Psycho Candy

by Steven Hunter

  Dazzling moon drops of light illuminate the precipitation which bounces, tiny bullets of H20, onto the cracked pavement and Faith is struck with a sense of awe at the splendour of the sight, a feeling of wonder that is set to balance the sense of terror the serotonin junkie experiences at the sight of his two assailants. In his high state he perceptibly knows he has injected his last hit of the happy chemical and tears form pitifully in his eyes.

  Faith plunges her knife deep into his stomach, releasing an anguished cry deep from within him, so painful in its very essence that it elicits screams of approval from the girls. The instinct is alive now in Faith, and Jan follows suit, slashing at the doubled over figure, causing blood spilling lacerations that depict her creative urges for violence. Both girls produce syringes and deftly plunge them into specific areas of the man’s brain, huge hypodermics that are soon filled with their chemicals of choice.

  Faith has her beloved dopamine. Faith loves this shit. Jan slits the man’s throat and the pair turn their back on his dying fallen body. They turn the corner of the alleyway and lean on the wall, legs bent towards the sky. Both girls shoot up and the drugs take immediate effect and Faith feels good; she will hallucinate soon.

  The drug is taking hold and she kisses Jan with a mingling of tongues and saliva.

  A kiss goodbye, as she turns and sets out to find Tony.

  Faith is high, and as she walks the cobbled pathways of the city she sees the morality of death, an analogy thought up yet unmeant, the stopping of the clock compared to the forced euthanasia she delivers, both an ending of suffering.

  And everyone suffers.

  Faith feels like Buddha.

  She feels some difference on the matter of life but the contours of her brain are firing hot now, a turbo-car charged with an obvious love of destruction, so positive, she is sure.

  Thoughts float easily through her awareness of time and she catches one with mental fingers – "Where am I?" and she promptly realizes, as if awakening, a remembrance long and previously forgotten, that she is walking.

  The stride of her heels click like an empty chamber and she inhales deeply on the cigarette that she does not remember lighting, savouring the warmth in her lungs.

  She just likes feeling something in her chest.

  "Security," the utterance of the word hangs like an apparition, a wish giving genie, and she smiles knowingly at her delicious understanding, a lollipop treat of secure knowledge.

  She licks it, a bitter-sweet treat. She tastes sugar. Faith is hallucinating heavily now.

  She cannot get enough of this.

  Pink clouds float like candy-floss butterflies in her field of vision and she sighs with eternal longing before inhaling a breath of perfect silence.

  She is nearing Tony’s hang out, spots the neon sign for the Fluid ambition, a bar run by two skin head neo-dykes, and crosses the street, making time to swear at a taxi as it passes by.

  The walls of the bar are crowded with Nazi punk types, all hyped up on the drug of the day and Faith waves a few hellos with her knife. The crowd parts at the sight of such silver. Tony is slumped on a bar stool, a hypodermic planted in the crux of his left arm and Faith has to slap him a couple of times before he realizes her presence.

  "Hey Baby, what took you so long?" Tony says to Faith, a grin spreading across his pearly teeth.

  "Gettin’ high, watched a man die, saw the moon cry with its droplets of golden light. You buy me a drink honey-pie?" replies Faith in good faith.

  Tony orders a drink, a trapped spirit of some poor soul and Faith feels his crotch. She is feeling horny, in the mood to fuck and she downs the drink that is placed before her and leads Tony to an empty booth and lays herself spread-eaglet over the table, smashing half drank glasses to the floor in her attempt to clean.

  She feels Tony’s tongue on her thigh, inching it’s way up to her buttocks, and she shivers with delight, but the drug is changing and she no longer wants this, who is this man and why is her hand melting into this table (table?) this sea of atoms, that waves a chemical storm before her, and she kicks back with her heels, catching Tony in his pearly teeth, and the music sounds good already.

  Faith wants to dance.

  She leaps of the table and reaches down to Tony who is sprawled on the mirrored floor and she draws him up into her arms and she kisses him, tasting blood, so sweet, and her mouth is bloody and she throws back her head and screams.

  This is her life, her eternal moment, her finger to death, the old cheat that she has brushed against many times.

  They are swaying to the music and Faith fingers her knife as psychedelic sounds wash over her auditory mind, and the ripples in the air are making her sick and she vomits a little and wants to leave, get some air.

  "You okay Baby?" says Tony.

  "You got your gun?" Faith replies, masking her sudden fear with a smile.

  Tony nods.

  "Good, cause you’re gonna need it," says Faith, and she leads Tony by the hand, out into the night street, out to his motorcycle, where she leans against the leather and spews forth a fresh stream of fluid from her blood smeared lips.

  She feels her fear has left her then, a cathartic purging of her drug induced anxieties and she turns to Tony and smiles, this time with genuine happiness, and after all what does a smile really say, and through the green tendrils she sees Tony’s pearly teeth smiling back.

  His eyes are like lizards, and Faith sees now, yes, that Tony is one hell of a reptile. She wants to cage him and feed him flies.

  But the notion has now passed and she climbs aboard the passenger seat of the bike and motions Tony to take his place at the front. The key turns in the ignition and they speed away down the cobbled road and Faith flicks her cigarette in the eye of a passer-by and laughs, coughs, as the last of the smoke leaves her body.

  They are nearing the crossroads and the tower blocks hang high in the distance. This is their destination, the killing grounds, they are a team and feel like fighting the good fight.

  For any fight is good.

  A snake whispers sweet nothings into Faith’s ear as the bike hits top speed, and Faith wants to kiss this snake but then it’s gone leaving only the needle on the dash revving into the beyond.

  Bold naked flame highlights the ancient rust of the wrought iron gates that mark the entrance to the tower blocks. Tony stops the motorcycle inches from the metal. He is the first to dismount and he lends Faith a gentlemanly hand as she swings her naked legs from off the bike, landing with cat-like precision on the rain splashed ground.

  Faith feels happy.

  It’s time to kill.

  She grasps Tony’s palm and hand in hand they stalk through the padlocked gap of the gates. Together they face the moon and the rain with profound bravado, and they feel good as this is living, and nothing else matters in this moment to Faith and Tony; this is their reason for breathing, a motive that has more to do with sanity than the inadequacies of logic.

  The first bullet ricochets a mere hairbreadth from Faith’s heel.

  The dance has started, the game has begun and she brandishes her knife without fear for this is only the beginning, a warning shot of welcome to these two well known Riders from Hell.

  Together they run now, a fast paced approach into the maze of concrete that lies before them and with a scream Tony fires his automatic into the nights sky, picking off a player from the rooftop whose body tumbles into the empty space before him, and it’s a cheap shot from Tony but the guy knew the risks and…

  "Hell this is fun!" says Faith to Tony as they round a corner and lean with panting breath against the graffiti covered walls, two dogs after the run..

  "Shhh…!" admonishes Tony lovingly and Faith raises her index finger to her mouth, mimicking his command.

  Footsteps approach. A leather bound figure rounds the corner. She carries a sword.

  Faith sticks her with her knife and the fallen female figure is on the ground. Faith straddles her like an old lover, the
knife now at her throat, the sword discarded; sharp metal on empty stone and Faith is feeling metaphysical.

  She has a question. If she can answer Faith will let her go. If not, then... "If a breath of perfect silence is the sound of eternity then what is the sound of a moment?"

  Faith herself is unsure of the answer, and this realization unnerves her slightly, her drug fuelled anxiety reappearing in her heart and she asks again, yet the words get mixed up and she has to pause to get her head straight.

  "You hear me the first time, freak?" says Faith venomously, and having to repeat for the third time angers her and she reaches into the woman’s mouth and grasps hold of a slithering tongue, and Faith sees now that this is a man she is hurting, the long hair has fooled her, and she saws with the silver serrated edge against the pliable meat in the man’s mouth and throws the bleeding mass aside, where it sits alone, gathering a mounting sea of blood to bathe in.

  Faith looks at the tongue.

  It looks lonely.

  Faith feels sad for the Tongue.

  "I’m sorry for your tongue," says Faith with sincerity and suddenly realizes the trauma in the dying man’s garbled screams and she wants it to stop, brings the knife down into the man’s eye and the noise stops abruptly, bringing fresh blood into the secular surroundings of this spiritual dimension.

  Faith washes in the blood.

  Tastes some.

  It tastes like wine, yes the drug is really taking hold, and Faith thinks of Jesus and how far away from home he would be here, and she wishes she could fuck him, just for the kudos.

  Tony is leaning against the wall, smoking, and Faith figures he will do, he looks nothing like Jesus, not with his short hair, and wasn’t Jesus black anyway, but he will do and she grabs at him, making him rise and soon he is in her and the pleasure is intense, and she is glad to be female, just for the power, the intense pleasure of the power she holds inside her like a microcosmic world, and she squeezes in orgasm hoping to crush the life on that planet and feels a sudden liquid heat, Tony has cum, and she sighs, she still has another hit of the dopamine left and she wants it now, now, now… more than the sex, and if Tony isn’t Jesus then maybe he’s Satan, not that Faith believes in any fear based religion.

  "Original truth my ass," says Faith, and she figures Tony could be Hades, Pan at a push.

  The hit is immediate and she hands Tony back his belt as she studies the tracks in her arm, how many dying veins, but isn’t this the point, the destruction in pleasure, and suddenly she hates Tony, wishes again that she had just fucked Christ, and tears form in her eyes at what she has become, and she huddles into Tony’s arms, she needs the warmth after so much thought and the eyes of the corpse are becoming animated, this freaks Faith out so she wipes her tears and leads Tony by the hand into the stairwell.

  "Tony. Tony, sweetheart, I fucking hate you, but I swear even stronger that I need a drink so let’s get the hell out of here man, like, now."

  "You want to go? Already? We only killed two?" comes back Tony’s reply and Faith suddenly knows why she hates him, he never listens and if he won’t come with her she’ll kill him right there and then and that’ll teach the son’ a bitch, and she nearly drives the knife into his throat, but holds back long enough for him to speak.

  "Sure thing babe. You don’t look so good. Guess that stuff really got on top of you, huh?" and he leads her by the hand, out into the deserted corridors of death and back to the bike and away.

  The drink goes down like nectar, they are back at the Fluid ambition, and Faith feels better, shit, was she really going to kill Tony, good old Tony, the thought makes her shudder.

  Fuck Jesus! He eats souls she is sure and she turns to a respectable wino on her left.

  "And the lord shall consume thee with the spirit of his fiery mouth," says Faith with conviction, but the guy just stares into his glass, he has heard this all before, and hell, maybe he’s having a moment of clarity, and Faith realizes that this is the answer to her question, the sound of a moment is perfect clarity, and that’s really all telepathy is, the sound of a moment, born of a breath of silence that speaks the language of eternity and she turns to mention this to Tony.

  "I figured it out, Tony. You owe me five fucks," says Faith.

  "Did we make a bet?"

  "You made a deal Tony. With the devil. And now he wants your soul. So give me my five bucks before he consumes you with the spirit of his fiery mouth."

  Tony knows better than to argue, and he hands her five dizar, the currency of this world.

  The music is soothing to Faith’s ears and she suddenly feels a melancholy sadness although she cannot put her finger on what she has lost.

  Time?

  Friends?

  Sanity?

  Something so meaningful it cannot be put into words?

  All good reasons for another drink. Tony has insisted that she take some of his serotonin and she is feeling the blissful apathy that she so hates, yet she is loving this, she feels calm for the first time in God knows how long and maybe this is what is making her sad, the knowledge of what she has lost in her life, the peace of mind she thought she had forgotten and now knows again, an an-amnesia that contours through her neural pathways and lifts the cognitive spirit, yet she also knows that this is only temporary, transient, and that she will come again to hate the peace she so craves.

  The irony is not lost on Faith. Maybe she should get a razor and carve a reminder on her forehead so when she looks in the mirror she will see the words - BE CALM. BE HAPPY. DO WHATEVER YOU CAN TO BE THIS!

  Faith feels a tap on her left shoulder, and she turns her head this way, it is Jan and she kisses her friend with all the feelings of her new-found compassion.

  "Okay?"

  Faith hears the word in head, senses the concern and kindness there, and she nods to Jan, a silent "Yes".

  Then Jan does something that Faith has never seen before, never heard. Jan opens her mouth and speaks.

  Her voice is rich, the texture of honey.

  "Do you want to go for a walk?" Jan says.

  "I’d like that very much," replies Faith and she stands and they make their way to the exit.

  The night air breaths a hushed silence of longing into Faiths lungs. She did not know that Jan could speak, could articulate in spoken word and now she wants to talk.

  "Why did you never speak like that before?’ asks Faith.

  They are walking past rows of bars, the noise is deafening yet Faith hears only the sound of Jan’s voice. "The moment was never right between us. I could sense you were ready now. To talk I mean."

  "What’s gone wrong Jan? Why can’t I just be?"

  "You are, Faith. You just don’t realize it. You think too much about who you were. You should realize that it’s who you are that counts."

  "Then who am I?" asks Faith, pleadingly.

  "Ah, that age old question. Maybe you will never know. You are more than your memories, Faith, more than your thoughts. There is a you, yet only in the silence, when your mind stills and there is an answer to fill the emptiness will you ever be able to know that question. It is not difficult. Nor too much to ask. Yet, it is a fear of the self, the true self, the unknown yet authentic self that prevents us from finding this," says Jan.

  Faith feels like crying. She senses Jan in her mind, searching through her thoughts then pushing them aside.

  "A Greek philosopher once said that the opinions of others are like the playthings of children," says Faith, unsure of where the memory of this has come from.

  "What is Greek?" replies Jan.

  "Of course. You wouldn’t know would you. I keep forgetting. I’m from a different place. A different place altogether. Yet in some ways I think… maybe it’s not so different after all."

  Jan laughs at this.

  "Maybe I could come to your world," says Jan.

  "Maybe. But how?" replies Faith.

  They sidestep a junkie, who lies sprawled on the pavement, yet Faith has no desire t
o kill, and they continue, leaving the women to her beatific stupor.

  "I would have to go through you. Put myself inside you somehow. So when you awoke I’d be there, waiting. Would you like that, Faith?"

  "Yes," says Faith. "Yes, I would like that very much."

  "Then maybe we should go together. That is, if you have to go?"

  And she did have to go. The drugs, the other chemicals that rode her veins in her home world were wearing off.

  "Let’s give it a try," says Jan.

  Faith smiles.

  They are in Jan’s apartment. It is a bare space, a solid collage of concrete walls and floors, yet Faith has never felt more comfortable in the confines of a home. They lie on Jan’s bed.

  Jan takes the needle from out her arm and hands it to Faith. It is full of blood, Jan’s blood and Faith pauses only a fraction of a second before injecting it into her arm.

  "I hope this works," says Faith, and she does, more than she can explain. It has something to do with the loneliness that she had forgotten for the time being and the broken clock.

  "It’ll work. Why not?" replies Jan.

  They squeeze hands as the walls of the building begin to dissolve around them, and Faith again sees the chambers of her heart, she is returning now, the lights are receding in a final blast of colour and she cannot find Jan, feels frantic in her search.

  Then she is home.

  She opens her eyes.

  She is alone.

  The clock has started again.

  She sighs.

  The punishing insanity has returned and she takes the clock from its' place on the wall and smashes it into tiny fragments, wants to make a million little pieces of time, burn the hours and scatter ashes of seconds to the vast winds of eternity.

  The clock is defunct.

  With heavy heart, yet lightness of step, Faith makes her way to the kitchen.

  She wants some Gin.

  The kitchen is empty. A half drank glass of gin sits on the thick worn table, and Faith lifts it to her mouth and takes a casual sip that gathers taste as it slips coolly down her throat, the liquid burn sending shivers of warmth through her shoulders, and for a moment she is lost in the change of feeling, her thoughts momentarily put on hold, and she swallows, turns to the radio on the kitchen counter, an antique version of the modern commonplace instrument, and she turns the dial; ON, and shakes her hair to the psychedelic blues that plays on her favourite station. She feels better, yet lost in a sadness that holds profoundness with the lyrics and guitar that are now also in the room.