I stared off into space. Rainbows and storm clouds and seraphs danced across my face, leaving a trail of footsteps so light I could barely tell they were there. The little angels' feet fairly imprinted my cheeks and created neon outlines that made me glow as though I'd survived Chernobyl, but only the Chernobyl of comic books. The radiation of their touch burned me the bone and I screamed inside my heart, though no sound emerged.
Then He appeared and told me to stop screaming. His fingers turned into tentacles and wrapped around my throat. They snaked into my mouth and curled in my stomach, nesting there, impregnating me with His babies. The tentacles withdrew as His children grew and He stared at me as my gut burst open and I gave a bloody birth to His young.
It was He. Always He.
He was Brett.
He was my God these days.
The seraphs disappeared. I knew I was in the living room of my sister Margaret's house. I turned and remembered my surroundings, then let my eyes settle on baby sister as she calmly watched a movie on the TV before us. I looked on the coffee table next to the couch and saw a glass pipe sitting there, the residue of my addiction clinging to the inside of the bowl. Next to the pipe was a dirty spoon, also covered in residue, with a lighter haphazardly placed in between.
"Margaret," I said. My sister didn't turn.
"What, Paul?"
I paused. "Did I do it again?"
Another pause. "Yes, Paul."
"Did I threaten you?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Now watch the movie."
I tried, but I couldn't take my eyes off the pipe, the spoon, and the lighter. "Margaret," I said again.
"What?"
I turned to look at her and suddenly became entranced. I'd thought that when the seraphs disappeared, my high was over. Now I knew I was wrong – my sister's hair captivated me for now reason, chestnut brown and flowing down her back. I stared at it as I'd stared at the tools of my habit.
I had to touch it.
"Margaret, Margaret," I murmured gently, "let me touch your hair." I leaned toward her but she caught my hand when I came close and locked it into an Amazonian death grip, then threw it away, still looking at the TV.
"Never," she hissed. "I've seen you tear at your hair. You won't touch mine."
"Please, my darling, I beg you." This happened a lot, the change in my speech. Sometimes, when the powder turned to liquid and flowed through my veins, I spoke like an English lord. "I have to touch it, Margaret. I won't tear it, I swear."
"No, Paul." She swatted me away as I moved closer. When I kept moving, she slapped me. The liquid powder took that pain away.
"Stay away from me," she seethed. "You're high and you'll hurt me like last time. You stay away."
"Darling sister," I plead, still reaching though she hit me. I couldn't feel her anger and I couldn't feel her hurt – I was wrapped in a glorious smattering of color too bright to look at steadily.
"Paul, stop," she protested. I pushed her down and held my hands free of her neck – I'd choked her one while the drug in me raged and I swore I'd never hurt her again. And I wouldn't.
I just had to touch her hair.
The angels penetrated my mind and pulled at the collar of my shirt, trying to push my face into Margaret's chest as they sprinkled pounds of snow into my nose and mouth. My high took me by the throat and slammed me against an imaginary wall. The seraphs joined in and I felt myself being battered by something unreal.
"They're pushing me again, Margaret," I whispered. "They're pushing me down. They're got me by the throat. You know it's not me." I was in agony not to hurt her. Silence reigned as I battled my beautiful demons. Silence was their enemy – the seraphs screamed in tyrannical protest to their new king, the Suppression of Sound, and the noise tore open the inside of my skull. My overcoat of color dripped off my skin like acid, taking bits of flesh and blood with it, and I opened my mouth in a horrendous scream that never came out.
"Paul, Paul." Margaret had her hands on either side of my face, calling me back to my own world. Her prior anger toward me was gone.
She was afraid.
For a moment, the seraphs held tighter than my sister ever could. And then they were gone.
I collapsed on Margaret for a brief moment, but then the irradiated angels were back again. They ripped at my clothes and hair – they made me do the same to myself.
Margaret watched me destroy my own body and screamed for me to stop. Her voice, loud as it was, became a tiny echo. The words were lost to me. She wanted me to stop tearing but she couldn't see the seraphs. No one could. She didn't know how they tortured me whenever I inhaled the powder or how I had to keep inhaling it because otherwise my mind would devour itself even faster.
I had to get them off. They were burning my soul, drenching it in Agent Orange, gassing it like the Nazis.
I grabbed each side of my skull and began to pull it apart. The pain in my head was great, but not greater than the pain in my core. The angels tore at me, bit me, and behind them I saw Him – my God.
Brett.
I saw Him commanding the seraphs to destroy me. And they were destroying me. I ripped and ripped and ripped until I could no longer see, and then I fell into the blackness.
His babies took over my mind – Brett's babies took over my life. They got me hooked on that Columbian snow, breathing it in whenever I could, and as they grew, they took on the innocent look of naked toddlers with wings.
Brett's seraphs took over my mind.
My friend, Brett, my new God, stood back and watched them work.
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