Chapter 1. Romance ended in bloodshed. One x One. Private.

[U n d r a w n]

H o l d e n










It wasn’t more than 7 minutes. Salvia didn’t last very long, probably the reason it was even legal. The voices, the faces, the smoke went up in flames when a cold glass of water smacked his face. It was like getting hit with a s**t ton of bricks. He closed his eyes tight and dragged an arm to his face, wiping the cold liquid away. "What da' ********] He asked as he was looking Valentine in the face. The first few sentences that were said flew right through Holden's head, his brain not really grasping any of them. He looked back and forth, really? He just had to walk himself up on this floor. What a s**t trip. He wanted his money back. David had better give it back to him. He wondered if Jason had a better time than him. He was suddenly dragged up, then shoved into an apartment room. "We have bigger problems on our hands, junkie baby." Holden raised an eyebrow. We? Since when did they become we? He quickly looked back at the girl laying dead on the floor. Brown hair. Half naked. Light lips. Pale skin.... Dead. That was probably the most breath-taking feature about her. You know, the death part.

"Alright, shut the ******** up." He said putting his hands out. He raised one finger. "Firstly, shut the ******** up with the baby-talk. What the ******** is wrong with you? Junkie baby. Really? Watch who you're calling baby, kid." He raised his second finger. "What the ********... What the hell did you do to her?!" He asked looking at the brown-haired girl. It wasn't the first dead body Holden had ever been around - but - the hairs on the back of his head still stuck up when he looked her in the dead eyes. "And what d'you mean we?! I ain't got s**t to do with this! I ain't serving jail time on your watch." He froze a moment, how did that expression go? Whatever, close enough. Who cared if he said it right or wrong?

"And... And...." He ripped out the box of cigarettes in his pocket and pulled one out, slipping the cancerous stick in his mouth. Fttt. Ftt. The lighter sounded before it lit up. He took in a deep breath of smoke before exhaling. Relaxing. "Holden! Where you at?!" He looked at the door, the muffled voice coming from the other side of the door walking along the hallway. He slowly shook his head as he looked at Valentine, deciding he didn't want to be caught in Valentine's apartment alone with a dead chick laying on the floor. "Holdz! Where the ******** you run off to!!?" After the footsteps moved off and he figured he was safe from them he looked back at Valentine. "Alright. ********] He frustratingly shut his eyes. "I'll help you move the b***h's body tonight - but I swear to God you'll owe me big time." Holden said nodding his head in a serious matter. In all honesty he just wanted to protect himself. Running around this apartment complex and moving inside to this room meant he had left DNA and s**t. Maybe fingerprints on the door. He didn't know what the police would be looking for but it was officially Holden's business. If Valentine got caught, there was a chance of his name being brought up. He didn't want to get involved with a ******** murder.

So, helping Valentine was obviously high on his priority list just now.

[U n d r a w n]

C a l e b


Caleb sat in the shower, the burning hot water hitting his skin, giving off the burning smell of flesh. He was leaning over himself, the drool, snot and blood slipping from his face and getting washed down the drain. His skin was bright red and bleeding in some parts. He spent the past 1o minutes practically clawing his skin off. He couldn’t get rid of the feeling. Dirty skin. Dirty disgusting skin. Dirt disgusting scarred burnt skin. He closed his eyes, his raw body too tired to even bother standing. So he didn’t, he just sat there waiting for his bloody nose to stop. He closed his eyes and leaned back - imagining himself drowning.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

“You’ve been in there three hours.” The voice rang from the other side of the locked door. “Finish up.” Then Allen’s voice drowned out as quickly as it came. Caleb slowly rolled on his side and grabbed the shampoo. He dumped some in his hair and began to scrub, afterwards he mixed in some conditioner. Then he waited another 2o minutes before shutting the water off and moving onto the steamy bathroom floor. Caleb was famous for his long showers. He couldn't help it, though. Showers didn't make him feel any cleaner. They never helped. He grabbed three towels. He dried himself off with one, then wrapped another around his hips. He grabbed the third and scrubbed it against his hair, trying to dry it up. When he walked out of the bathroom Allen glanced him over once. “Your face looks ******** up.” Caleb glanced in the mirror up on the living room wall. Bruised nose. Black eye. His cheek was a bit swollen. ”Mm.” Escaped his throat. Caleb was too exhausted to even bother using big boy words. "When is the last time you ate?" Caleb glanced down at his lengthy body. Allen always complained about how he was either too fat, or too thin. He didn't want anyone ******** a drugged up skeleton, then when Caleb actually ate he didn't want them ******** a fat pig. "Two days. I dunno." Caleb finally answered. It wasn't like he kept track of days anyways, he was busy the past few days. Allen made ******** sure of that.

"Stop living off your ******** petty drugs for breakfast, lunch and dinner." Allen said as he lifted his feet, gently resting them on the coffee table. "I have a delivery you need to make." He stated. Caleb pulled away from the mirror and moved over to the couch next to Allen. He sat down, fixing the towel around his hips since it was loosening up. "Please don't make me do any of your deliveries." He begged. He turned his head to look at the man, who in return reached out - wrapping his fingers around Caleb's jaw bone. "You have gotten sloppy. Would you rather me re-train you how you're meant to act with me?" He asked, his narrow eyes piercing straight into Caleb's. "No. No you don't have to do that I'll be good... Just... Last time you sent me..." Allen was already rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. "Yeah, yeah. We all remember that disaster."

"So please don't make me do it!" Although it was pointless. Allen shook his head. "I told you to do this for me. Do you not understand the words coming out of my mouth, you dumb b***h?" He smacked Caleb across the face. He held his swollen cheek, then glanced at his bare side. The scar was still a deep red shade. There used to be a bullet stuck just underneath the surface of his skin. Allen had to hold him down and slice it out of him. He didn't want to get shot again. Caleb didn't want to go back to those people. "No. I understand. Sorry. I'll have it done by tonight." He said as he stood up and slowly moved to the bedroom. His clothes were in the laundry room, although his sweatshirt was somewhere in the bedroom. He spotted it off to the side and snatched the sweatshirt, the cellphone falling out of the pocket. Roger's phone falling out of his pocket. He picked it up and went to the one contact in the phone. f*****t Face.

letss go 4a walk l8er

He sloppily texted out. He didn't exactly have the luxury of spending his time on the text since Allen was just in the other room. If he got caught with the phone it'd probably be shoved up his a** before he had a chance to say: s**t I'm stupid. He quickly hit send before he had a chance to think about it, then he shoved the phone back in the pocket before moving back around the house going about his business like the phone wasn't in his possession.

[Cortisol]

V A L E N T I N E

Valentine couldn’t remember anything about the brunette. This was his seventh time remembering. Still nothing.

He got another letter in the mail from that ******** face, and after that he blacked out. He was on a three day bender living on a pill cocktail and booze before waking up to Oscar pounding on his door. He could smell it. The burning flesh. The rotting flesh. The smell of gasoline. Valentine experienced these psychosomatic symptoms like a ******** warning label. Shortness of breath. Dizziness. Chest pains. Then came the abdominal pain followed by the the nausea. He ran to the toilet before vomiting up a mixture of salvia and bile. “What should I call you then? Oh that’s right you can tell me what to call you after I pick up your tattoos, right?” Valentine laughed as he opened up his medicine cabinet. A pyramid of bright orange prescription bottles met him. He smiled. Valentine remembered being drunk when he decided that Egyptians weren’t the only ones who could make pyramids. He grabbed one that said Xanax and shoved a couple in his mouth, rinsed with scope, before walking about out to the living room.

Valentine was still smiling. A look of pure content on his face. Smug even. Like a spoiled brat who got what he wanted. He didn't want to deal with this s**t alone. Glad that Holden had unwillingly signed up for this adventure.

“She ******** reeks!” Valentine as he grabbed a bottle of Febreze and crouched down and sprayed it on her. On her face. On her body. On her legs. Ironic that it was pet order eliminator. He stood up turned to Holden. “This isn’t the only crazy s**t I woke up to man…it gets even better…or worse…”

Valentine opened up his refrigerator and pulled out the metal Wonder Woman lunchbox. “Isn’t this crazy s**t…no…not the lunchbox! But what’s in this ******** box!” He slammed it on the counter and opened it up. “[******** heroin man! ******** Oscar stopped by last night and gave it to me.”

“They expect me to push ******** ten thousand dollars’ worth of junk by the end of the month? What do they think I am? An over achiever?”

He leaned on the counter. One hand supporting his head as he looked over at Holden. Valentine then slid a bag of white powder to Holden much like a bartender would slide a glass of rum and coke to the patron. He knew Holden. He sampled every drug under the sun and moon. Multiple times. Every day. All day. He opened up a drawer and produced a stainless steel razor blade. “Try it…You know you want to. Sample it for me. I mean you have tried heroin before, right? Consider it a thank you for helping me out.” Then Valentine flashed that winning salespersons smile. “Let’s pregame! Consider it research for higher purposes.”

[Cortisol]

R O G E R

She lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by me.

“I wish all my dates were like this!” the girl who called herself Annabelle, like the poem, said as she stuffed her face with a burger that was bigger than her face. Just like a child. Roger wondered if Annabelle called what she did 'dates' or if she was brainwashed into calling them 'dates'. Roger sat across from her jotting down everything she said about Marcello and the other girls she worked with down. He did everything possible not to drag her to social services. She had no editing equipment and the gritty topics she spoke about, she spoke about it in such a childish fashion, that it disgusted Roger. “But…I have to be back soon…otherwise he’ll get mad at me…”

Just then Roger’s cellphone vibrated. It was a text message from Greyson. Now? He decides to text message him now? ********. He couldn’t even read it…his brain couldn’t decipher what the text message was saying. It just looked like jumbled letters and numbers. “Yo. What does this say?” Roger asked flatly as he showed Annabelle the message. The girl laughed. The first time this whole time. She wasn’t completely broken. “It says ‘let’s go for a walk later’. You sure don’t know much do you?” Roger made a face at her and she laughed harder. He looked back at the message. “What does it mean? Is that code for something?” She stuffed a french fry into her mouth. “It means whoever they are wants to see you later and probably go for a walk.”

Meet me at the Razor
Head Pub at 8ish.

Roger texted back. It was somewhere relatively public but still low key, and it was near 84th street. Roger was suspicious, or maybe just cautious. Either way he wasn’t intending on meeting anybody alone. Roger walked Annabelle back to the pawn shop and on the way back he had Annabelle recite Roger’s cell phone number over and over until she memorized it. Roger was further more disgusted with himself when he gave her the hundred dollars. He couldn’t do anything else for her; he had to let her go back into the shop, back to Vinnie who would keep her until she was picked up.

He was going to break Vinnie’s ******** jaw the next time he saw him. Informant or not. You don’t ******** kids.

Roger arrived at the Razor Head Pub at 7. Always early. Always. He left his 1992 Crown Victoria parked in the garage, and used city transport. He called Lillian and told her that he had to cancel their dinner reservations. Roger had to meet an important person. He didn't mention he was meeting a whore. She whined and huffed, and Roger could imagine her bottom lip pouting. Adorable, really. When he told her he would get tickets to the theatre she grew happy again and laughed and forgive him. Kissed him through the phone even. Relationships were simple like that. He ordered whatever was on tap and occupied a booth. Keeping his eye on the door the whole time. He pulled out a recorder and set it on the table. A recorder was easier than jotting down notes anyways. He didn’t use it on Annabelle because children often froze up on things like video cameras and recorders when they were in that business.

Greyson better not freeze up. Roger wanted to make sure that if Greyson showed up he better ******** talk. He was already on edge over the whole Annabelle situation he wasn’t sure if he could keep it together long enough to entertain Greyson. At least he hoped it was Greyson and not a mystery person.

Once again he was playing the waiting game.

[U n d r a w n]

C a l e b


He went to the laundry room and finished putting on his clothes. They were all clean and crisp. He liked that fresh smell when they just got out of the laundry. Allen was in his 'Study' room. He didn't usually leave the door wide open, but today he did. The door was opened up wide and Caleb could hear the clicks and clacks of the movements the man made. He looked down at his shaky hands before moving to the kitchen. Allen wanted Caleb to eat, so, he opened up the fridge and grabbed yogurt. He turned around and grabbed some cereal sprinkling it in then shoveled the yogurt in his mouth. Caleb hated yogurt. It tasted horrible, he didn't enjoy most foods. Allen came walking out of the room with a duffle bag. He moved over and put the strap around Caleb's shoulder. [******** that's heavy." He stated as he gripped the bag. "Are they all on safety?" He asked as he lightly put the bag on the floor. "Yeah. Unloaded and safety lock." Caleb dropped the rest of the yogurt into the trash and swung the bag around his shoulder again. "Okay... I'm going now..." He said nodding his head. Allen didn't really respond, just moved away from the kitchen.

He moved for the front door. His hands were sweaty and getting shaky. He exhaled deeply as he slowly moved down the hallway. Once he was out of sight from the door he plucked his cellphone from his pocket once again and read: Meet me at the Razor Head Pub at 8ish. He let out a slow sigh before trotting along attempting to make it there... Anytime around 8. Not like he looked at his phone or anything to check the time, but, Caleb hadn't made a meeting with a 'friend' in years. He wasn't exactly punctual.

As he stood there he glanced around - then spotted Roger standing outside the club and all. He moved over and dropped the duffle bag from his shoulder to the floor. His whole shoulder felt like it was falling off already. He hated that he had to drag that damned thing around. He didn't want to any longer. He didn't even want to be doing this! That was the whole reason he called Roger. Why? Well... Caleb really had no idea. He was absolute traumatized of the men he was about to drop the duffle bag full of guns to. How many did they even need? Caleb dropped off a duffle bag to them last time. That was long enough for the bullet wound and stab wound to scar up. But not long enough to calm his nerve. Just having Roger stand a block or two away from the place was a relaxing thought. Why? If he told Roger to wait a block or two away - that wasn't saving him from getting shot again if they felt like it. Hell, they could kill him and Roger would probably not even know. He'd be standing there waiting for Caleb to finish his business in the apartment. "Hi." Caleb said nodding his head. His head was angled towards the ground, probably because he was busy trying to mask the swollen cheek, bruised nose and black eye. Allen already said he looked ******** up. How could he stop being self-conscious after that remark?

He rolled his shoulder a few times, waiting for that crack - pop feeling that helped in situations like this. Then he reached down and put the bag over his shoulder. "Lets go for a walk." His words sounded very rehearsed and robotic. Probably because he had worked on saying that the whole walk over to the pub. He felt weird trying to say the sentence so he just kept trying to practice and practice. He didn't know what else to say but oh well. He needed to finish this errand for Allen then Caleb would probably disappear off the face of the earth to Roger for a month or two. He didn't really know how to start up casual conversations. He also didn't know what he what he was supposed to ask a reporter he hated. He began to walk down the street, expecting Roger to follow his lead.

[U n d r a w n]

H o l d e n










"Oh shut up." Holden said narrowing his eyes. "Had a bad ******** trip." He glanced at his arm just to check on his tattoos. They were fine, see? He rubbed the back of his neck looking back at the girl. "What do you mean gets even better?" He asked turning his head to watch as Valentine got some lunchbox. A superwoman lunch box. Really? He was gonna try and look tough with that. IT WAS LAUGHABLE! "OH GREAT! You're going back to the third grade?!" Holden ask sarcastically as he laughed hysterically. "No… Not the lunchbox!" What's in the box? "Aw! Your mommy packed you a homemade meal for your first day back to sc-" His eyes went wide before dropping to the box. 1o,ooo dollars? "What?!" He asked moving over as he put it on the counter. That was 1o,ooo dollars worth of heroin? In that lunchbox? Next thing he knew, Holden was staring at a baggie being pushed towards him. "You want me, to try that?!" WHAT THE ******** WAS VALENTINE SMOKING?! Not that it was an insane thought - trying to get Holden to test something. His rule of thumb was he'd try any drug at least one time. Not like one time would kill you. He did snort some heroin once with a homeless man and some guy named Greg before, though. He'd never shot it up or tried it like a real junkie would, though.

"Yeah alright." Escaped his lips as his expression softened. He took a last drag of his cigarette and pushed it against the counter, putting it out. He glanced in the box to see a few needles and snatched one up, then he moved to the kitchen opening random drawers until he spotted a spoon. "I watched people do this s**t before." He stated. "I dunno the measurements but I'll just make it up as I go." He put the spoon next to the lunchbox and spotted a rubber band, he grabbed it throwing it next to the spoon then he let out a sigh. "Um..." He looked towards Valentine, almost waiting for some type of directions. Maybe he had a book laying around: How To Shoot Up Heroin For Dummies!

Yeah, that would come in handy just now.

"Uh... Looks like a dime bag I guess." He stated as he poured it on the spoon. He put a bit of water on the spoon as well and slowly moved the spoon back and forth, waiting for the heroin to dissolve. By the time he pulled out his lighter he realized it was dissolving without the heat. Well s**t, you didn't have to warm up heroin. Who would've thought? Once it looked finished up he put the syringe into the liquid and sucked it right up. He shook it, then began tapping it trying to move the air bubbles to the top. He took a deep breath and looked back at Valentine. So what? Now he was just gonna stab himself and they'd hope he didn't end up dead? He smiled and laughed. "I hope I die and you'll have two bodies to worry about." He grabbed the rubber band and put it high up on his arm, waiting for the vein to pop a bit. He took a deep breath and flinched. He had to admit. He was a bit scared of needles. He lightly stabbed it in his arm and exhaled. He slowly drew some blood, just to make sure he hit his vein. Then he went ahead and pressed the liquid into his arm.

His face got stuck in some orgasm-shock expression. He dropped the needle out and knelt over letting out a grunt. "UUUUGGGGAAAHHH!" He jumped up and down. "s**t THAT'S COLD!" So thatttsss why people always warm up the spoon before shooting up. He bit his bottom lip waiting for the ******** freezing sensation to stop swimming around his body. He reached for his lighter throwing it towards Valentine. "Hurry up, you're shooting up too. Do it before it hits me!" He called out, not wanting to get high himself... Or die alone. Whichever happened first.

[Cortisol]

R O G E R

“Hi.” Greyson said.
"Yo." Roger replied.

It was the textbook signs of battered woman syndrome. Only Greyson wasn’t a woman, Roger would know that, but a man. They should really change the terminology. But, it was written quite literally all over Greyson’s face. The abuse, the guilt, the feeling that he probably deserved it, the powerlessness. Roger for a moment just stared at Greyson’s face not saying anything. Once again Roger’s insides were jarred. Foreign emotions filling him up. Rage? Anger? Upsetness? Was upsetness even a word? Roger didn’t say anything. Kept his jaw clenched. Filling up the air between them with awkwardness and uneasiness. Jesus Christ, Greyson. You disappear for a week and turn up looking like this? How the ******** do you want me to react? Five hundred and fifty-three possibilities ran through his head on how he should respond. Should he pretend to ignore it? Should he make a joke about how the other guy looked? Should he ask what happened?

Then the crack of his shoulder and Greyson picked up a duffel bag. What was in the bag? Then he disappeared.

“Where are we going? Taking me to a fancy restaurant? A movie?” Roger asked casually as he stepped in foot with Greyson. He didn’t know where to look. Look at Greyson? No, better look forward. Anticipate. Expect the unexpected. Roger made a move like he was scratching his back, but instead felt the smooth handle of his 9mm. He wasn’t supposed to be wearing a gun. Reporters don’t carry around guns. He thought about dropping it somewhere. Detach the magazine, and throw away the gun. “Does it have anything to do with what’s in the bag? Is it a picnic?” It obviously wasn’t sporting equipment, or a ******** picnic. A dismembered body? Drugs? Weaponry? Kiddie porn? To just name a few of the things Roger personally found while looking through duffel bags. Was Roger supposed to ignore the bag too? ******** he needed a cigarette.

The swollen cheek. The ugly green and yellow and purple eye. The blotchy red nose. Was it broken? He should have gone to the hospital to make sure there wasn’t any internal injuries, or at least a clinic. They have hundreds of free clinics.

This wasn’t Greyson. He had lost weight. Roger would have rather seen Greyson angry or shouting or ******** harassing him. Than seeing him robotic and silent. Roger stepped in front of Greyson and stopped him. Held out his hands and pressed them to Greyson’s chest. “What’s in the bag, Greyson? If we’re going to do this together you have to tell me s**t so I know what’s going on. Fine.” Roger spoke dropping the causal tone in favor of a more serious one. Voice raising in intensity. “I'll give you some choices. You can talk to me about what’s in the bag, or what happened to your face, or about Marcello…or if you know about a dealer named Oscar.”

“Say something so that I know the blow to your face didn’t result in a brain injury! Otherwise I'm dragging you to a hospital.”

[Cortisol]

V A L E N T I N E

Valentine was only governed by one self-inflicted rule.
Never become addicted to the s**t that you’re selling…oh and never ******** with meth.

Valentine’s smile only grew when Holden agreed. Valentine knew he would, he knew, that was probably one thing he liked about Holden. Only one thing. Valentine didn’t go about making lists on the reasons why he liked somebody. That’s stupid. Valentine caught Holden’s eyes as Holden looked to him for guidance. ******** if Valentine knew. He just shrugged, “Don’t look at me. You’re the junkie baby.” Valentine got down low and stared at Holden’s hands. He curiously put his thumb in his mouth and bit what little nail he had off. “If you die on me I’ll s**t on your chest.” Valentine joked, but was probably serious. Right before Valentine was Holden’s how-to-shoot-up-heroin recording airing in real-time. It was more of a improv recording than a well scripted and rehearsed video. It was then when Holden freaked out that Valentine jumped back. He caught the lighter but with fumbling fingers and dropped it. ********.

He turned his sound system on. Music filled the kitchen area.

“I feel like I should have some background music for this s**t.” Valentine said as concentrated while following Holden’s impromptu steps. There really wasn’t a logical reason for Valentine to do it too, but then again he was probably more curious than he realized. Pouring powder on the spoon. Adding water. Watching it dissolve. “When the ******** did this become a chemistry class?” He rested his elbows on the counter and in one hand held the spoon and the other lit the lighter. It took like three times for the fire to catalyze. Valentine didn’t know how long to light the spoon for but he stopped when he saw the bubbles forming. Valentine tapped the syringe. He knew plunging pure oxygen into the blood vessels would explode the heart or something. He watched as blood entered the syringe before plunging the liquid into his veins.

“What’s it supposed to feel like? I don’t feel anything. This is stupid.” Valentine complained. It was then when a warming sensation tingled up his arm. Valentine dropped the syringe on the counter and walked over near Holden before sitting down. Back pressed against the counter. Feet stretched out. Staring forward. The DARE program lied about heroin. Valentine may have graduated at the eighth grade level but he still remembered the DARE program. It told him that it would hit you instantly. One hit and you’re addicted for life. One hit could kill you. Don’t try heroin. You’ll end up living on the streets and eating out of the dumpster. ******** lies.

It didn’t hit Valentine like a freight train. More like a tidal wave of warmness. It washed over his face into his head running, splashed down the back of his throat into his chest in which it exploded into sunshine dust. The sensation filled his stomach. Erased the nausea and anxiety. Erased the existence of pain at that moment it was as if Valentine had never felt pain before. Cured him of his own psychosomatic symptoms. When the sensational tidal wave hit his groin it filled his entire body with a feeling that reached beyond the peak of orgasm. Every muscle, every tension, every fiber of Valentine’s entire existence, had been relaxed and lulled in a sweet melody of euphoria.

“Holden…hey Holden…there’s a dead girl in my apartment.” Valentine tried talking. Wanting to make sure everything still worked properly. “I think this is the part of the movie where you're supposed to tell me a secret. I already told you mine...there's a dead girl in my apartment...now your turn.”

[U n d r a w n]

C a l e b


He let out a sigh, and luckily Roger followed along. “Where are we going?” He began to ask. Roger threw around some sarcastic guesses and Caleb ignored the first few. However, Roger began asking what was in the bag. Caleb shook his head. ”Just a walk. We’re just going for a walk.” He tried to convince Roger. Technically that was it for Roger, so it wasn’t even lying or anything.. Caleb would just tell him to wait there while he ran inside and dropped the bag and guns, then he’d go right back to Roger and the two would be able to walk back. Roger didn’t have to know what was happening. It was just a walk. It only took two more blocks, until the older male stepped in front of Caleb and put his arm out. Caleb looked up at Roger a bit dumbstruck. Why was he blocking his way? Not cool.

Roger really wanted to know what was in the bag. s**t. Bringing him along was a horrible idea. Last time Caleb went he got shot. So what? This time Roger might find out, or get mad and take the guns away. What happened then? A lot worse things than getting shot. Not death, though. Caleb knew Allen wouldn’t kill him. He wouldn’t let Caleb off so easily. He made that clear in the past. Caleb’s face went blank when Roger began to ask very... Specific questions. Roger ended up the sentence talking about bringing him to a hospital. A hospital? No. No Caleb could not end up at a hospital because of a few stomps to the face. Why was Roger doing this to him?! Say something so that I know the blow to your face didn’t result in a brain injury! ”Something.” Caleb responded - deciding to take care of that. He knew that’s not what Roger meant, but, it was a good stall none the less.

”I don’t know a Marcello.” Truth. ”I don’t know an Oscar.” Lie. Caleb brought drugs from Oscar quite a few times. Everyone had. He acted like he was tweaking all the time. Never shut up. He was famous for it. ”And I fell -” Fell down some stairs? Caleb couldn’t believe he almost used that excuse. He had to think up something more believable. ”You said you were writing about male prostitution. Why the ******** are you asking about drug dealers?” He decided to go ahead and just back away from the whole situation, if Roger wanted to attack Caleb and try to make him spill out all this information, Caleb could do the exact same thing. This man’s story wasn’t adding up either. Caleb felt a vibration in his pocket. It was Allen's cellphone. So that obviously meant it was one of the four people who had his phone number. "Shut up. Shut the ******** up." He stated towards Roger. "Hello?" He said after grabbing for the cellphone desperately and flinging it to the side of his head to answer quickly as possible.

I just got a call from Jared. They don't want the Glock 22.
"I don't know what a - that is."
[********, idiot. A handgun. One of the handguns. They aren't paying for it so bring it back to me. Don't let them have it.
"Are there any other hand ones?"
Yes.
"How do I tell them apart?"
The trigger.
"How?"
The trigger on the glock will be pointed more dramatically compared to the others.
"I don't get it."
The area of the gun that is over the trigger. It will be more square, and pointed outwards. The other's are more rounded compared to the 22.
"I... Don't...."

Caleb was trying hard to picture what Allen was talking about, but it was impossible. He didn't want to ask anything specific that would give away the gun topic like trigger. How was he supposed to ask his questions? Why aren't you speaking? Is somebody else there? Caleb was looking straight at Roger. "No." He could hear the satisfaction in Allen's tone. Good boy. Now hurry home. I don't want you getting caught with any of those. "Thank you. Bye." Then after Allen replied he hung up the phone and put it in his pocket. Caleb would ask Jared when he got there which was the Glock 22. He obviously couldn't start digging through the bag there on the street. He tried walking again. "Come on lets go. You're being crazy." He stopped after a few steps. "Actually I mean you can go. Was a fun walk. We should try it again sometime." He said trying to get away from Roger. He got bad feelings. Bad feelings about this errand. Bad feelings about Allen. Bad feelings about the guns. Bad feelings about Roger. He figured just listening to Allen and following his rules would keep him out of trouble like they always did. Caleb had to stop with the... Friends, and his little delusional dreams of being safe if he was around other people. It would just start trouble.

[Cortisol]

R O G E R

If Greyson felt the vibration then Roger heard the vibration.

That distinctive sound that conditioned the twenty-first century into immediately thinking it’s a cell phone. It was. Roger didn’t have to say anything because Greyson looked him in the eye and told him to shut up, oh excuse me, shut the ******** up. Roger knew how to play this game. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and stared at Greyson. The way he quickly flung the phone to his ear. Answering as quickly as possible. For fear of the consequences. The way he kept glancing at Roger. The way his voice dripped in fear and cracked. Did that person hit you, Greyson?

Then he heard it. Trigger. Trigger. Trigger. From the other end of the phone. He heard it three times and took his attention to the bag slung over Greyson’s shoulder. Roger really looked at the duffle bag, acting like if he stared long enough, he could see what was inside. Illegal transportation of weapons? No. Greyson said. Roger smiled. Case solved. The call ended. Greyson quickly stuffed the phone back in his pocket. He told Roger to come along, and then he took it back, and told him to go home.

Roger needed a new informant. This kid wasn’t going to talk…it was too late…Greyson was already psychologically ******** and controlled by that voice. There was no breaking that connection. Roger knew if he walked away he would never see Greyson again. He should have investigated the leads that Annabelle informed him about instead of wasting time on Greyson. Once again it was too late. Roger hated being late. Wanted to be early. But he was too late for Greyson.

Well, if that was the case then Roger should go out in style. “How about I pull a Sherlock Holmes and wow you with my skills?” Roger spoke dryly as he grabbed hold of the duffle bag and pushed Greyson away. More like shoved hard. The duffle bag was heavy…heavier than expected and it crashed to the sidewalk. ********. “You’re transporting guns…only some of them weren’t supposed to be here.” Roger unzipped the duffle bag and sure enough it was filled with handguns. “The caller was the one who hit you, right? So the question stands, are you delivering these to the caller or to somebody else?”

Roger then zipped the duffle bag back up. “You didn’t call me to talk…you were scared. You didn’t want to deliver this s**t alone. Cue you calling me. Which makes me think you’re bringing this to somebody else, and not the caller, but then, something went wrong, and the caller told you it was off and to come back before you get caught. Game over. I win. What’s my prize?” Roger had that smug look of satisfaction. None of this s**t applied to him. It was a waste of ******** time. Roger swung the duffle bag over his shoulder.

“Where are we going Greyson? You already implicated me in this s**t I might as well see it to the end. You were never going to talk to me. I have more important s**t to worry about. Like who killed Oscar and why.”

[U n d r a w n]

H o l d e n










”If you die on me I’ll s**t on your chest.” Holden laughed before answering, ”Oh shut the ******** up. You’d cry yourself to sleep like a p***y. Then you’d get framed for my murder. Then you’d go to jail for 25 to life, and cry about me some more.” Holden turned his head as he hear the radio get turned on. ”Well duh. Music makes everything better.” He watched as Valentine went ahead and set up his hit. Unlike Holden, he didn’t make the mistake of heating it, although he did bring it to a boil. ”Oi chill with that!” Holden yelled out. ”You’re not supposed to boil it. You ******** up the heroin and you lose the s**t.” Although Valentine obviously wasn’t stupid, he had already stopped realizing the mistake.

“What’s it supposed to feel like? I don’t feel anything. This is stupid.” Holden shrugged his shoulders. ”Sit down. Chill. It takes acid like 3o minutes to kick in. Maybe this is like....” Beautiful. His eyes opened wide as his pupils shrunk three sizes. He swore he could hear heavenly bells ringing in his ears. Time itself stopped just for Holden and he was able to hear the entire world singing in harmony.

“Holden... Hey Holden...” The words hit his body like a warm shower on a freezing day. He laughed. He slowly let his legs drop and he sat on the ground on the other side of the kitchen from Valentine. He was still laughing, it took a few moments for him to calm down. His brain grasp meaning on the words after a few moments and his giggles finally stopped. ”That’s not a secret. I can already see that.” He stated - pointing out the obvious observation. What secret was Valentine looking for? Holden’s brother molested him when he was younger? That some b***h gave him Chlamydia once and he had to go through the hassle of treating it and getting rid of the STD? That he took credit for a suicide and never really murdered anyone before? Sure, Holden had lots of secrets and his high, overly comfortable body wanted to throw them all out and then admire how the floor felt against his body some more. It didn’t work like that though. ”I think God made your kitchen floor.” He said slowly sinking down and rubbing his cheek against it. ”That’s our secret. That God made your kitchen floor. My secret is I'm not supposed to be here.” He rolled over laughing, putting his back against the ground looking up at the ceiling. "I'm not supposed to be here at all."

The lights above his head were beautiful. It was like becoming part of a rainbow. The elegant colors were glowing and shining in every-which direction. Obviously God made those lights too. He slowly twisted his body until he got a better look at Valentine. ”Can we spray-paint your apartment?” He asked pulling a spray can out from his backpack. Holden liked to graffiti, and right now there was this ringing in his ear that was telling him to paint up the music on the walls that he was listening to. "We have to graffiti everything." Holden said sitting up.

[Cortisol]

V A L E N T I N E

Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.

Valentine realized if the whole world experienced what Valentine was feeling than everybody would be happy. Nobody would hurt anybody ever again. Nobody would have to be in pain ever again. Everything would be beautiful. Everything would reach nirvana. Valentine watched as Holden’s body melted to the kitchen floor and then he closed his eyes. He could see the music behind his eyelids. Like a symphony of images and sound parading around in the inky blackness of his consciousness. When Holden began speaking about the origins of his kitchen floor he opened his eyes. His fingers brushed against the cool black tiles and then he followed Holden’s lead and pressed his cheek against the floor. Not breaking his attention away from Holden. It was cold, but the cold couldn’t reach Valentine, nothing could reach Valentine.

“You’re supposed to be here…God put you on this Earth to help me move the body just like he made my kitchen floor. Isn’t that wonderful? Your existence is beautiful. But I think my kitchen floor is probably more beautiful.”

He watched as Holden rolled onto his back and stared up at the lights. The prism of color flickering. The true colors of white light revealed. Then Holden turned back to him, pulled himself up, and held out a spray can. Spray paint Valentine’s apartment? That was the most genius of suggestions Valentine had heard. “It’s funny you say that…I happen to own a spray can!” Valentine said as he opened up a cupboard and pulled out a pink-topped canister. The world did not exist outside of Valentine’s apartment. “That wall is the canvas to the world.” Valentine said as he stumbled into a standing position. His arms and legs were slightly retarded.

“I used to watch Dumbo when I was a kid…my favorite scene was the pink elephants. I can’t believe I lived here without pink elephants on my walls.” Valentine said as he began to spray paint a pink salmon color all over the white wall. It was then when he was spraying did he think of his mother. Watching that movie over and over while his mother curled up beside him. Knowing that as long as Valentine was in her arms nothing could happen to him. He was safe. Her skin painted in blues and purples and greens and yellows. Valentine couldn’t remember his mother’s face. Why couldn’t he remember her face? Just her flesh. But, he could remember his face. “You know what pink elephants mean? It’s a term for drunken hallucinations.” Valentine laughed so hard he almost cried. Almost.

********. Why did Valentine have to remember that memory? “More! Spray paint the s**t out of my apartment! You’re not doing it right!” He shouted to Holden.

[U n d r a w n]

C a l e b


Caleb hung up and Roger was all frustrated with him. “How about I pull a Sherlock Holmes and wow you with my skils?” What skills? No. Caleb didn’t like being surprised. He took a step back in a defensive matter as Roger moved forward grabbing the bag and pushing Caleb away. Panic smacked him over the head. ”Stop!” He whined as if Roger were a parent taking a chocolate bar away from him saying: No sweets before dinner. The bag fell to the ground and Caleb flinched even though they were all not loaded and on safety. He still felt like they’d go off for some reason. Roger went on to explain exactly what Caleb was doing. Transporting guns. The caller. Asking him to come because he was scared. He won. What was his prize. Roger swung the bag over his shoulder asking where they were going.

No. What the ********? Instead of pure fear and shock of Roger seeing right through everything it all transferred into one blast of frustration. Everybody was smarter than him. Everybody was stronger than him. Everybody was freer than him. Everybody was more laid back and relaxed because none of anything he was involved with had to do with them. Everybody was all healthy and not in pain. That wasn’t fair! And why the hell did Roger get to be so smart and just know everything all the time?! He leaned over shoving his hands over his mouth letting out a shriek that was muffled by his hands. A long, hard, screech. Once he stood up back he was huffing and puffing feeling like socking somebody in the face. ”What do you mean Oscar is dead?!” Was the second thought going through his head after the thought of punching Roger escaped his head. Caleb was supposed to pick up some coke and other uppers from him later this week. He was gone? What the hell did that mean for him? What was he supposed to do now? He was already getting the shakes. Would he be expected to stay awake without them?

No. No drugs. Allen. He had to keep Allen in mind and finish this. He had to get the guns to Jared and the others. His eyes landed back on Roger who had the bag of guns over his shoulder. He didn't know what to make of the man anymore, all he knew was this guy was bad news for him. Someone would catch him with Roger and he'd get in so much trouble. Allen would be outraged if he found out Caleb had a... Friend. They only walked two more blocks before Caleb stopped him. "You can't come no more. Nobody can see you, you have to stay here." The apartment complex was only a few buildings away. He grabbed the duffle bag again and quickly tried to make it to the apartment room.

Last time Caleb was here the four males harassed him. Why? Well, just because they could. Survival of the fittest. Okay, no. Luckily it wasn’t survival of the fittest. Caleb would’ve been the first to go. He was malnourished, weak, sick, and sleep deprived basically all the time. He turned the doorknob and flinched as he walked through. “Well, well. ******** sent over his little pet?” The man on the couch asked, standing up and moved towards Caleb. ”Please just give me the money so I can be on my way. I need to go home.” Caleb stated as he blankly stairs towards the floor. “Who ******** up your face?” Once ask, noticing how Caleb had taken an obvious beating lately. ”My face is fine. Here are the guns. Please just pay me.” He glanced up from the floor at the one who he was talking to. Caleb didn’t even know his name. The man stood up and walked over, putting his fingers on Caleb's chin, forcing his head to be pointed right at his face. "Who did this to your face? It's story time." Caleb's eyes darted around the room trying to find something to look at that wasn't the males face. "I..." Embarrassment much? Why did he always have to be humiliated each time he came here?

"Bit down. Was getting ******** and I bit down because I couldn't breathe for too long. I didn't mean to -" The man let go of Caleb's face and began laughing. "Oh Allen would!" Caleb shook his head. "It wasn't Allen. The man got mad and kicked me out and din't want me ever again. Allen got mad at me and gave me back to him for a night free and said he could do whatever he wanted if he'd want me again in the future..." The man pulled the duffle bag towards the couch and sat down opening it up, looking through the guns. "Good salesmanship." He commented. "... He said if I couldn't give head right I didn't deserve a face." Caleb muttered quietly, replaying the scene in his head. "Didn't want this one." The glock 22 was slid across the coffee table and fell on the floor as the man was digging through them making sure they were all there. "Sore throat then, I assume?" He asked looking up at Caleb. Sore didn't even begin to describe it. Each time he swallowed it stung and his throat felt raw and scratchy. Because as everybody said: Practice makes perfect. And Allen wanted to make sure it never happened again. "Hey Jared! Allen's b***h is here!" He screamed over his shoulder. Jared only took a few moments to walk through into the living room. That was the one who shot him last time. Another stranger held Caleb down and Jared made him beg for his life holding the gun up to his face. He shot him anyways to test out the gun. Obviously since Caleb's life wasn't worth s**t nobody cared if he tested it on him.

He was very tense, waiting for Jared and the stranger to work out the gun situation, then the stranger pulled out a wad of cash throwing it at Caleb, who missed it. He bent down grabbing the cash - each bill was a 1oo dollar bill. He then moved over grabbing the glock they didn't want and managed to fit it into his pocket. "Tell Allen to close up early Thursday. He can ask Robert if he wants to know the details." Caleb nodded his head and quickly rushed out of the room.

He darted back to where he left Roger trying to make sure he was still there. Yup. "Okay. Okay lets go. Lets go now. Where are you going now? I'll walk you there." He said, a bit squeamish. Seeing Jared brought up all the suppressed memories he didn't want to think bout.

[Cortisol]

R O G E R

In Roger's opinion.
People like Greyson walked around with the words SAVE ME written all over their faces.
Only those people haven't yet looked in the mirror yet so they are completely ignorant.

There was something in Greyson’s eyes that jarred his organs. His palms became sweaty. A pleading, hysterical request transmitted from Greyson to Roger, and Roger…Roger handed over the duffle bag without a word. Roger stayed put, cemented to the crumbling concrete, for exactly forty-three seconds before following Greyson. He knew because he counted as slowly as possible. Roger only stopped when he saw Greyson entering an apartment building, before turning back around, and walking to the nearest payphone. Again it reeked of vomit and piss. Lovely. He dropped coins in and dialed. Roger liked payphones. They were harder to trace. He kept a cell phone which accepted incoming calls and messages. But he liked payphones more.

“Hello?” The rough voice asked. Confusion and irritation in his voice.
“It’s Roger. I need Fitzpatrick down here. I just witnessed a delivery of fifty or so hand guns being delivered to [apartment name at street number].” Roger said his voice low, body hunched over the payphone. Fitzpatrick was the name of his partner. The one who got diarrhea and went home the day that he met Greyson.
“Do you know what room number and who lives there?”
“No, that’s why he needs to get the surveillance tapes and make copies of them. This kid knows about Oscar. But, I don’t think he’ll tell me anything.”
“If he’s not going to tell you s**t arrest the whore and we’ll interrogate him here.”
“I can’t. I’m a reporter, remember?” Roger said dryly.
“Stop being a smart a**. Do you have anything on Marcello yet?”
“Yeah, I got various tips earlier today I’ll investigate before I get back…I have to go. Get Fitzpatrick down here! Have him make copies and put them in my mailbox.”
Click.

"Yo." he spoke. Raising his hand.

Roger was back to his original spot before Greyson came back. The duffle bag missing, and something in his pocket. A gun? Greyson was acting very enthusiastic. The original meaning of the word not the diluted elementary vocabulary of today. Showing intense eagerness it's borderline madness. He debated on arresting Greyson, get him off the streets, away from those people, but it would blow Roger’s cover and everything he worked so hard for would be ruined. Roger wasn’t the person to let one person ruin his career. Where WAS Roger going?

“I’m going to do research at the Million Dollar Saloon.” Roger spoke calmly sticking his hands in his own pockets and staring up at the ink sky. It was a high end strip club. High rollers were only allowed. If it was a casino they would call them whales. Annabelle namedropped it as a place Marcello would be. If Marcello often made an appearance than the strippers would know something. “Drugs and prostitution make a very pretty pair don’t you think?” Roger began walking in the direction of the strip club. For a moment he was silent. Then looked over at Greyson. Then Roger turned cruel, but his voice remained monotone. “I won’t see you again after tonight will I? You never intended on telling me anything from the very beginning. But it’s okay. I will find somebody who wants out of the business. Oscar supplied drugs to prostitutes. Now he’s dead. What will you do now Greyson? Have you reached oblivion yet?”

Oblivion was a reoccurring motif for victims of sexual assault. A psychological state. The state of being forgotten. Where they feel absolutely nothing at all. They damaged their body to the point where they lose all sense of reality. Copious amounts of drugs and sex and abuse. Self-mutilation. Anything to erase themselves. Caught somewhere between nonliving and psychosis. It’s the final stage before death. Especially those victims who were molested, sexually assaulted, emotionally and physically abused. They wanted to be forgotten they wanted to forget themselves. To feel absolutely nothing at all. Textbook psychology.

“Why do you stay? Why don’t you just kill him? It's a double edged sword, isn't it? If you kill him...then you're left alone. But, if you don't, you'll keep ending up like that...and maybe next time...next time you'll just die. You're betting on the latter because if you die then you don't have to make a decision. ”

[U n d r a w n]

H o l d e n










After Valentine said Holden was supposed to be there - he was right! Everything felt so... Heavenly. Everything was perfect. He was supposed to be here, wasn’t he? As Valentine stood up to graffiti and wreck the apartment Holden ripped himself from the floor as well grabbing the black can of spray paint. That’s what he spent many nights doing. Bullshitting his time away and grafitting the walls, and streets. He hated walls that were empty brick... Black holes of nothingness. Everywhere should be colorful. ”I never sawed Dumbo.” He said, stumbling over his words(using the wrong one in the “saw” case). He moved over to the carpet and drew a circle on the carpet around his feet. ”I drew the circle of life from Bambi!” He began laughing because Valentine was laughing. ”I mean symbol lion!” He moved over to the dead girl and shook up the can, then only drew a half-circle around her. Her circle of life was... Well dead really. She was dead too. ”Pink elephants!” He shouted in between laughter. ”I like that! Pink elephants!”

More. More. He wasn’t doing it right? He looked back down at the circles on the carpet and ran over to the wall and started shaking the can. ”Gotta jack off the cans until they blow!” He said laughing. Him and his graffiti group would always make jokes about that back when they were younger. The shaking motion was just like jacking off and the spray paint coming out of the can was like... Well... Fairly obvious what that was like. He drew a shaky stick figure and made it look like he was holding up the wall. Then he ran over to Valentine and slammed his hand against his back. Psssffff was heard as he painted right over his hand - leaving a print of his hand on the back of his sweatshirt. He laughed and moved backwards before jumping up spritzing dots on the ceiling. ”Now I’m making the stars in the sky!” He screamed. Because everything was glowing. All the colors everywhere looked like they were brilliant and each blob of paint they were using to wreck the apartment looked like brilliant master pieces that he was jealous of not having in his own apartment.

4o minutes. He used up two spray paint cans and covered anything he could. Walls, the couch, the carpet, the chairs(he tried making a fake whoopie cushion on one), the ceiling, and his own body was quite frankly covered in paint. The air in the room was thick and suffocating. It smelt like spray paint. He obviously would have noticed it 5 seconds into pulling out the can and put his shirt over his mouth but being high, he honestly couldn’t do anything but enjoy the suffocating feeling. It was hard to keep his eyes open. His body didn’t feel like standing anymore and kept trying to give in. So, he slowly gravitated towards the couch and sat down. ”Dude...” He muttered. He glanced over at Valentine to see how he was feeling.

Was he still high? Was he dying? A ticking painful feeling in his skull began to bang off, but Holden didn’t care. He was too tired. His eyes shut and he went out like a lamp muttering, ”How tired are you?” He didn’t even stay up long enough to find out how awake Valentine was.