The Need 7

All the characters are fictional and as such, they do not endorse the use of drugs in any way. The drugs do not function in any way other than a plot and characterisation device. Other than that, enjoy the story.

-The Need-

Chapter 1. Dreams

Funny things are those dreams. They come in many shapes and forms, but one thing that unites them is that every one of us has got one. Well, apart from those suffering from depression. And I don't mean those self-obsessed asses that wallow in self-pity and, I note, look for a fuckin' loudspeaker so that every available auditory organ could hear them. No, when I speak of depression, I mean those people who don't even want to consider the distant possibility of the existence of sunshine, let alone seeing it. They're so deep in their pit of despair that they don't even realise they're in it. They lose their ability to evaluate themselves, you know, the type of thing where you look at the given situation and basically realise "Oh, shit, it's actually not that bad". With those people, there's nothing else, except for the problem. And gradually, well, the original problem slithers out of the person's head, leaving a track of toxic, slimy mucus behind itself. Remember what I said about dreams and those suffering from depression? Well, it's sort of ironic how sometimes dreams themselves are the very thing behind one's demise.

* * *

I was woken up by a slamming door. The sound reverberated through the metallic structure of the building, but it took a fuckin' long time for it to reverberate into my sleepy brain.

I opened my eyes and realising that there wasn't anyone with an axe at the foot of my bed, I decided to politely enquire about the identity of my intruder "Who the fuck is here?" was the extent of my courtesy. I somewhat slurred it, but managed to keep my voice as LOUD AS POSSIBLE! Yeah, I sounded drunk, drunk like that short, fat man who sings in his balcony on Friday nights, with a bottle of vodka in one hand for top-ups. Anyway, a voice called back "It's me!" even though it didn't sound as enthusiastic as my drunk, short, fat man's impersonation; at least the voice had a name – Dan. Dan's safe. He - acquaintintin. I yawned. Me, now, sleep. Brain – shut down.

But before it could do just that, oh why, oh why, oh why did I have to feel fluid trickling down my lips and my chin and my jaw? I opened my eyes, put my right hand to my nose and then looked at my fingers – not again... Half-way in self-delusion, I stretched out my left arm and blindly searched for some kind of tissue material thingy to stop the bleeding, but only managed to knock a few plastic bottles off my bedside table. Brilliant.

I sat up, propping myself on elbows and scanned the hall that was my bedroom. Nothing of use. Then I heard a noise coming from what I called "Come in or Get the fuck out space" – a sort of a foyer, but more like a corridor, though quite wide, squashed between a bathroom and a weird indentation that looked like a giant had borrowed the corner of an otherwise brilliantly square building and then magically come up with a wall that blended in with the other four. Architects... the more walls, the better. Anyway, as my head jerked in the direction of the noise, a strand of my wavy hair fell on my face. I blew it off, but it just fell back, like some cheap joke. I tugged it behind my ear, briefly grazing my green, sparkly stud earring that I had once again forgotten to take out before going to bed...

As another droplet of blood found its way down the curves of my lips, I placed the back of my left hand to my nostrils and sprang from the bed. I glanced at my bare legs, clad in red satin brief shorts. I pulled a strap of my white vest back up and walked to the bathroom. As I placed my hand on the door handle, I heard another indistinguishable sound coming form the hallway. But one just tends to ignore little noises when one's blood vessels decide to give in and pour their contents out through one's nose.

I found some tissues in one of the cupboards and placing a few sheets of them to my nose I stepped out of the bathroom and made my way to the hallway.

"Dan!" I called out. The floor was tiled, so it was kind of cold, but I quite liked the feel of glaze against my foot-soles – it was kind of comforting. He wasn't answering. "Are you OK?" I was worried by now. Then I finally could see the foyer. My worry shot off the scale.

Dan was in a black tie, the first three buttons of his starched shirt undone, and a butterfly tie hanging like a rag around his neck. He was sitting on the floor, his legs stretched out, his back rested against the cold looking wall. His face was reddish from crying. His right arm was bent at a forty-five degree angle, his hand holding a pistol.

"Dan!" I called out, almost dropping the sheets of tissue that I had pressed to my nose. I stepped forward, but he warned me off " Don't... come... near me" he growled in between sobs. As I watched his trembling hand holding a pistol, his whole body lying there as if it was already lifeless, the Dan I knew flashed before my eyes.

* * *

The evening I met him was great. It was a fuckin' beatnik rave by the time he got there. I was gracefully sitting on a staircase, holding a suspicious-looking drink in one hand and a foul tasting 'erbal cig' in another. He strode in, all confident (as far as I could tell from the way he held himself), but with a serious expression on his face. He was damn cuuute!

I scanned him head to toe: light blond hair, kind of short, but not shaven, beautifully contoured eyes (though I couldn't catch his eye colour) with arched eyebrows, a prominent, straight nose and firm, full lips, all framed in a bluntly cut face. My eyes drifted to his long torso, the secrets of which were obscured by the t-shirt he was wearing – grey, with writing in electric green on it, that I'm sure was the epitome of wit. Sadly, I couldn't broaden my knowledge, 'cause my vision had gone into those drinks I'd had and the wispy smoke of the cig'. My eyes travelled down his dark jeans to white Fred Perry vintage trainers. Oh, yeah, he was a dream.

As Dan walked to his left, I attempted to stand up and follow him, but that was when my evening turned form great to bordering on uncomfortable, as I fell back on my ever so sensitive coccyx. The useless tail bones! We don't even need them! It's not like I'm fuckin' planning to grow a tail or something. At that point, I think I would've rather had an extra balance regulating thingy than the stupid, painful coccyx.

And, whoops, the strange liquid was running down the stairs. I sucked a wisp of the cigarette smoke in, frowned, breathed out and looked at my right hand – no glass. I looked down and saw the glass on a step. I reached for it, but, I swear to whatever, the world tilted with me. As I was about tot test my "tilting universe" theory, a friend's hand grabbed me and I was brought from the scientific research world back to the smoke filled room. Hell, I can't actually even remember that. I can only re-tell whatever my friends had kindly agreed to part, though the degree of absurdity to which I behaved depended on who was telling the story.

And my observing Dan? Well, I could remember that. Kind of. I saw him and actually met him many times afterwards, so I had plenty of time to fill in the details. Five weeks in and he was one of the gang and that little story was something I conjured up one night, when my girlfriends started gossiping about the guys we knew or to be more exact – discussing which guy they wanted the most (for whatever purpose, the use was entirely up to the individual). I figured – Dan's not getting enough exposure, he should get his fair share of behind-the-back admiration, even if it was partly for my own amusement. But to this day I maintain that it was altruism. Well, mostly.

To be honest, I didn't really know him. Sure, I'd meet him in the parties, we'd share a hookah pipe, metallic kiserus and engage in conversations on whatever topics our intoxicated minds would come up with. But beyond that, I didn't know anything about him. Yeah, well, I knew that he was of a similar age as me (at least he looked like he was), that he got into the group 'cause he was friends with one of the guys in the gang and that he could recite Paradise Lost (someone actually checked that against the book, and apparently Dan was correct 99% of the time).

Don't get me wrong – I didn't ignore him or whatever. In fact, I didn't know any of the new guys well. I could hardly ever meet up with the gang outside the parties 'cause of my constant travelling. I was still good friends with the older members 'cause I met them at a time when I wasn't travelling as much, but when it came to the newcomers, I just simply didn't have the time to get to know them. And it was kind of a pity 'cause I could see there were some really interesting characters there. But, hey, that's just how it goes – you can't have everything, but, and it's a very significant but, you can still keep trying and most importantly – dreaming.

* * *

My head was getting dizzy. "Fair enough, you don't want me coming near you, then I'll just stay here" I took a coat that was hanging on one of the hooks on the wall. I put it on and slid down the brick wall, sitting down in the same position as he was in. I examined him and could see that I'd got his attention. I just had to keep him interested.

"Two lips" I uttered. I didn't really know where I was going to go with this, but I just felt like I needed to say something. I kept looking at him "reddened from the salty waters of sorrow" my eyes drifted to his ones "two blue eyes, with lids to them, like oracles of an injured soul they are". I hugged the coat to my body and involuntarily wiggled my toes – I looked at them, painted in red and I think he did too 'cause when I raised my head, I saw his eyes wander upwards as well. I could now see what my hazy brain was doing – it was wooing him, wooing him to live.

I looked up – the ceiling was perfect for getting light in, all glass and metal frames, the sky sundered into segments. My view was only obstructed by a network of pipes that ran beneath the roof as if suspended mid-air by an invisible force. My eyelids were getting heavy, each blink becoming slower and slower. "When a dream is crushed" I think my words came out more like a whisper "there's a new dream" I gulped, closing my eyes "to be discovered. You'll never run out of dreams – it's only the will to create them that sometimes evades us. But there'll always be dreams 'cause they're not countable, they're what..." I just couldn't finish the sentence. My right hand that was holding the tissues pressed to my nose fell on the floor and I blanked out.

But then moisture, sweet, replenishing moisture began kissing my bare legs and face, and my eyes opened. I saw Dan looking puzzled. My eyes drifted to his right hand, no longer holding the pistol, no longer pointing the deadly metal at his head. I sighed in relief. "Dan" I softly called out his name, not that I wanted to sound like this, but I just didn't have the strength. Somehow, my vocal chords couldn't manage a stronger sound. "Dan, will you give me the gun?" I looked him in the eyes – tired, confused and deep, very deep in thought. It was as if the floral patterns of his iris were swirling about mimicking the battle inside him.

I heard a sound. I looked at the floor and saw the pistol slide across the tiled floor towards me. I put my left palm to the floor and felt the tiny droplets of warm water on it. When the gun finally reached me, after making an awful noise, rivalling that of nails scraping a blackboard, I took a glove out of a pocket of my coat and covering my palm with it, I picked the gun up.

I looked up at Dan – his legs were bent, his head and his folded arms, on his knees. I then took a look at my lap – a bloody pile of tissues scattered across it. I picked those up, got up and went to the kitchen area to bin them.

I had to get the pistol out of his sight and so a safe was the logical choice. I walked to one of the walls and took the brick imitations out of the wall, entered the code, opened the safe and deposited the arm. A brief image of Dan slicing his wrists with one of my kitchen knives entered my mind, so I decided to hide those too. When I finished hiding everything that remotely presented the possibility of being used as a weapon, I walked back to him.

He was back to sitting in his initial position, legs stretched out, only this time, his palms were pressed against the glazed tiles. I looked at him for a while, his numb eyes staring at the opposing wall. "Give me your hand, Dan" he looked up at me in a way as if I'd told him that I'll rip his hand off "Come on, Dan" I really didn't know what else to say, so I was just holding my hand out for him to take.

"Look, it's damp in here. I've got a very comfortable sofa bed you can lye down on" he just kept looking at me as if I were the first human being he's seen in years.

"You've got blood on your face" he murmured. Well, there would've been a lot more of it if you'd had your way, I wanted to retort, but thought it better not to seeing as how sensitive my friend here was.

"Yeah, I do as you can see. Now, give me your hand" with that, I bent down and took his right hand, the one that held the pistol just half an hour ago. His skin was soft and cold, his long fingers wrapping around my own hand incredulously. I helped him up, though I didn't really think he used much of my strength to get up – I was more like a stimulus for his muscles to contract. As he stood up, I could finally appreciate just how well proportioned he was – with somewhat long limbs.

I looked at him, dressed in the suit and thought he might like to change. Luckily for his suit, I had men's tracksuit bottoms and some t-shirts.

"Wanna change your clothes?"

"You have anything?" he asked non-chalantly.

"Yeah, I'll just go and get it. You..." I looked at him and wasn't sure what it was that he could do. 'Make yourself comfortable' felt a little too personal. I walked behind the partitioned part of the building, where my bedroom was. Well, when I say a bedroom, it was a bedroom 'cause it had a bed and a bedside table. Oh, and shelves, where I kept my clothes. Windows too – they were good for letting light in, you know. But not at night time - the city lights would sometimes keep me awake. I took out the trousers and the t-shirt, and went to the other side of the partition.

He was standing before one of the numerous windows, looking outside. "It's a beautiful view" I murmured, remembering how most of my guests would remark on that. He said nothing. "I brought the clothes" I dropped them on the white sofa bed "you can go to the bathroom and change, if you want to" he had his back to me all the time, but I could sense his unease, the tension lingering around him. I was doing what I could, I said to myself.

Realising that I didn't look my best either, well, who am I kidding, I looked like a fuckin' prostitute after a night's prowl, I hung the coat back on the hook, and went to wash my face. As I approached the bathroom door, I saw him coming towards me, with the clothes in his hands. I decided to use the kitchen sink instead.

As I washed the blood off my face, I thought about what I was going to do. There had to be people looking for him. I mean, it looked like he was in the middle of something when the urge to come to my house and press a pistol to his temple overtook him. It must've been something bad. As I was drying my face with a kitchen towel, I heard his footsteps. I turned around and saw him wearing the baggy t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms. Baggy wasn't the word. They were fuckin' massive compared to him. Anyway, at least he had a change of clothes.

"I'd like to lye down" said he, catching me checking him out. I rubbed my face a few more times and then binned the wet paper towels.

"Here, let me take these. I'll get a pillow and a duvet or something" I deposited the messily folded clothes on a bamboo ottoman and draped the jacket over the whole thing. Then I walked to the sofa bed, bent down and opened the drawer that ran the width of the wooden frame of the sofa under the mattress. I took out two pillows, a duvet and then pushed the drawer back in. I then placed those on the sofa and with one swift movement, I opened it up.

"Your throne awaits you" I tried to inject some humour. It all felt as if someone had died. Well, nearly. He didn't seem amused.

"Thanks" he murmured and climbed onto the bed. He then covered himself with the duvet and lied down on his side.

"Sweet dreams" said I and he whispered something under his breath, probably close to 'fuck off with your saccharine-drenched vernacular'. Or something thereabouts. If only I could read minds... How many times have you wished for that? Well, I was certainly hoping for the providence to hear me this time. A bit disappointed, I decided to instead have a shower. Not as good a replacement for mind-reading, but brilliant in its own way.

The walk-in shower was huge, in proportion to the whole house. After moving in, I insisted on having a bath installed – I do enough of standing during the day as it is, thank you. I'd like to at least be able to lye down whilst I succumb to the pleasures of water.

But this shower had to be quick. I had a million fuckin' things to do and it wasn't like they were gonna do themselves. Well, I could dream. I could dream of a report writing itself, the keys on the keyboard coming up and sinking down, in and out. "In and out" I whispered to myself. Slowly, steadily, the quilt of the pen rubbing itself across the paper in a curvy, sensuous signature. Shit, was I horny or what?

I turned the shower off, dried myself and almost turned the handle to open the door. Okay, there was a man sleeping there. Or was he sleeping? That was the question. For all I knew, he could have been looking for sharp objects. Or if he was a pedant, he could have been wiping the tops of my cupboards. You never fuckin' know. Okay, maybe neither of the scenarios was likely, but still... you never know.

So, I wrapped the towel around my body, tugged a corner under the layers, picked up my briefs and the vest and stepped out of the bathroom. The coast was clear – I could even hear his slow breathing, a sign of sleep, as I'd learnt on numerous occasions. I walked to the room, dropped the two items into the linen washing basket and glanced at the sleeping beauty – though I could only see his tousled hair. Still, it proved his existence.

Then I went to the bedroom, picked out underwear, grey, tight trousers, a white shirt and put all of those on. Not at once, of course, as that would have created a chaos. I then brushed the damp curls that were already relaxing into waves, for which I thanked Mother Nature and went back to the kitchen area.

I fixed myself some muesli, with dried berry thingies that were meant to be full of magical anti-oxidants, and coffee. Oh yeah, I needed fuckin' forte fortissimo coffee this morning. Or at least the coffee I had in the cupboards. Yeah, that one'll do, I thought. Undeterred by my rapidly decreasing standards, I carefully and skilfully brewed the coffee, which involved a teaspoon of coffee and some boiling water, then a dash of milk and voila, the drink was ready. I then brought everything to the breakfast bar and started my breakfast/lunch.

When my eyes finally drifted to the sleeping beauty, he was a sleeping beauty no more, but more like a sleepy beauty. "Sorry" I apologised 'cause I was actually sorry. I didn't want to have him awake - that only created more complications. But, oh well, it was my own fault. "Would you like something to eat?" I suggested, but he only looked at me like I was completely insane. I quickly finished the cereal, downed the coffee, put the dishes into the sink and then started making him lemonade. Well, a presto version of it. I poured some filtered water into a glass, and then squeezed a lemon, poured the citrus liquid into the water, a few bits of the pulp together with some seeds fell into the glass, but hey, I was in a hurry. Then I added some sugar, stirred the drink and brought the glass to Dan.