One Chapter

Chapter 1 | Landon

Whenever they ask Landon about his crumbling mental health, the response is always the same: he'll be okay when Jesus fucks Santa Claus.

If he had uttered this sentence in front of his father back in the day, the man would have surely beaten him with that damned leather-bound belt until he dropped dead. Every evening, they had to pray.

Oh my God, my good God,

Close my eyes now...

He remembers; he added this to his prayer every night. By morning, they would find him dead in the embrace of his Spider-Man sheets. These feelings were present in him even as a child, at the age of nine; he didn't want to exist, didn't want to wake up every day and go through the strict morning routine, go to school.

They prayed every single day.

Every single day.

Today, Landon blasphemes God, thanks to his father.

He slams on the brakes.

"What the fuck, dude, what's wrong with you?" A desperate voice behind him cries out. "Drive properly; you're not preparing to win Formula 1!"

"But yes," Landon responds with sarcasm, leaning his elbow on the window, waiting for the Suzuki to pass before turning onto the main road with his gray Volkswagen.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" the boy sitting next to him asks. Nineteen years old, but they ask for his ID at the tobacco store because of his baby face. He always wears a baseball cap and loves sucking the life out of others. Especially Landon's.

"Dan, leave it; you can see the little one is off today," Ron says, laughing and still feeling the effects of the joint he smoked earlier. "Got dumped?"

"What?" grumbles Landon as he adjusts the mirror, under which a pink dolphin dangles.

"Well, there you go, you have no one, and you still act like you've been dumped half an hour ago."

"Oh, maybe the night didn't end well with that pierced guy?" Dan leans forward, running his fingertips over Landon's face. "Poor thing."

"Screw off, I wish your hand would rot!" He pushes away the other's hand with his palm.

"Oh, little tough guy now, didn't get daddy's milk last night."

Landon exhales the air he's been holding.

He doesn't feel like arguing, doesn't feel like driving, simply doesn't feel like pondering on what really happened last night.

He tried.

He tried not to see Him in front of his eyes, tried to endure the boy's touch, but it didn't work. Nerves danced tango in his stomach, nausea didn't subside. He paid the boy and, as soon as possible, left the hotel. Straight to Dorian's house. Asked for heroin.

And this will continue until he overdoses. Just the usual. Damn life. It used to be a habit to pray; now it's a habit to shoot up the daily dose.

He's become a prisoner of habits; that's obvious.

"Sweetie, you passed two houses!"

Damn.

"I know it sucks, believe me, I'm also screwed if I can't fuck my girl because she has someone, but there's a limit."

"Shut up!" he mutters and steps on the brake. The engine stops.

"Good boy," Dan grins as he hands Landon a wad of cash. "We'll be waiting; half past five," Ron bends his arm, rolls up the sleeve of his brown top, then looks at his watch. "Sharp."

"I'll be there." Stay alive, assholes. He adds mentally.

The two guys get out, the door slams shut with a loud bang. And he's left alone.

Our Father, who art in Heaven...

 ----

"Where were you?"

He doesn't even step over the threshold, but this question greets him.

"Why, did something happen?"

"I called you like five times. Why didn't you pick up?" Anthony's desperate face comes into view.

"My phone died." He shows the evidence, lifts his phone, but it doesn't turn on. He throws the device onto the coffee table with a big sigh. "I'm tired; let's not start this again."

"Sorry that I worry," Anthony mutters as he crushes the cigarette in the ashtray, which is already quite full.

"Sorry that nothing happened that you should worry about."

"Sorry that I care about you," the man presses his lips into a line.

"Sorry that it seems like I don't give a shit," Landon avoids the couch, then takes a seat in the nearby armchair.

Silence. Finally!

The apartment is small, but the two of them fit just right. Anthony is his best friend, knows how difficult it can be for him because he knows himself. He tries to compensate for these difficult moments, makes food, pays rent, and even keeps the apartment in order. Despite all this, he lies like a waterfall.

Instead of the boring old furniture, he stares at Anthony, who sits at the counter, strokes the edge of the mahogany table, lost in thought. The sun illuminates his face just right, and Landon notices the tiny freckles, the tired eyes, and the wrinkles on his shirt... When did they become like this? When did they break away from the happy child image to the bitter adult?

"You know, I dreamed," he mumbles quietly, but loud enough for Landon to hear every word.

"Yeah?" he yawns. "About what?"

"About Andy."

His mouth stays agape. His eyes pop out of their sockets. If he weren't sitting in the armchair, he probably would have had to grab onto something. His heartbeat becomes faster, wants to escape his ribs like a bird from a cage.

He tries to respond with an emotionless tone, but his voice still trembles.

"And?"

He needs heroin... Now. Immediately!

"I dreamt he was lying in a bathtub... And the water in the tub was black."