This is part of a book I began writing about two or three years ago, a book called
The Coyote. I haven't put too much time into it, but with the time I have put in I have compiled about two and a half chapters worth of writing. This is the first half of the first chapter of the book. I'd like to hear what you all think; constructive criticism is very welcome. Thanks.
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Disclaimer:
This is NOT a story for children. It contains some profanity, graphic heroin use, and some sexual themes. Just a warning.
Chapter One
Ryan Jones sat on the iced ground a few feet from the road. His eyes were pinned to the bend far down the road, at a point where the asphalt snaked out of the rolling hills and began tracing the edges of a gated lake. Erratic anxiety shivered through his skin as he watched and waited, hoping for the pair of golden lights descend upon him, give him what he needed. Each time the wrong car passed, he would curse and ask himself the same questions,
Where the fuck is he? Why the fuck does he always have to take his sweet ass time?
The word “Fuck” came out of his mouth, but it left more as liquid than it did as air.
Jerry was always late. He was never early. He was never on time.
The anger and exasperation made him shake his head, instantly regretting it as the agony of movement tore away at his spine. Squinting at the pain, he stopped moving and began to breathe in and out slowly. The cold air that entered and left his body felt like frigid splinters against the inside of his throat and chest. From there the cold tendrils swept through his body razor sharp, coalescing like packed worms in his head, arms, and legs; his skin crawled.
Ryan wiped away a layer of sweat from his brow with his sleeve. He was wearing a long-sleeve thermal shirt, which over the weeks had turned from white to gray; from misuse and overuse the shirt had become very dingy. Along with that, the shirt was also very well ventilated; strewn across it were various holes of various sizes, none bigger than the width of a dime. Through the craters, Ryan’s cold white skin could be seen, suggesting that if the shirt had been clean the holes might be less visible. The ends of his sleeves (when they weren’t pulled over his knuckles) hung frayed and droopy.
He pulled his red hands from his armpits and began rubbing them together fervently. He warmed them with his breath, then stuck them back under his arms. He looked straight ahead at the road, concentrating his squeezed eyes on one of the broken white lines. The line was stark white against the black asphalt. After a minute of staring he closed his eyes, slowly, and looked at the inverted picture on the back of his eyelids. With his eyes closed, the tarry smell of the new asphalt became more noticeable. The smell was nauseating, mephitic. The oblique stench cut through the air the way oil does with water. He opened his eyes and looked straight ahead, but this time beyond the road.
On the other side was a piece of shit fence that was so mangled, broken, and useless that it served only as another excuse to support his antipathy for his neighborhood. Beyond (and partially surrounded by) the fence was a small body of water called White Lake. Ryan liked to think of the lake as “a giant puddle” because of the nature of its depth; it was abnormally shallow. Sometimes you would be driving down the road and suddenly see a cow (or two) standing in the middle of the lake . . . just standing there with only their legs submerged. . . . At the thought Ryan slightly shook his head, but stopped and winced as he felt his spine screech. It felt like it would sound: like a rusty door hinge. He waited for the sudden pain to fade away before allowing his eyes to drift.
Ryan tried to let his mind wander, but that didn’t work. Thinking became more of a forced task. After a while he could no longer distract his mind from the pain. It would eventually creep back up on him. It would soak through his skin—sink into his bones. It would asphyxiate his marrow into frozen cherry popsicles—these threatened to shatter at the subtlest of movement. Even though it was very difficult to do, he would try to keep still. Even in his stagnancy he would be tormented; the silence around him would ease slowly into a sharp Ring that, once it broke through his ears, would continue to claw at his brain. The Ring’’s invisible hands would stretch out his brain like pizza dough (though, with less ease), tie it to an electric horse wire, then prod it with a sizzling soldering iron—in and out. He would try not to think about it, but it would just continue to pursue him (in and out), oscillating louder and heavier than before. He could clench his fists or his teeth, he could shake his head, he could bite his tongue—but it still wouldn’t go away.
Then a car would pass.
The ringing would flee, but the short moment of relief would soon be supplanted with fear. Fear that the car that just passed him was Jerry’s, that his skag had just passed him up and there was nothing he could do. After a few seconds he would realize that it was the wrong car.
In due time he was able to bring his focus back to the lake, which brought him to think about how much he disliked his neighborhood. He wanted to move somewhere nice as soon as he was out of high school—It’s only eight months, Ryan—somewhere like California, yeah that would be nice. He pictured an azure summer sky, the sun shining bright and warm. He pictured himself on a sandy beach; a wet, rocky foundation to his left, the ocean a calm blue, and to his right and lying on the sand, his beautiful girlfriend, Jessica, wearing that nice little bikini and smiling her gorgeous smile. Oh God, her smile. . . . He always felt warm and happy when she smiled, no matter the situation. Ryan walked over to her, laid down next to her and kissed her deeply, his lips speaking to her soft, I love you.
Then the sky turned dark, the warmth gone, Jessica gone, the beach—all gone. It took a few seconds for him to realize where he was. Jerry was sitting in his car right in front of him, honking his horn and yelling at him,
“Whaterya hypnotized! C’mon, let’s go! Ain’t got all day,” his hand slapping against the metal exterior of the car as he leaned over the seat.
Ryan quickly stood up, trying to ignore the bursting of his bones, the intrusive irritation of every little detail paining him, and he walked languidly to the passenger door. His movements closely resembled that of a zombie’s, but his were slightly more animated and quick, like a zombie who’d just seen sautéed brains on a platter of gold. When Ryan reached the long car door he poked his head in, wanting to tell him “You’re late,” but feeling maybe he shouldn’t; besides, Jerry was here now and nothing else mattered but getting his H.
“Have a nice little nap?” inquired Jerry, smiling slightly, reaching into his pocket.
“I might as well have brought a fuckin sleeping bag with you taking so long.”
“I was caught up with other things.”
“As you always are.” Ryan numbed as he watched Jerry toss a brownish bag onto the red velvet seat.
Jerry looked up at him, eyes full of impatience, “Be thankful I come to you. It could be the other way around. But—”
Ryan pulled out a bundle of money, “You know I pay you well.” He dropped it on the seat.
Jerry smiled, “Right.” He picked up the money nonchalantly and licked his thumb, counting each bill carefully. As he did this, Ryan picked up the bag of heroin and examined it under the soft, night light. Once they were each satisfied with their trade they looked at each other. Ryan’s countenance was a sort of awkward mixture of relief and panicked eagerness. Jerry’s usually bland and emotionless face now had a slight tinge of contentment etched into it. Ryan didn’t notice. Ryan cleared his throat and said thanks, then turned to walk away. Jerry didn't respond. He just rolled up the passenger window and turned around. The loud thunder of Jerry’s '79 Chevy Malibu now only seemed like a dim, watery bass tone to Ryan. His fixation on scoring now seemed to mask out all his senses.
Jerry was soon out of sight and Ryan fled back to the park—anywhere he could go to have some privacy. He came up to one of the jungle gyms and pulled himself up. The mesh-like metal floor clanked beneath his feet as he approached a small plastic tunnel. He carefully entered the short tube and sat down. The inner breast pocket of his coat contained five objects: a syringe, a needle, a lighter, a spoon, and a cotton ball. He was about to retrieve them until he remembered that he needed water. He then crawled back out of the tube, vexed, and hopped back off the jungle gym. Across a thin, asphalt trail was a water fountain. Ryan walked hurriedly to it and pressed on the metal button. He pressed it again and again, hitting it harder each time, but yet no water came forth. Clank! Clank! Clank! Clank! . . . CLANK!
“FUCK!” he yelled, furious. He looked around for a second until he remembered there was a restroom next to the picnic tables. As he walked there he could feel his bones shattering and re-freezing, over and over. A heavy cloud began to descend and choke him with fear; The fibers of his body and mind shook, hoping so dearly that the sink in the restroom worked.
He approached the door, opened it, and stumbled in, fumbling frantically for the light switch. Finally he found it, but when no light came on he was consumed with dread. Suddenly, the light began to flicker, eventually stopping and filling the room with dull light. Ryan exhaled deeply with relief and walked instantly to the toilet seat. He paid no attention to the broken mirror. Paid no attention to the toilet paper rolled and plastered all over the splintered concrete. No attention to the words written and smeared on the walls. No attention to the shit, piss, and come splattered all over the toilet seat. There was a drawing on the toilet lid as he set it down.
The drawing was phallic. He paid no attention.
Ceremoniously, he pulled out each item from his pocket, individually, and set them gently on the ceramic sink. His face was frozen in a blank stare.
Everything seemed systematic, yet flooded with shaky anticipation. He held the spoon with frugal hands and heated the water with his metal lighter. Carefully balancing the spoon, he placed a small bit of heroin into the water and stirred it around with the needle tip. Once it dissolved he placed the cotton wad into the mixture, then with the syringe he sucked everything up (except the cotton of course) into its glass chamber. He set the empty spoon down and screwed on the needle, then set the syringe down as well. He only had one purpose for the belt he wore, and this was it: he undid the buckle and slipped it off fast, then wrapped it around the upper part of his thin arm. He clenched his fist tight and pumped his arm back and forth, occasionally stopping in between to tap the tired vein. When its blue membrane reluctantly surfaced, he sank his teeth into the end of the belt, holding it taut and firm. He moved the metal arm on the buckle away (so as to keep it from catching in one of the belt holes when it came time for him to let up some slack); he kept the belt tightly drawn.
He grabbed his syringe.
As time seemed to slow down, so did his movements; he let the taut belt go limp, slowly pushed the needle into his vein, deep, until a bead of red blood rose up. His thumb pushed down on the plunger, letting only a quick flash shoot through. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking in a deep breath of cold air and shuddering slightly as he exhaled. Then he pulled the plunger back, letting blood bloom within the rusty mix, then pushing the rest into his vein nice and sloooow, until the tube was completely empty. The sudden rush rose up in him like a buoy held deep under water. The buoy was released. It rocketed to the surface. He was a hot slice of toast with melting butter seeping through him. He let the butter ooze away until he was cold and soggy and limp.
[EDIT: I shortened the post to only half the chapter. I will post the other half after this thread is finished]
