Passed out, nearly dead from ****** asphyxiation—his black belt a makeshift noose, tightened not by malice but by an ill-defined yearning to suffocate under the weight of his own desires. Strangers enter like clockwork, their faces veiled by cheap rubber masks, their identities erased in the monochrome of a shuttered room. The air inside is static, thick with the smell of sweat and latex, a claustrophobic sanctuary where sins bloom like black orchids. Outside, the window shutters drop in unison, as if the world itself conspired to cloak these transgressions in shadow.
In the asylum's hallways, fluorescent lights buzz like trapped bees. Patients—witnesses, voyeurs, and unwilling participants—stare through glassy eyes and scream incoherent hymns to no one in particular. The sound ricochets off padded walls, a crescendo of human failure. He stands motionless, still as a gravestone, pipe in hand. The pipe, of course, being not for music but for alchemy—a chemical talisman offering numbness in exchange for pieces of his soul. The smoke snakes upward, thin and gray, a ghost of decisions past.
She sits opposite him, a queen in a throne of peeling vinyl, her pupils shrinking to pinpoints, tiny black holes pulling in whatever remains of the room’s light. He leans in, their mouths meeting in a kiss that isn’t romantic so much as transactional, a blowback of toxins exchanged like whispered secrets. Her sweat drips down her temple, saline proof of a shared feverish delirium. Behind her, the low hum of voices blends with the rhythmic hiss of an oxygen tank. Somewhere, someone’s kidney is failing, a fact no one seems concerned about.
Broken promises hang in the air like the smell of burnt rubber. A story, they think—if either could still think—was written here, but not on pages. No, it’s etched in the sands of time, or maybe just in the damp carpet beneath their feet. This isn’t love, but it’s the closest thing to it they’ll ever know, and that’s enough.
The color blue pulses in the corner of the room, a glow from an ancient cathode-ray tube leaking static like plasma. Mystical healing? No. Just the underwater rush of losing, of dying, but never quite crossing the finish line. There’s a plague among lovers, spreading through their touch, their whispers, their lies. It’s in the air, the water, the way they inhale each other’s breath, taking in the poison with no promise of the antidote.
He collapses first, the belt still loose in his hand, and she laughs—a soft, low sound that fills the void. Her laugh says everything: "We tried, didn’t we?"
Friday prose
