little
while.”

That seemed unbelievably stupid to me in retrospect,

but the words from my mouth provide them with some sense of
comfort. I dismiss myself awkwardly from the room and retreat
back to the safe haven of my dorm room. As soon as the door
shuts I begin tearing apart the room, looking for any sort of
alcohol I can find. I check all my hiding places, but not one
spot has anything. There’s not a drop of whiskey to be had.
Any rum I might’ve had on reserve has evaporated. The beer
that seemed endless from my fridge has dried up. I try to think
straight, wondering what I did with all that alcohol before
remembering that I tossed it out before Andrea came over last
night. I didn’t have any plans to impress her by having a dry
room, but I wanted to see if I could cut back on my drinking,
starting yesterday.

Already I feel like shit. My hands are clammy and I

think I’m going to throw up. I lie down on my bed to try and
grab onto the world, but I just end up blacking out for the rest
of the night.

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I wake up Wednesday morning with that familiar

migraine and the curdling acids in my stomach. I want to die in
bed right then and there, like I’d wished so many times before.
Another hangover, only this time the migraine and sickness
weren’t because of alcohol. My brain feels like it is going to
explode. My eardrums want to burst from the excruciating
sound waves of my ringtone. My first instinct is to put a nail in
my own coffin and wait for death, which has been stalking me
ever since I left the womb. Today is not my day.

I am running late for class so rather than shower I

simply brush my teeth and pop my contacts in. I throw on a
shirt, an old pair of jeans, deodorant, and a beanie. The whole
time I feel like I am going to vomit. Today is going to be
another long, miserable day.

Life throws curveballs when you least expect it to. I

should’ve anticipated the curveball life was about to throw me
that morning.

He is just opening the door to his room to leave for

class when I see him. He looks broken and withdrawn. His
backpack is weighing him down, and underneath his hat are
two heavy and battered eyes. Michael glances up as he stands
in the doorway and sees me standing there. For a moment we
both stare at each other like confused animals, unsure of what
the other one would do. Neither one of us want to make the
first move, preferring to react to the other person and hopefully
gain an upper hand in whatever was about to happen. The

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moment in the doorway lasts so long that time had reached the
end, restarted, and arrived back to us once again like an
odometer that had completed it’s million mile cycle.

I put out both my hands and stiff-arm Michael back

into his room, slamming the door shut with my foot, snapping
both of us out of the trance. He bore a look of surprised anger,
but I don’t care. I want answers from him, and I wasn’t going
to give him a chance to escape to the publicity of the campus
before I got them.

“What the fuck is your problem?” he shouts, letting his

bag drop off of his shoulders.

“What’s my problem? Janey’s in the fucking hospital

and you want to ask me what my problems are?”

“I know that!” he yells out of fear, like a caged animal

snarling it’s fangs. “I’m not an idiot!”

“And what the hell was with you and Dante the other
day?” I demand.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

My jaw drops. “Then make me understand, because I

promise you that you aren’t going anywhere until you tell me
everything that’s going on!”

“What makes you think anything is going on at all!” he

retaliates. “Why should anything be out of the norm right
now?”

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I try to think of an answer quickly, but I can’t. My

mind is too exhausted to argue logically, and I know that if we
keep our screaming match up we would attract the attention of
the RA and we wouldn’t accomplish anything. I take a deep
breath, constantly glaring him down, before continuing. “Let’s
start from the beginning. You and Dante got in an argument the
other day. You told him that if he wanted to get rid of the
Disciples, he would be able to do it soon enough. What did you
mean by that?”

Trembling from adrenaline, Michael does his best to

keep his voice from shaking. “Listen, things are getting out of
control. If I’m going to explain this to you than you’re going to
have to listen to me and not interrupt. Okay?”

I nod, taking a seat on Michael’s bed. I feel the need

for a drink crawl around on my flesh.

“This all started long before Cody, so even though he’s

in charge now, all he’s doing is carrying the baton that was
handed to him. The Disciples are meant to be a proactive,
Christian-ideal group on campus. They’re supposed to spread
ideas of good morals behind…”

“Shut up and fast forward to what’s relevant. Spare me

whatever Cody made you memorize to get in the group,” I
interrupt.

Michael lets out a nervous laugh before nodding his

head and resuming. “When the Disciples were started, it was

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during a different time than it is now. People like Cody take the
old, traditional methods very seriously.”

“Yawn!”

“If you’re going to fucking interrupt, I’m not going to

tell you anything! Fuck, I need to be in class right now
anyways.”

“Tell me why Janey is in the hospital,” I demand.

“Angel said that the people she identified didn’t fit a trend seen
in all the other violent crimes that have happened in this area.
She also mentioned a GSA that Janey is trying to form.”

“What makes you think I know anything about that?”

I sigh with frustration. “Look, whatever you know, just

tell me, okay? Was it the Disciples?”

There is a murky pause that hangs between us as

Michael tries to find his words. His mouth opens, and syllables
escape, but words do not form right away. I patiently wait until
finally I hear him start to confess. “Yes, it was the Disciples.
But I had nothing to do with it. Some of the senior members,
they had asked her to stop trying to organize a GSA on campus,
since it didn’t follow suit with Catholic ideology. She refused,
and she wouldn’t be intimidated by the threats they were
leaving her under her door. They had something like this
planned for awhile, and wanted me to be a part of it but I
refused.”

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“You knew this was going to happen?” I ask with

disgust. “Why didn’t you stop them?”

Michael, mustering every bit of courage he can

conjure, looks me directly in the eye. “I’ll tell you why,
because there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t stop them, and
there was a very little chance that Janey would’ve been able to
listen to me if I had told her about it. I figured that the best
thing I could do was to say and do nothing. Let the error in
everyone’s way work itself out, because the goodness will
eventually emerge. Right?”

Like a flying squirrel I shoot off of the bed and dive

tackle Michael off his chair and onto the floor. Without waiting
for him to realize what’s happening I begin thrusting my fist
into chunks of his face, each blow making a loud smacking
noise.

“You dumb fuck!” I scream. “One of our best friends is

in the hospital and you could’ve protected her! You did nothing
because you thought that good would come of it? Where’s the
fucking good you idiot?”

Michael, surprisingly agile, wiggles his way out from

my grip and punches me across the face as he stands up. I fall
backwards and slam my head into the ground. Before I have a
chance to regain composure he’s kicking me in the ribs as I try
to block his Timberland boots with my hands. This doesn’t
help.

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“Fuck you man! Who do you think you are, telling me

what I should and shouldn’t be doing?” He grabs my shoulders
and pulls me up, kneeing me in the crotch. “I did what I
thought was right! You think I feel okay about what happened?
I’ve barely slept since I heard the news! When I do sleep all I
do is dream about Janey and what happened, only I’m the one
responsible!”

I shove Michael away, punching him across the face

again as he falls backwards onto his desk. “You must be so
happy you’re in the fucking Disciples now!” I hurl as large of a
blood-tainted loogie into his face as I can. “Fuck you!”

“No fuck you Dominic! You walk around in an alcohol

and drug induced semi-stupor all day and you don’t even
bother to try and change anything!”

“What the fuck are you talking about? I can’t change

shit!”

Michael spits blood onto the ground, holding his

cheek. “That’s exactly my point. You don’t even realize that
you have an influence on this campus like nobody else. Jesus,
you want to know why Cody hates you?”

I recall the visit Cody gave me not even a full week

ago. “Because I get off on the fact that I’m going to hell?”

“No, you dumbass. It’s because you’re the person who

could most likely cause the end of his reign. You take your
writing for granted, but you could influence a lot of people

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with it. You could effectively end the Disciples on this campus,
and Cody’s terrified of you for that reason. He’s always telling
me how grateful he is that you’re constantly drunk, because
otherwise you would’ve figured that out by now.”

I’m left unsure of what to say to that. I wiggle a loose

tooth with my tongue, trying to come up with a response. “I
can’t do it alone.”

Michael, in his insanity, laughs. “That’s why you have

friends, Dom. When I told Dante about ending the Disciples I
wasn’t kidding. I’ve found things that could get this
organization dissolved for the way they handle themselves.
Hard evidence. With your connections at the newspaper, my
evidence, and Dante’s motivation, the Disciples could be gone
in a month.”

“I don’t believe you,” I snap, half lying.

“Yeah? You have any idea why people think Luke is a

rapist? Or why Jeremy got kicked out of the Disciples for
mysterious reasons?”

“I’m guessing you do.”

Michael has a bloody beam of triumph on his

expression. “It’s because they were the ones who were pushing
to get that church you went to fixed up. They wanted the
Disciples to help, and Jeremy suggested the idea to Cody. Cody
didn’t want any involvement with it because that wasn’t a
campus issue, and he felt that letting the homeless run their

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own services was like letting them read from their own, made
up bible. Cody kicked out Jeremy without giving a reason to
make people suspicious of why he would be kicked out of such
a club. At the same time, he started rumors about Luke in order
to make people turn against Luke. Since Jeremy and Luke hung
together, people were going to assume the reason behind
Jeremy getting kicked out had something to do with the rumors
about Luke.”

“There is no way Cody thought all that through,” I

challenge.

“I didn’t believe it either until I found a notebook filled

with all these plans. The notes under the door, Luke, Janey,
even the problem with the holes in the condoms over
orientation – it’s all in the notebook.”

“How’d you find it?” I demand.

“I wasn’t supposed to,” Michael confessed. “I was in

the Disciples office the other day poking around because I was
bored and had time to kill. I stumbled across the notebook and
found everything in there that would get everyone in the group
expelled. I was going to steal it but I didn’t have time. I know
exactly where it’s hidden and when I can get it, but I need
help.”

I stare at Michael for a minute, trying to decide if he’s

telling the truth or not. We’re both panting from exhaustion,
our faces swollen and torn. If he were lying to me, I would

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have a hard time telling. But when I looked directly into his
eyes and see the fear and anxiety swelter, I understand that
everything he said is completely true.

“Okay,” I acknowledge, trying to piece everything

together. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going
to steal that notebook from the office today and you’re going to
give it to Dante. You go directly to Dante once you get it. You
don’t stop for anything. I’ll tell Dante what’s going on so he’ll
understand. I’m going to talk with Cody as soon as I can. Once
Dante has the notebook, you’re quitting the Disciples and
we’re bringing this to the administration. They’re going to
believe us, no matter what happens.”

Michael nods, but his mind is reeling with more to say.

I decide to let him think and start heading for his door. I’m just
about to leave the room when he calls out my name.

“Dominic, there’s one more thing.”

“What is it?” I ask, keeping my back to Michael.

“When this whole thing is over, and the Disciples are

buried, I’m going to start a new group. I won’t start it right
away, I’ll let some time pass, but I’m going to start a better
group. It’s going to be one based on the goodness of
Christianity, and focus on promoting the pursuit of love and
truth.”

“All right,” I say, uninterested.

“I want you to be the first member.”

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“I’ll talk to you later, Michael.”

Thursday was the first day of the rest of my life.

Michael and Dante had successfully pulled off the notebook
operation, and were planning on figuring out how to approach
the administration. I had hung with them for awhile, but as
dinner approached there was something else I had to take care
of. I excused myself from Dante’s dorm and walked over to the
cafeteria, my heart racing like a boxer just before entering the
ring. Walking up the stairs to the cafeteria felt like approaching
the ring to the fight of my life. I thought about getting food, but
I was too nervous to eat anything. Instead, I found my
opponent in his corner alone, eating off a plate in front of him.
The relaxed look on his face as he noticed me was surprising. I
held a serious, piercing stare on him as I sat across from him.

“Hey Dominic,” Cody greets, a cocky grin across his

face bearing the teeth that I’ve wanted to punch in for years.

I say nothing. I simply continue to stare at him,

unforgiving. A million different things I want to say to him run
through my mind. All the words jumble together like when I
write. I try to focus on the reason I’m here and nothing else.
Never give him an upper hand. Don’t let him see any
advantage. Say what you need to say, and get out. Cripple him.

He extends an empty cup in a mocking gesture. “Dry

throat? Need something to drink?”

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I backhand the cup out of his hand, never taking my

glare off of him. I take a mental deep breath. Finally, I am
ready. “Does God love us or does God hate us?”

Cody looks like he’s about to laugh, but I keep serious.

“What kind of question is that?”

I pull out three pieces of paper from the front pocket of

my hoodie. I unfold the first two and leave the folded one in
the middle. The first one is a pamphlet that says in all-too-
familiar words ‘GOD LOVES US ALL’. The second piece of
paper I unfold says, in angry, bold, red letters ‘GOD HATES
FAGS’. I shove both of these in front of Cody, leaving the third
one to myself for now. Cody examines both of them half
heartedly.

“I know you’re familiar with both of them, because

you’re responsible for both of them. But they’re completely
opposite of one another, and I know that there are notes out
there that state God’s hate for more than just gays. So you tell
me, Cody, does God hate us or love us?”

He continues to stare at the papers. “What’s your

point?”

“My point is that this won’t be around for much longer

either way. These notes, these pamphlets, they’re all being
erased. They’re going to be distant memories by the end of the
second semester unless you can give me an answer right now.”

“Well,” Cody tries to begin. “That’s hard to answer.”

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“No it’s not,” I snap. “It’s not hard to answer, but it’s
hard for you to figure it out because of the way you’ve handled
yourself and your organization. But I’m telling you right now
that the days of the Disciples are drawing to a close. You
screwed the pooch, and that won’t be overlooked. But you have
two options, you can either reform yourself now or you can go
down this one way hill to hell. Either way, nothing’s being let
go.”

“Who’s going to change that?”

“I am,” I respond confidently. “The rumors, the

bullshit, the notes, that’s all going to be stopped by me. Unlike
you and your methods, Cody, I don’t need to hide. People will
be able to see everything I have to say, and my name will be
right there with it. All the shit you’ve said, I’m putting an end
to it.”

I can see worry manifest itself into Cody’s expression.

Out of desperation, he challenges me. “I think you’re full of it.
You’re a washed up drunk who wouldn’t know what to do with
any power he was given. I call your bullshit.”

“I don’t care if you don’t believe me,” I inform him.

“You’ll see it happen. With your own two eyes you’ll see
things change, and you will know that I am responsible for it.”

“You think you’re some sort of saint?” he mocks,

though his tone is one that’s out of fear at this point.
“I’m not even that well rounded on theology,” I

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honestly answer. “But I do know that I have a role to play, and

even if it doesn’t fit your idea of a Disciple, I’m still going to
fulfill my role.”

I stand up, pulling myself out of the situation as

quickly as possible. The only thing left is to add the cherry on
top. “You never answered my question, Cody. Does God love
us or hate us?” I slide him the folded piece of paper. “Here’s
my answer based on how I’ve seen you act.”

I don’t bother turning around to watch him unfold the

paper. I try to imagine the surprise and horror on his face as he
comes to the understanding the note was meant to state. I can
picture his eyes widening, his jaw dropping while his heart
starts to beat rapidly inside of his chest from the shock. Just
like he had told so many people before him through notes how
God might have felt about them, there was a note for him that
would sum it all up in one phrase: ‘GOD HATES US ALL’.

I had two options for that night: I could go out to the

bar with Dante, Tom, and Michael, or I could stay in and watch
a movie with Andrea. While once upon a time I used to be all
about going to the bars and wasting my life away in a bottle of
alcohol while threatening the bartender with Grateful Dead
references, tonight was just not the night for me to do it. I was
running low on cash, and I would need money to take the train
home in a couple of weeks. After a week like the one I had just
been through, all I wanted was some peace and quiet. I politely

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rejected the invitation to the bar and headed over to Andrea’s

apartment around eight that night.

We were both exhausted so we didn’t talk much.

Andrea did mention that Trish was out, and had been gone for a
couple days. Last she heard, according to rumors, was that
Trish was filming amateur porn to help pay for school. I rolled
my eyes at the idea and laughed.

Lying in bed, cuddling with Andrea, was the first time

I had felt relaxed all week. After everything that had happened,
and how quickly everything had taken place, it was nice to
have a moment where I could breath and be with someone. I
didn’t even bother focusing on the movie because I was finally
ready to acknowledge that I was doing okay. Andrea and I
caught eyes for just a second, and a feeling of security swept
throughout me. Hell week was finally over with.

Andrea and I must’ve dosed off because the next thing

I know the DVD menu of the movie we were watching is
playing on repeat and my phone is violently ringing. Carefully
so I don’t disturb Andrea I turn off the TV and answer the
phone quietly.

“Hello?” I whisper in a relaxed and exhausted tone. I

notice the time is about 12:30 AM when my contacts finally
readjust.

“Where the fuck are you!” a frantic voice on the other

end of the line screams. A surge of energy shoots through me.

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Suddenly I was never more awake. I felt feel rustle next to me,
starting to wake up.

“Dominic?” Andrea calls out, her voice crackled and

tired. “Is everything okay?”

“Dominic!” Dante shouts. In all the years I’ve known

him, I’ve never heard him like this before. “Dominic where are
you?”

I feel abandoned and alone. Something is stalking me

from the shadows, watching my every move. But I am utterly
alone. “I’m at Andrea’s. Dude, are you okay? What the hell is
going on?”

There are hiccups on the other line, followed by

sobbing. My brain cannot process any of this. I am a deer in
headlights. I do not know what is going to happen except for
that whatever Dante is about to tell me is going to devastate
me.

“We were walking home from the bars and a few

muggers came over to us. We were all scared, but Michael tried
to run. They caught up to him and…”

Dante’s voice cuts out. All I can think about was the
first time I had seen Michael during orientation. I thought he
was a hippie who smoked too much pot because of his baggy
eyes, hemp necklaces, and skater apparel. We were sitting next
to each outside, and I could tell he was too nervous to say or do
anything. In order to try and break the ice I made fun of

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everyone that walked by us for any superficial thing I could

find. He would laugh and agree, and I would eventually
introduce myself to him as Dominic. He would extend his hand
out and say ‘hey man, my name is Michael.’

“Michael is dead.”

Atonement

For a while I don’t feel anything. Everything around

me is black. I’m not dead, but I’m not really alive either. It’s
like standing in a dark room. Everything is cold. I can’t tell
where the room ends, or where it begins. I wouldn’t know how
high the ceiling is, or if at any point the ground will drop off
into an endless tumble. The environment gives me a feeling of
weightlessness, but I can’t fly away and escape to somewhere
peaceful. Everything is empty. There’s not a noise to be heard.
I try to shout but no matter how loud I try to force my voice, I
can’t hear it. I’m not dead, but I don’t think I’m alive.

And then, in the distant darkness, a million miles away,

I hear raindrops beating down gently. It doesn’t sound like a
brutal rainstorm, more like something you’d hear on a white
noise CD. The rain sounds like it’s coming down against a
windowpane, rapidly and weakly. At first I can only hear it in
the distance, but it starts to get closer to me. Before I know it, I
can hear each drop clearly. I can smell the damp mist from the
rain as it infiltrates my nostrils. Then I can taste it on the back
of my throat every time I inhale, refreshing and moist. Then I

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feel on the scalp of my head a raindrop hit me gently, clinging

onto my curly blonde hair. Then two more hit me. Then five
come down, with one hitting me in the left cheek and one
hitting me on the right shoulder. Lightning flashes, and for a
split second I can see everything clearly, and then it all goes
back to black. Everything slowly starts becoming visible like
when the sun start to peek over the earth as it starts to rise in
the morning. I stand still, watching everything slowly unveil
itself from the darkness.

I’m standing in the middle of my street. The sky is

grey overhead, with rain beating down. Everything is
completely still and lifeless. I can see my house in the distance,
looking exactly as it did when I left for school.

I start walking towards my house, rain soaking in me

like a sponge. Everything looks exactly the same. The cracks in
the road are exactly like when I left them. The houses, the
street lamps, the sewers…all the same. Nothing’s changed, and
nothing’s moving. Everything is as still as a picture, except for
me and the rain.

Come As You Are by Nirvana is playing inside my

house, almost entirely muted from the rain. Walking up the
back steps to my house and approaching my door I reach for
my keys only to realize that they’re not in my pocket. What I
pull out is a pack of cigarettes. I toss the box to the side and
continue looking, pulling out nothing but more cigarette boxes.
Eventually I open one and inside are cigarettes shaped like

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keys to my house. I take out one of the key shaped cigarettes

and try it on the door, only to find that it doesn’t go in. I take
out another and try that one, but this one too only gets
crumpled as I try to push it into the lock. I jiggle the handle
violently, becoming frustrated, and realize that the door is
unlocked already. I toss the key shaped cigarettes into a pile of
cancer with the other boxes and walk inside. Come As You Are
ends. For a moment there’s a heavy silence inside of the house.
Nothing stirs, not even a creek as I step forward.

“Mom!” I shout into the silence. “Mom! I’m home!” I

stand where I am and wait for my words to return to me, but
nothing does. I grumble to myself and reach for a cigarette,
realizing that I tossed all of them outside. When I pull my hand
out of my pocket, it’s covered in blue ballpoint pen ink. I shake
my hand by flicking my wrist and the ink sails to the floor in
one swift flick.

From upstairs, I hear a record scream out static from

the first few seconds before it starts playing music. Heart
Shaped Box lightly plays from upstairs. I begin walking
towards my stairs, uncertain of what I’ll find.

“Anyone up there?” I shout out loud as I make my way

from the downstairs to the second floor. There’s no response,
naturally, and I figure I must be talking to myself. I look
around for a record player, but I can’t find it. The music
surrounds me in every room I enter though, mocking me in a
way. The fact I can’t find this record player pisses me off to no

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avail. I begin to search more violently, tearing up the well-

made beds and throwing folded clothes out of the dresser.
Every time something comes up empty the music becomes
louder and I become angrier. Pretty soon I start throwing
dressers over and flipping over bed mattresses. Then I start
breaking mirrors and doors. All the while the only sound comes
from the absent record player, relentlessly playing this song.

I walk into my mothers closet and the music goes from

extremely loud to deafening. The closet is completely empty
except for a locked box in the center of the floor. I savagely
pick up the box and throw it against the ground in an
unjustified anger, trying to break the lock on it open. The box
doesn’t take any damage. I start kicking at the lock, stomping
on it, and hurling it against the wall. The box seems invincible
until I put my hand on the lock. At the touch of my fingers, the
lock falls off and the box flings open. I look inside, and there’s
nothing but cold, slimy discharge. I don’t bother rolling up my
sleeves as I thrust my hands inside and dig around for a record
player. Eventually my hand brushes against something foreign
and spongy. I feel my anger dissipate upon touching the object,
and I feel around further. The thing in the box cold and soft,
like a wet stress ball. I place both my hands underneath it like
I’m going to cradle it and pull it up carefully from the mucus-
like substance inside the box. Although still covered in the
discharge, I almost drop it upon seeing it because I’m so
startled. Even in my fear, I continue to cradle it. Sitting on my

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hands, no bigger then eight inches, is a human fetus; it’s heart

still beating like a strobe light.

There’s silence again. Unsure of what to do, I put the

fetus back in the box and shut the box. A second later, I’ve
already forgotten about it. I look around the destroyed room for
a moment. It was clean and well kept until I tore it to shreds.
Clothes lay scattered about like litter on a city street, there’s
broken glass from the mirror, the furniture is overturned and
damaged. I go into the bathroom to wash my hands of the fetus
goo, but when I turn on the faucet more blue ink comes out. I
wash my hands in the sink, neglecting to use soap because I
know my hands will just get dirty again anyways. I look around
the bathroom for a towel, but I can only find one made out of
notebook paper. I dry my hands and toss the paper into the
trashcan, and start heading back outside. It’s still raining. It’s
always raining.

I open the door, expecting to see my backyard, but I’m

elsewhere now. I’m standing on a balcony with endless rows of
doors stretching in both directions. In front of me, down below,
there is a giant parking lot. I lift my hand up and, like magic,
there is a fresh cigarette tucked between my index and middle
fingers. I put the cigarette in between my lips, but as I try to get
the lighter sparked the wind starts blowing and prevents me
from keeping a flame going for more than a few seconds. I
struggle with the lighter for a minute, and just when I’m about
to toss the lighter a man walks over and cups his hands over the

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lighter, giving me enough time to get a light and have my

cigarette start burning. I take a puff before I look at him. He’s
an older man with tired, glazed eyes. He has a smirk across his
face, as if he’s hiding a secret.

“Glad I could be of help,” he says.

“That’s mighty white of you,” I reply. “I don’t have a

name. Can I offer you a smoke in return?”

“I got my own,” he says, pulling out a pack of

cigarettes and a zippo. “Always need a smoke after sex. Takes
a lot of out of me.”

I nod, uninterested in his sex life. “Thanks for the

assistance.”

“Like I said, it was no problem. I’m always for helping

the stranger.” He takes a long drag and grins. “I’ll tell you
what, my dick’s gonna hurt for a week after tonight. That girl I
got in there is tight.”

“Mazal tov.”

“Massive toe?” He asks, laughing like a hyena. “The

fuck is that?”

“Nevermind,” I reply.

“Hey,” he says, “you want a drink?”

I don’t want to spend any time with him, let alone go

back in his room. But I need a drink and I know it will help me
get to sleep. “Grab a few and bring them out here,” I said.

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“Can’t drink out here,” he replies. “It’s freezing cold.

I’m miserable just smoking. Come on inside, I don’t bite.”

“What about your woman?”

“The girl? She’s out like a light. No need to worry

about waking her up.”

I remain skeptical, but I stamp out the cigarette and

follow him back to his room. The room is dark and has a
strange aroma of burnt metal and sweat. I look over at the bed
and I see a lump, on top of it. As my eyes adjust to the
darkness, I begin to make out the horror that creates the room.

A small figure lies on her back naked, her body limp

and weak. She moans slightly, her eyes shut. Her body is flat
and young, her face immature and youthful. I can’t be sure, but
I think I hear her try to cry out for help in between her soft,
pain-filled moans.

He walks over with two open beer bottles and hands

me one. “Admiring the goods I see,” he says with that same
smirk on his face. “You wanna give her a go?”

“She’s a little young for me,” I reply.

“Ah, don’t be so shy. Sure, it’s weird at first, but once

you get in there it’s a tightness you’ve never felt! And she’s all
drugged up, you don’t have to worry about hurting her. She
won’t feel a thing…before or after you’re done.” He chuckles
drunkenly and sips on his beer.

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I nod, pounding the beer in a matter of seconds. “I

see,” I say.

Without hesitating I thrash my arm in the air like a

whip and crack him across the face with the empty beer bottle.
He drops his own beer and clutches his face, tripping over
himself and falling to the ground.

“You fucking bastard!” I scream, holding the neck of

the broken beer bottle in my hand. “You fucking shit! This is
somebody’s child!”

“Fucking relax!” He yells back. He picks up the bottle

by his feet and in a split second hurls it upwards at me. The
glass shatters against my cheekbone and a piece of it digs in
and cuts me from the corner of my eye to my temple. I grab my
eye instinctively and feel my legs get pulled out from
underneath me. I fall to the ground and before I know it he’s on
top of me, wrestling with my arm that’s still clutching the piece
of the beer bottle I broke on his face.

“You idiot!” He screams. “I thought you were a cool

guy! I thought you’d be more relaxed than this!” He curls a fist
and hits me across the face. I can taste blood in my mouth now,
but I can’t do anything about it. He has me pinned to the
ground. “Jesus! Who would’ve thought you were some John
Wayne wanna-be! You look like a fucking sewer rat! You
think you’re some hero? Well, I got something for heroes like
you!”

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He reaches into his back pocket to get something, but

that shift in weight is exactly what I need. I twist my torso and
throw him off of me. He falls onto his back next to me. In a
heartbeat I’m back up and have the beer bottle shards against
his throat, but I don’t kill him. We both stare with hatred at
each other, breathing heavily.

“I’m not fucking hero,” I tell him. “I’m not even a

halfway decent person. But I know enough between right and
wrong to do right when the time comes.”

“So what’re you going to do, hero?” He patronizes.

“You going to kill me? Going to reign justice?”

“I’d like to,” I admit. “I’d certainly like to.”

I drop the broken bottle next to his neck. He turns his

head to look at the broken bottle, but that turn is all I need to
cock my arm back and slam the back of my fist against the side
of his head. I feel the muscles in his body relax suddenly, and I
check his pulse to make sure I didn’t accidently kill him. When
I feel the thumping inside of his chest, I stand up and walk over
to the bed. The girl is still moaning, mumbling incoherent
words. I cover her with a sheet. She says my name and
disappears. In vain, I shut my eyes and try to escape.

I keep my eyes clenched for no more then a few

seconds, but it feels like hours. When my eyes open I’m no
longer in motel room with a rape victim – I’m in a hospital.
From my survey, the hospital is empty. I can hear the beeps

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from machines that tell the nurses and doctors that life is
continuing, but nobody’s checking on the ones that are flat
lining from one continuous and uninterrupted beep. I look in on
everyone as I walk by. All the beds are empty, but the
machines are hooked up and functioning as if each bed in each
room had a patient that was either dead or dying. I hear voices
over the intercom summoning nurses and doctors to various
rooms for various reasons, but I hear nobody moving.

As I walk down the endless hallway of empty beds

with people that I can’t see, I stumble across a room with my
name on it. The door, unlike all the others, is shut with the
blinds closed. I try to pull the handle down, but it won’t budge.
Instead, on my touch, the handle starts to melt away, keeping
me trapped out of the room forever. I look around for
something to break the glass window to the room with, but I
can’t find anything big enough to throw through it. I settle for
the next best thing and start punching the window, trying to
break it with my bare fists. With each punch my knuckles
become more bruised and injured, but the glass remains
perfectly intact. All this work and not a single dent.

I give up punching after awhile, my knuckles so jagged

and cracked that they look like a Picasso painting. My hands
are shaking from all the damage they’ve taken, trying to break
into my own hospital room. I take a breather for a moment,
trying to recuperate from the boxing match I just had with the
glass when I notice that the shades are drawn back to the room

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and I can look inside. On the bed of my room is an open casket

made of cheap wood filled with snakes. The casket is hooked
up to all the IV tubes and breathing machines it can handle, and
despite the IV fluids pumping in and the breathing tubes doing
their job, the casket is still flat lining. I’m more surprised over
the fact that the casket even had a heart rate to begin with. I
reach for a cigarette and pull out a blood packet they use for
blood donations. I collapse.

When I come to I’m lying on the ground outside. The

sky overhead is grey, casting a dark, bland shadow over the
woods. I stand up and start walking, but every step I take
becomes further and further away from where ever I want to
go. In the distance I see a familiar face for the first time, much
to my relief. The relief is short lived, however, and soon I
realize that the comfort I felt was actually numbness, and the
closer I approach the familiar figure, the colder and more
painful my numbness becomes.

I recognize Dante sitting on the ground, looking down

towards something. I cautiously take a seat next to him and
look in his direction. In front of him is a giant hole. In the
distance there are gates with the worlds “abandon hope all ye
who enter here” written on a sign.

“Hey buddy,” Dante greets with melancholy. “Are you

ready?”

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“Ready for what?” I ask, glancing down the hole. “To

go down there? Fuck no! There is no way I’m going down that
fucking hole.”

“You don’t have a choice man,” he tells me. “I had to

do it once too. It was hard, but I got through it.”

“You had a guide, didn’t you? Someone to hold your

hand?”

“You will too.”

His voice is unnervingly bland. I want to run away but

I feel like a magnet being attracted to this area. “Who?”

“Me.” He looks over at me with his dead eyes. “I’ve

done this once before, I’ll help you out now. Just help the
person who goes after you okay?”

He pulls me into the hole. We fall for years. I lose

track of time. Clocks melt. I am no longer of existence. All I
wonder is when will we finally reach the bottom?

Just like that, we hit the ground with a loud thud. There
is nothing but a flat red color around us, with a red lake in the
distance and black grass behind us. There is no time for me
though. I am placed in front of a long table with a pen and a
paper. On the other side are babies in a kiddie pool with
floaters around their waists. They yell at me and tell me to
entertain them. I try to write but my hand is weighed down
heavily. I cannot move without using all the energy in my
body. When I finally am able to write something the pen does

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not work. All the while the children are screaming at me to

continue writing. I turn to see if Dante can help me, but he is
gone.

I turn around and start walking away, heading down

the endless field of black grass. I hear voices warning me not to
walk that way, to turn around and go back. I need to do what
I’m told. I tell them that I can take care of myself. I am wrong.

A giant, black wall appears in front of me. Satan’s

voice booms throughout all of hell. He commands me to go
back, staring at me with his evil eyes. I am terrified, but I do
not listen. I try to find strength on my own, but I can’t. He
begins mocking me, asking me who I think I am now. I tell him
that I don’t belong here. He tells me that I’m wrong, that we all
belong here. That there’s no escape. I tell him that I accept God
as my personal Lord and savior. He laughs at me and tells me
that it doesn’t work that way. I tell him to fuck off.

I look up to heaven and, for the first time in a long

time, I cry for forgiveness.

Just like that I’m no longer in hell. Dante is still

nowhere to be seen, but I know he is not dwelling where I was.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. I am on a beach, with
palm trees swaying in the distance even though I can’t feel a
breeze. The ocean is crashing at my feet. In the distance the sun
is setting. There is not another soul in sight.

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For awhile I walk along the beach, but I don’t find

anything except for sand and water. The only thing I come
across is a beach chair, which is weather torn and moldy.
Despite it’s flaws I take a seat and look out to the ocean. I feel
my soul start to melt away from my body. All the mass and
flesh and tissue and muscle that used to make me human has
dissipated. I am left as a new entity on a beach chair, facing the
setting sun. There is a humbling beauty in front of me that few
will ever get to see. As a new entity I do not understand this
beauty, and I can never explain the feeling that this magnificent
scene gives me. Somehow that’s forgivable. I don’t need to
understand this beauty, but at last I can see it.

“God?” I ask aloud. “God, are you there?”

There is no answer. I wait for a moment. A minute

passes. I ask again, but still no response.

“I don’t need you to answer me, but I need you listen,”

I begin. “I’ve been lost, God. I’ve been lost and I can’t find my
way alone anymore. I thought I was strong but I’m not. I
thought I didn’t need you but I do. I don’t know why and I
couldn’t justify my logic, but there’s something inside of me
that tells me I still need you in my life.”

No answer. I come across the fact that maybe I am

only talking to myself. This does not stop me from continuing
to speak.

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“Listen, I know all of this…whatever, but I don’t know

how to go about grasping it. I need your guidance…I need your
help. I’ve seen all sorts of things done in your name, and
everyone thinks that they’re doing the right thing. They do their
actions out of hate, not out of love. I don’t want to be like
them, and not because I think I’m better than they are, but
because I’m not better. I want to be the person that sets the
example through love, rather than the scared person who’s lost
pretending he doesn’t care. Please, tell me, what can I do?”

Only silence. Something inside me tells me that I’ve

known all along.

I roll off the beach chair and free fall through the sand
for a second. I come colliding in contact with the floor of
Andrea’s apartment. I look around, confused about where I am
or how I got on the floor. My heart is racing. I feel like I’m
going to throw up. Same shit, different day.

I regain my mind and stand up, looking over to the bed

to see if Andrea’s there. She’s gone, and I’m alone in her room.
I look over at the clock and realize that I’ve already missed my
only class for the day. Déjà vu that I can’t escape. I stretch and
yawn, rubbing my throbbing head from the fall I took off her
bed. I try to find my clothes and have difficulty doing so before
realizing that my clothes never left my body last night. I laugh
under my breath and rub my eyes. There are dry tears under
them.

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Last night Michael died. I don’t know what to do

anymore. I try to function but something seems off. My skin
doesn’t fit right on my body. My hair seems off balance. My
eyes don’t focus like they should. Everything that should be
normal feels a little weirder today. I have no idea what to do
anymore.

I leave the bedroom, walking funny, and am pleasantly

surprised when I see Andrea in the kitchen, wearing my hoodie
that I left in her common room last night and a pair of
sweatpants. She is hunched over the stove, cooking something
that smells delicious. I don’t think she heard me leave the
bedroom. I catch another glance at the clock in her room before
shutting the door. She told me she had class at this time, and
yet here she is cooking breakfast.

I walk up behind her and I can feel her working

vigorously at whatever she’s making. In between her swift
movements I hear sniffling, though I’m not sure if she’s upset
about something or if it’s just a noise from the stove. Gently, I
lay my hands around her waist. She jumps slightly and whirls
around; releasing her tension once she sees that it’s only me.
Her eyes are wide, hinting with sadness.

“I didn’t think you’d be up for awhile,” she begins. “I

didn’t want to wake you up. I knew you’d want to sleep in and
I figured that because of Michael dying last night I would make
you breakfast and we could just spend the day together.”

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I pull her in close to me, letting her voice softly fade.

She wraps her arms around my neck and we kiss and embrace
each other. When the world has ended, and everything has
gone to hell, we have each other.

Snow in November

Death never made sense to me. I was never sure how to

react when someone close to me died. I was never sure if there
was such a thing as crying too much, or if not crying at all
made me seem uncaring. When it’s all said and done, I guess
it’s just hard for me to accept the fact that someone is gone
forever. Every memory I’ll ever have of Michel, every moment
we shared together, will be all that I have left of him. I will not
build new memories, and we won’t be able to share life’s
milestones together. But that’s just the way things go
sometimes. I was always told that there’d be days like this, but
I never believed that.

The sky is grey and bleak when I finally arrive to the

cemetery. I was running late and missed getting a ride with
everyone. Dante offered to make everyone wait, but I told him
not to bother, and that I’d get there on my own time. In truth,
the reason I was running late was because I had gone to the
church on campus before leaving for the cemetery.

The church was empty when I got there. Not a single

noise was heard except for my feet slapping against the wood
finish on the ground. I took each step with caution,

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approaching the front of the church with apprehension. In front

of me, suspending from the rafters, was a giant cross with Jesus
mounted to it. I got as close as I could before fainting,
watching Him with extreme vigilance, half expecting Him to
move or speak to me. But no such thing happened. For a while
we stared at one another, Him looking down at me and me
looking back up at Him. All this time had passed since I’d been
in a church, and still I didn’t even know what I was doing
there.

Finally, I was able to conjure the courage to say

something out loud. Nobody would’ve heard it since I was
alone, and therefore nobody would have a reason to believe I
said it. I would understand later that it didn’t matter if I
received acceptance of other faith-goers. The important thing is
that I had said it, and I meant it.

“I’m sorry.”

I turned around and hastily left, afraid of what I might

hear back.

I’m at the cemetery, and there is snow coming from the

grey skies. It is a light snow, but it is the first snow of the
season. This used to be a special thing for me, but I can’t find it
in my heart to care about a natural phenomenon as I approach
the mass of black-attired mourners.

I couldn’t hear a word the father was saying, much less

see the coffin. I felt okay about that thought. I didn’t have any

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interest in seeing my friend’s coffin, knowing he was inside of

it, and I didn’t want to hear someone who didn’t know Michael
like I knew him talk about the kind of person Michael was.
Nobody could justify Michael because he was dynamic. He
wasn’t a single element that could be pinpointed and read. He
was unique, and you could spend a thousand years talking
about him and still not come up with who he was exactly. To
his last days, he was always able to surprise me. My own
meditation brings me more comfort than the voice of the priest.

I glance to my right and see sad, bold eyes staring back

at me. There are tears running down Andrea’s face. I lift my
hand up and brush them away for her. My hand drops back to
my side and her fingers find their way in between my own,
with our palms clasped together.

Jeff and Amanda are in the distance. Amanda has her

head buried in Jeff’s arm, her shoulders hiccupping with pain.
Jeff’s eyes, although hard to see, are swollen and bloodshot.
His hand is protectively wrapped around Amanda, cradling the
new life growing inside of her.

There is a firm slap on my left shoulder. I turn and see

Dante, his eyes bearing the same, dead feeling that mine must
have. Tom is behind him, keeping his composure as best as he
can with Angel and Janey crying.

“You doing okay?” Dante asks me in a low voice.

I nod. “It’s just so surreal that he’s gone.”

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“I know man, I know.”

I wake up and roll out of bed on a Saturday morning in

November. The first snow of the season is building up nicely
outside, with people laughing and sliding down the freshman
quad. My roommate had woken up and left for breakfast
already, but I decided to sleep in. The first thing I hear when I
open my eyes is a knock at my door. Wearing only my
sweatpants, I tiptoe across the carpeted freshman dorm room
and open the door.

“Happy holidays!” Michael shouts, throwing a

snowball at me. As the icy ball melts into my skin I shudder and
recoil from the sudden coldness.

“You fucking asshole!” I yelp, although I’m already

laughing. He smiles. I notice that Dante is behind him. They
are both in winter coats with sweatpants and hats.

“Hey dude,” he says. “Can we come in?”

“Yeah, sure,” I say, still tired but passing up my

chance to sleep in later. “Make yourselves at home. I got
whiskey if you want it.”

“Dude, it’s so early,” Michael protests.

I rub my eyes. My hair is a mess. “Yeah, you’re right.

We can drink later if we feel like it. For now do you guys just
want to sit and listen to some music?”

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“Yeah,” Dante agrees, taking a seat in my roommate’s

chair by his computer. I walk over to my desk and pull up my
iTunes. I set the music to shuffle and let the first song play that
comes on. The song California Dreamin’ comes up on the
shuffle. I take a seat, forming a triangle with Michael and
Dante.

For a moment we all say nothing, listening to the soft

music as it plays. Then, under his breath, Michael begins.

“All the leaves are brown…and the sky is grey…”

“I went for a walk…” I continue, tiredly. “On a

winter’s day.”

Now Michael starts to pick up momentum. “I’d be safe

and warm…”

“If I was in L.A.…” Dante picks up, at half volume.

Suddenly, as if connected by telepathy, the three of us

scream at full singing volume –

“California dreaming, on such a winters day!”

“Stopped into a church!” Michael shouts, putting his

arms around us. “I passed along the way!”

“Oh I got down on knees!” I add. “And I pretend to

pray!”

“You know the preacher likes it cold!” Dante

enthusiastic add. “He knows I’m gonna stay!”

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And then, the three of us harmonizing together,

“California dreaming, on such a winter’s day!”

I feel a tug on my arm as a motion to leave, but I can’t

move. I stand there, staring into nothing, as a tear trickles down
my cheek. And then another tear follows. My face crinkles and
I collapse to my knees, bellowing in hysterics. Andrea pulls me
up and wraps her arms around me protectively, pulling my
head onto her shoulder. Everything I thought I could hide
erupts inside of me. I try to control myself but for a moment
every ounce of pain is manifested physically. When I finally
calm down, hiccupping from crying so hard, I notice that
Dante’s face is red and puffy. Our eyes catch, and before either
one of us can say the words we’ve already communicated
them.

“California dreaming?”

He nods. “On such a winter’s day.”

Before I know it we’re all walking towards a car, filing

in one by one. My eyes linger for just a moment, looking down
a long, seemingly endless street. No matter how far I walk
down that I know that I’ll never bring me to where I want to be.
But where do I go now?

“Dominic,” I hear someone call out from inside the car

as I stand at the door, “are you coming with us?”

No matter how you spin it, everything comes down to

love. Whether it’s religion, society, or simply existence, love is

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the root of everything we’ll ever need. We all do stupid things,

and we all believe we’re right to some extent. Michael
understood that I think, and he tried to handle it the best way he
could. Most importantly, he tried to do everything out of love.
He didn’t need an organization to make him who he was, be he
wanted to use that organization to show love. At the end of the
day if we don’t have love for each other, we have nothing.

“Yeah, I’m coming.”

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