Péturalagiđ (Peter's Song)

I.1

I am.2

I am...3

Pete.4

I am Pete.5

Staring in the mirror, needle in hand, I grinned. I grinned despite the hatred, despite the ongoing anger building up in my chest. The world was a fast blur around me, the bathroom walls suddenly turning yellow instead of their white. The sky, black.6

I studied my face. Sunken eyes, cheekbones, chapped lips. Bruises that will heal, scars that will not. There was a tiny cut right next to my left eye, thanks to my overgrown nails clawing at me when I slept. My right eye still swelled a little from when Giorgio punched me, but it was healing. Slowly, but still healing.7

"It will all be all right," Gary had promised me when I first moved in. He was sweetly naive; his innocence broke my heart. I wanted to agree and say, "I know." But I knew of a different truth: my time would be coming soon.8

Now I was homeless, stuck in a gas station bathroom, ready to vanish.9

My life is one of those weepy rock songs - almost a bittersweet power ballad. There were pathetically melancholic vocals backed up by a slow guitar, probably acoustic. I could imagine this song being played at concerts, fan girls singing along under their breath. Tears in their eyes. They wouldn't want to admit how they feel powerless towards this song; it's their "life story," more or less.10

What a bunch of schlock.11

I hummed softly to myself the sounds of an old Beatles tune. I let the melody slip out of me through the vibrations of my throat, deep and hoarse. The world was eerily quiet, but I liked the silence. For once in my life, a room without music was a room that was livable.12

The shifting sounds of creaking tiles was what startled me; I almost shoved the needle into my pocket. But by now, it was too late. There was no turning back, no reaching out for another shot at life. The gun had been fired and was out of ammo.13

I lifted the needle to my arm, ready to slip out of my body and into another life. The pinch was terribly painful, and I screamed out. Realizing my outburst had been inappropriate, I slapped myself repeatedly until my lip, which had just healed, oozed blood.14

My head against the wall, I slid down slowly until I was on the floor, my body tangled and sloppy. I crawled over to a bathroom stall, where I locked myself. I let myself trace the little acts of childish graffiti: "JEN WUZ HERE." "JENN LUVS MIKE 4EVA." "UR SHIT SMELLS BAD."15

Waiting was the worst part. I felt my head ache, but it was no severe trauma. I was no wimp; I could survive a little headache. I told myself, I'm man enough, I can handle this. This is easy.16

Then my stomach clenched, and I was suddenly overwhelmed with nausea. I thought to myself, God, this is taking forever. I should have just blasted myself.17

I waited and waited, but still I was conscious. I thought things through. Maybe I hadn't taken enough to cause any damage. Damn, I knew I should have had a few more injections!18

The room began to spin, and suddenly I was vomiting yellow into the toilet, my head heavy. My dizziness was a familiar dizziness, only a bit more severe than usual. You have not thrown up for real unless you are a drug addict, that's for sure. I coughed it up more and more, suddenly clammy and shaky. My vision was a little off, but I knew there was blood.19

My throat burned, as did my insides. I clenched my stomach and leaned over. Now I was only spitting up blood and water. Just a little while longer, baby...just a little more time...20

The room became increasingly hot. Sweat drenched me head to toe, and my shirt clung to my chest like a lover. I was delirious, shaking and muttering.21

My mother's voice haunted me, her singsong sighs and smile lighting up my mind. Her eyes sparkling, she sang to me. I loved it when my mother sang to me, despite my age, despite my independence. Oh, Mother. I softly cried as I reached out for her, only to come into contact with a vomit-covered toilet seat.22

Her voice whispered and soft, she sang a song of sunshine and rain, of clouds and sky. She was the soft drizzle after a week of drought, or a rainbow after a storm. There was no analogy to describe the beauty that was my mother, especially now of all times.23

I ached for my guitar; I ached to write one last song. I needed just one more time to hum to myself, to sing along with my mother, to pluck a G chord. It was the chord of happiness of glee; it was the chord of hope.24

The world was slipping from me, I could feel it. My plan was finally working. I shivered, somehow cold despite my sweat. My hands and feet were icy. Hugging my knees to my chest, I lay down.25

Mother, Mother...26

I closed my eyes.27

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