|Trystan Chenille (chenille) wrote,|
@ 2022-04-26 15:57:00
"Not quite right, I'm afraid, some of the words have got altered."
"It is wrong
There is a fragment of memory that Trystan could not recall upon a hazy reintroduction to the conscious. In the flickering of fluorescence, lashes fluttered awake at sixteen to the blare of an internal and external monitor of his lifeline, the electronic arterial beeping his heartbeats away at thirty-too-many per minute.
The first concrete recollection the caterpillar would possess post-incoherence was that of blue -- Doctors and Nurses, tealtone and caricature.
And absolute fear.
Frantic inquiries of whowhenhow were answered instead with restraints at the wrists and waist, and when the blonde begged for information, he was ignored in preference to statistic and intermedical communication. The basic securities everyone is granted were missing, gone -- and in the calm that followed a prick at the inner arm, he began to remember what, in the panic, had been lost.
There were memories of a littler boy would be bothered only to read.
"Our little academic," the faceless parents praised, and smiled upon their language-lorn son.
Trystan read of many things -- fiction and non, the classics, the literal... and in a book of butterflies he came across a creature who transformed in a deep, foreboding sleep. 'Bookworm' was often applied, but the little blonde was never one for worms. Why not a more graceful, grotesque little oddity?
Caterpillars became the anomaly, the fascination; if a caterpillar could simply eat and sleep, only to transform -- transcend -- who was to say he couldn't be much the same? To thrive on the words that taught him of such things, to take each piece of knowledge and enlightenment and devour it completely...
And to then fall into peaceful rumination, only to awaken beautiful, unburdened, and breathless.
When 'bookworm' is used as an epithet, it is rarely used literally. An academic devouring of books is quite different than a literal one, but to a boy lost in fervor and fanaticism the distinction is hardly important.
Instead of growing, he shrank. His waist could have been three inches around, and it was raising the concern of teachers, peers, and parents. In the twilight and the opening of a door Trystan was sure he had locked, he was discovered -- surrounded by scratched-out numbers and bilesoaked words.
Pages torn, eaten, and expelled wretched the room rank with the stench of misgiven self-preservation, and at the sight of their son, letters and blood stuck in his teeth and fingers far down his throat, they recoiled.
Nothing was wrong.
They saw nothing, so nothing could be wrong.
And the caterpillar merely fell to tears, his chrysalis discovered, his sanctuary sullied. The safety of subsiding only on language had been disrupted -- how could he possibly become beautiful, ethereal, Monarchical, in such tainted and exposed conditions?
The only solution was to leave, and loathe the ones who exposed him. He'd learned all he could, devoured all he needed. To sleep was the next step, and his transformation would manifest in lowlights and lounge music -- a club called "The Champignon," a new tree in which he would form his cocoon.
"Yes -- I need to stay here, anywhere, at any expense." The lies seeped so easily from his fourteen-year-old lips, and as the owner of the club scratched at his chin, he eyed the skeletal boy warily.
"There's a spot open, but you've gotta be pretty desperate to want it."
"I'll give or garner anything," was the answer, and he was given a pill and a promise of money and a room. The first taste of hydrocodone was a dose too high for a child of his size and sustinence, but when his stomach settled and the haze swept in, he was told of his conditions for a room: a selling of himself that was gladly, naively met.
The first man who fucked him doped him up so high he didn't remember until he'd woken up to blood dripping down his thighs.
The second held him close and called him a name that wasn't his own.
The third was the one who, two years later, would rush Trystan to the hospital after one injection too many, dumping him at the ER entrance with his name messily scrawled on paper and shoved into his left pocket.
But just before the third man came into focus, he woke again to machines monitoring him. A night-shift nurse was asleep in a visiting chair across the room, and carefully, oh so carefully, the boy crawled to the edge of the bed, snatching his chart with a weak, unobstructed arm. And he began to eat the evidence of his presence there.
He'd been without words too long, and the sleep that was meant to turn him into a butterfly had turned him haggard and hideous.
By some miracle he slipped past nurses and security, into the streets, shoeless and with faint recollection of the way back home.
He was welcomed back into the dim lounge, informed by his landlord and pimp that he'd been gone for three days. Harbored in the familiarity of harlotry and hookah he fell into habit once more, ceasing only when authorities forced their way past off-hour restriction.
When he was gathered up, his parents didn't know what to make of him. He was institutionalized -- twice, thrice -- brought under the wing of hospital after hospital who deemed him 'too difficult,' 'unresponsive to treatment,' 'a hopeless case'. When he was finally brought back home, it was to iron bars and the wrath of parents who had once been proud; parents who had instead become embittered, tired, who had succumbed to the gray in their hair and hearts. When he was brought back home, it was to walls of fury -- to shattered glasses and splintered words and opiate backlash from relapse that was more bitter than sweet.
When he was brought back home, he left soon after, running to the beat of that arrhythmic heart and ragged no-one breath that whispered in his ear
"go faster. only faster."
He found Vegas through vague direction -- through intuition and clumsy hands against flesh in the back of a two-seater. From the dust of the car-port he was dumped at to the dinge of a studio flat he bought with a blow-job til' he found his footing, the Caterpillar found a new home, and those tattered wings -- all shriveled and bent -- settled in the sod below
chrysalis shattered and all.
The hotel that served severance swallowed whole -- entirety was swaddled by entity&a fractured soul, and when it sought retribution for tithings unpaid, it devoured all in its shadow. With nary a negligent word, the parasite retreated, leaving the destitute alone and devoid. Trystan remained scattered and absolute -- struck-down in the backalley of a book's disdain, thrown by a master plan.
With fractured ties tumultuous at best, he broke away -- with a dial-tone dive into Gotham Bay he left behind Vegas and the virulent hands that had held him close and beaten him far, far apart, summoning red&bluered&bluered&blue--we see you, we collect you. Falsified new beginnings were the rule to exception, and with one more under discharge forms and a plastic bag with a half-pack and a half-gram short, he stepped anew onto dampened Gotham streets, stalking like a sickened cat, clawing for its next toy--
next fix me, fix me well.
Journal/Key: Journal has been compounded; faded leatherbound, shattered spine & tattered edges. A skeleton key of tarnished silver.
External Door items: Profession[al history]. Criminal record [possession counts  | prostitution counts [3, spanning Chicago and Vegas]]. Burner phone [since replaced, at time of disappearance]. Rigs & Heroin [.7g at time of transferrence, new dealer found shortly thereafter]. Clothing [pants/shirts/boots/etc.]
Cigarettes Djarum Black
Diagnosis Borderline Personality Disorder, Anorexia Nervosa (paired with Body Dysmorphic Disorder), Pica (bibliophagic)
Perfume Can-Can Paris Hilton
Tattoos 'piaculum' on the back of left knee | 'it was love at first sight/at last sight/at ever&ever sight' in three lines on the inner-left wrist, inscribed in another's writing
Tolerance 2.3g/day intravenous & counting
Clientele: Open: the buyers. the high bidders. the barterers.
Confidant: Joseph Walsh | pyrrhicvictory not easily won; worship me. weather me weary.
Chemical Dependent: Open i'll do anything -- any&all. give me my lifeline & i'll give you my blood.
It was always 5am light that truly brought him to his knees. After hours of darkness and coy, empty murmurs, it was the twilight cast across an empty apartment and a soiled mattress that he yearned for most -- a heavy longing that sat in his gut from the moment he walked out to the minute he stepped in.
A hard-night's pay sang in his veins -- sanguine, in every sense. The opium lull had washed in hours ago, and now -- these lonely hours -- were when the voice crept forth, when it whispered behind his eyelids of something amiss.
I've something important to say
A grimace, those yellowed teeth reflecting a stray billboard lamp.
"Something important to say, there's always something too important." Regardless, Trystan rolled heavily to press himself up from his back -- that bag of bones clattering towards the window -- to where all his words lie in wating. His fingers gripped at the notebook, opening to any page. Many of them had been written on in every ounce of spare space -- this one was no different. He flipped to a vacancy as the voice murmured on, in and out like bad radio.
Keep your te -- remember wh -- repeat -- repeat Old Father William.
A palm pressed to the whore's clammy forehead. A cheap bic pen sat poised in his vacant hand, trembling with a divine weakness born of malnutrition and ever-present withdrawl. He sat for thirty seconds, and in the breadth of them he reconsidered and set the pen to the splintering floorboards, tearing instead at eager pages that begged to be within him.
"Recitation," a whisper rent with desire, "is not in my repertoire."
'Relinquish' was the first word he pressed to his eager tongue.