H: Chapter Fifteen

Travis walks along the desolate Iowan sidewalk. There’s little oak trees growing by the sides of the concrete. He passes a few houses that look like mini-mansions. The people who owns these houses must be lawyers or something. Hell, they’re probably on a two-week cruise to the Bahamas. But Travis doesn’t notice this. He keeps his head down and his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t know why he’s walking or what he’s looking for. All he knows, is that he needs a break away from the pressures of life. All the socializing, the money management, the friends, he’s had enough.

Travis thinks about how he wishes he never touched black. He feels as if he’s just completely, and totally, screwed. Who knew doing it once would cause so much strife. Now he’s fucked for life.

He starts to hate me, for my coldness and assholery. A feeling of explosive warmth begins to build in his chest. Like a volcano about to rupture. Like standing in a forest while every tree and god-damned bush lights up around you. It builds up in him, faster and faster, colder and colder.

In one big flash of fury, it explodes out of Travis. He pummels a nearby tree until his knuckles are bruises and bleeding. There’s a welt around his fourth knuckle that looks like a purple golf-ball. He wonders if he just broke a knuckle.

He lays down on the ground and watches as the clouds pass by. The world spins along with his head. Travis suddenly feels sick to his stomach. Travis tries to stop thinking. His mind goes a million miles-per-hour, he can’t seem to concentrate on a single thought for more than a second. Finally his mind lands on something. Disgust.. Disgusted by the world. No one listens. No one cares. Everyone just kinda goes about their day, locked inside the cycle of work, consume, and sleep. Their minds are all hazy and shit. No one really gives a fuck about anything anymore. Disgust. Disgust.

Disgust. Disgust. Alright, that’s enough of that. If you repeat a word for too long, it starts to lose it’s meaning.

Travis rifles through his jeans pockets, searching for H, but there’s nothing to be found. At first, he’s panicked. Who the fuck stole it? Where is it? Where the FUCK is it? He stops himself and laughs, a kind of, “look how ridiculous this situation is,” type of laugh. How did he get here? How did he get so low? Only a week in and he’s already screwed himself over.

Travis keeps thinking about black. It’ll make him feel better, but he knows he’ll always have to leave that state of euphoria and warmth. And that’s the saddest part about it, the fact that he can’t stay there forever. At some point he’ll always have to go back to his cold and lonely existence. He knows this deep down in his soul.

He thinks about his parents. He thinks about his absent mother. What is she doing now? Is she happy that she abandoned her only son? Is she feeling good? She’s probably living in some high-rise apartment, a free woman. A testament to feminism. A bleeding-heart for Rosie The Riveter. Is she happy? Is she fucking happy?

Travis knows that he should never have touched H. He dd it for a week and his thoughts are already consumed by it. A feeling of dread is permanently stuck in his stomach. He feels like vomiting.

Travis knows that black might very well be the doom of him, but he can’t stop thinking about it. No matter where he directs his brain, they keep coming and sucking the soul out of everything. His addictions destroy and corrupt everything in his life until there’s left but the addiction. It’s only him and that sad yet euphoric state of bliss. Too bad he must always leave it. It’s a parasite of the truest form.

Finally, Travis thinks about his father.

* * *

Somehow, Travis had ended up in a crack-house. He had no memory of how he got there, whatsoever. He also had no idea how much time had been lost. Twelve hours? A day? A fuckin’ week? He couldn’t tell. And this must’ve terrified him as he laid on the floor for a good few minutes, panting and sweating.

All Travis knew was that it was around mid-afternoon. He could tell by the way the sun parted through the blinds and shone onto the grimy hardwood flooring. His eyes darted around the room; to the side of him, a fat woman laid on the ground. Scars and boils covered her sullen face. A needle dangled from her arm, caked in blood. Graffiti lined the walls and dirt and blood was spattered on it. The room smelled faintly of weed and that weird sour smell of human vomit.

Travis sat up and collected himself. He felt the blood rush to his head and rested his arm on the stair-case. His mind had only one thought in it: Where the fuck am I?

“Hey kid.” A voice softly called out from the hallway. It’s a mole-looking man dressed in a stained t-shirt, and white boxers. His skin is wrinkly and ragged. “You throw a wicked party, man.”

“What?” Travis said. He dusted his pants off and craned his head side to side. “Who’s house is this?”

The mole-man sniffed and rubbed his nose. “You said this was your house. Man, you must’ve gotten really fucked up.” This is when Travis noticed that he had sniffled ten times in the past two minutes.

Travis cringed and kept his eyes low to the ground. “Um, yeah. This is my house.” Travis took another look around and decided not to stay. The very energy of the walls gave him the creeps. He needed to find me. I’m basically the glue that holds the group together. Everything would just kinda fall apart without me. I’m Payte for fucks sake.

Without saying a goodbye, Travis headed for the door. He opened it and stepped out onto the porch. There was a man sleeping on the steps, curled up in a tattered white blanket.

Travis reached into his pocket and dialed my phone-number.

“Who the hell’s this?” I asked.

“It’s Travis.” He said. “Where are you guys?”

“Travis?” I questioned. “I dunno a Travis, lemme think. Travis… Travis…”

“Cut the shit dude, you know it’s me.”

“Oh! Travis Whittaker. We’re at the bar on fourth street. Come quick or we’re leaving you.”