We met at a house party, in a green tiled kitchen. He was spooning fingerfuls of almond butter into his mouth and there was this dancing quality behind his eyes. He was barefoot, with long tendrils of hair spilling from his head and glitter caked onto his cheeks. I was fifteen, eyes ringed with black and a cigarette dangling precariously between two fingers. He swam across the tiles like he was barely even touching the ground. When we kissed, it was like he wanted to swallow me whole. He tasted of watermelons and celery and batteries. He burned on my tongue. Later, I learnt that was just the acid juice he’d been drinking. When he spoke, it was hypnotic. He spilled stories of a picturesque childhood spent in Britain and early twenties living on the streets of Berlin. He fascinated me, this pixie boy. His madness shon like a halo around his head.

 

It’s interesting, falling in love with a junkie. It happens hard and fast, like its own form of addiction. I couldn’t get enough of him or his spontaneity. Our first date spanned three sleepless days and nights, Friday through Sunday. He convinced me to try MDMA for the first time and I floated through this bizarre universe in a state of pure bliss, him giving me life, fuelling my addiction with every kiss. We went wherever there was bumping music and flashing blue lights. When we stood in the smoking area of a club at 4AM on a Sunday, he told me he loved me. The embers of his cigarette glowed bright red in the dusky morning. I laughed and shook my head, dizzy with drugs. Smoke crawled like caterpillars into the air and he grabbed my head between his hands, pulling my face close to his. “I mean it,” he said “I love you.” In the darkness, high out of my mind, my mouth curled into a smile. I could feel every nerve ending in my body – even the backs of my knees vibrated. The blackness spun like a kaleidoscope around me. “I love you too pixie boy.”

 

So it happened like that, every kiss like a hit and every hit like an epiphany. We danced through life in this toxic euphoria, always intertwined, moving together like a singular organism. We shared everything from drugs to clothes to toothbrushes, all symbols of our intimacy. We were in a constant state of insobriety. The Ket made us lose time and the MDMA gave us lock-jaw and all the trams moved too fast for us. I imagined us in a world where gravity didn’t exist, nothing to pull us to the earth. We floated carelessly like that, no concept of reality.

 

We went to a party where someone painted my face with flowers and I snorted cocaine off the back of a grand piano. In the next room, a group of people twisted themselves together, fucking slowly and openly. We didn’t have any cash on us, but a boy dressed in orange said he had some good stuff and he thought we ought to try it. Pixie boy agreed, but we still didn’t have any cash. He pulled me aside and asked me to take a walk with the boy. I took the dealer in my mouth on the curb of the main road. I didn’t know whether I was doing it for the love or the drugs.

 

I disintegrated after that, lost myself a little bit. Pixie boy moved into a new house with two meth dealers. We barricaded the door every night before we went to sleep and he kept all his belongings in a safe beside his bed. He started selling molly, and sometimes acid, and when we threw house parties, sometimes he smoked a bit of shard. “Just for fun,” he told me. One night we sat together outside, painted sickly in the fluorescent glow of the street lamps. He tried to light a cigarette, fingers slipping and shaking as he fumbled with the lighter. He gave up and spat the rollie out of his mouth and I watched as he crushed it under his foot, stomping on it over and over again until it became this withered thing. He stumbled inside while I picked tobacco out of the grout.

 

I asked him to stay off it for a while. He was eating a meat pie with a wooden spoon from the lid of a saucepan and he gave me his word. We lay on a sheet-less mattress in the middle of the room, rolling around in the pastry crumbs. I kept waking up throughout the night, him hard and cold and curled up away from me, overwhelmed with that sickness from the meth. In the morning, when the sun leaked in, he cried like he was in pain –like he was allergic to it. He crawled out of bed, naked and shivering, and climbed up onto the windowsill, flashing his cock to the neighbours. He hung a dirty towel and a duvet cover, trying to shield himself from the light.

 

A month later was my sixteenth birthday, and to celebrate, he took me to our favourite club, pulling me behind him through the smoky rooms and intoxicated crowds. But I’d gotten clean, afraid of falling into the same temptations he had. Now the heavy beats sounded like internal bruising and the flashing lights made me seasick. When we danced, his fingers dug tight into my skin, like he was using me to stay upright. He disappeared halfway through the night and I found him collapsed onto a couch, eyes rolling blissfully into the back of his head, his dick like a knife in his pants. In the morning, I pulled him out of the taxi and put him to bed. I wiped the day-old mascara from my under-eyes and watched while he shook.

 

This is how I left: I kissed him on the cheek, whispering something about going to get coffee. He grumbled back that he needed me to get him more ice. I brushed one of those sweet tendrils of hair behind his ear, ran my finger along his jawline, across his cracking lips. I fingered a purpley scab on his cheek. He pushed my hand away, his eyebrows knotted angrily together, and I blushed hot and red. Before I left, I looked at him from the doorframe. How hollow he was. I picked paint from the banister as I walked down the stairs, each one creaking in a different key. In another room, someone sang cartoon theme songs wonky and out of tune. I left through the back door, weaving through the overgrown garden and slipping out the side gate. I walked head down and fast to the nearest café where the coffee tasted like nothing and the cereal tasted like pulverised bones. The sound of life muffled around me, I imagined a world where gravity didn’t exist. Nothing to pull us to the earth, nothing to keep us in orbit. The stars spinning out lost, and space full of destructible collision, and atoms and particles all floating away. Carelessly.

 

Published by Morgan-Lee Snell