by Andy Finch
It would only get better from here, Draven tells himself, you wouldn’t have to go without your happiness anymore.
9
“Take a picture of this,” Geneva’s voice has returned to its natural self. Loud and without fear.
They stand at the base of the towering monument to Robert E Lee in Lee Circle. In the past years, his fame—or rather, infamy—had been in decline. Many people belonging to minority groups took to it to deface the shrine of racism. It had a history, but not the kind this city should be remembered for. This city held resistance and renaissance. Not from the white slaveowners, not from the oil riggers, but from the common folk. It was the poor man who invited jazz into this city, it was the slaves who brought this food renown through the whole country. It was the people who rebuilt this city from scraps, not businessmen or politicians. New Orleans was a city of common folk who could do more than any politician, billionaire, or businessmen could ever do.
Geneva points to the taped piece of poster strapped to the base of the statue.
Remember the soldiers, the slaves, the women; not the men who led from the safety of their mansions.
Draven puts his eye to his camera and takes a snap. He can already feel the death threats from the richer people of this city if he were to send this to the paper. This city was amidst its own civil war. The poor folk—labeled as druggies and deadbeats—wanted a reform, wanted this city to prosper again. The rich folk—coined as heartless and without a care except for the coin in their pocket—had abandoned hope for this city. It was doomed to drown in its own infighting—a lot stemming from drug abuse and inflation—before it succumbed to the water slowly creeping from the gulf.
“Did you put that there?” Draven asks. The poster featured sloppy cursive that looked as if it were made in the bed of a truck.
Geneva was a fox whole stole chickens in the dead of the night. Swift and agile, free of any blame. Her eyes twinkle against the sunlight beaming down on the two. Sweat dots her eyebrow, mixing with the humid air. Her plump lips were a shade of pomegranate, Draven compares her to the modern-day visage of Persephone, curser of men.
“I did,” she breathes through her nose, “Last night. Jaylen and I came down here and put it up. It must sit well with the community, I guess, no one took it down.”
Over the years, the statue had seen many graffiti and defilements. A couple of gang names here, empowering words there. They were washed off quickly. Quicker than they’d wash off the blood from the streets. Quicker than they’d send money to rebuild homes after the hurricanes. It shows where the politician’s priorities were.
“We should start a new series,” Geneva says. Her eyes turn to face the sun, then back to the monument.
“About?”
“Addiction.”
Draven rolls his eyes, “I am not an addict.”
“I never said you were,” she smiles, but she knows Draven knew it deep down, “This city is full of it, though. Imagine if we had no drugs here. We’d be bigger than New York.”
“Doubt it,” Draven grabs another shot of the towering statue, “New York is better at hiding their problems. This city has just… given up.”
“Well, it is pretty easy to give up when half the city is being fed fentanyl and opioids like it were on the menu at an all you can eat buffet, huh?” She smiles, “You would know about that wouldn’t you?”
“I’m not an addict.”
“I never said you were.”
She had him in her trap. She knew she was right, even if Draven continued to throw an accusatory glare. Her smile had, for once in their lifetime, made Draven sick to his stomach. He wanted to leave. He wanted—no, needed—his happy pills.
“Y’all are making it out like I’m a fucking druggie. I’m not, okay? Druggies are selfish. They do all that hard shit. Heroin, crack. I’m not a fuckin’ druggie or an addict.”
“Why so defensive? You don’t need to explain yourself to me, Dray.”
From the corner of Draven’s eye, he spots him. That Greek. That fucking Greek. Morris stands beside Draven, letting the sun hit his blue eyes. They shimmer like sapphires in the late morning glare. Draven finds himself comparing them to Ian’s pearls, glistening with specks of greens and browns. Thoughts of Ian get carried away by butterflies. Only Morris stays in the finite of Draven’s mind.
“How did you find me?” Draven asks.
“I just know where to look,” Morris flashes his stained teeth. A breath of tiredness wafts around him, latching on to Draven’s clothes, “You’ve got a certain… something… about you. A connection. You and I.”
Connection. The word sparks anger in Draven. Jealousy. Ian returns to his head, rising from the ground the butterflies had buried him. Ian would be barking a storm. Connection. That was the word he had used on him and Draven’s first date, and second. Maybe he said it sometime during their third or fourth date, too. Draven finds his head swaying with a concoction of chemicals he did not understand. His body sags in his skin. Shoulders hanging, chest slumped over. He was tired.
Morris touches his hand. His fingers were soft, untouched by the burdens of life. Their fingers lock, Draven feels it happen subconsciously. His brained screamed to stop, to push him away, but his body worked with a higher power. The power of desire and temptation. To be so naughty every so often was compelling. His body, weak with the effects of medications, could not resist when given the opportunity to indulge.
“We could live together,” Morris’ smile drops, “Forever. We could be happy.”
“I am happy,” Draven says, “I don’t even know you. Get… Get off me.”
Morris lets him wallow in his newfound pride. Their hands drop to their sides. Morris stares up through his lashes, the licks of blue highlighting the paleness of his skin. There’s that twinkle in his eyes again. The way the sun almost passes right through him, refusing to reflect off his irises. He was translucent in the light. His veins were the lines of black engraved naturally in marble. It was almost like looking at a sculpture. Morris was unmoving, perfectly balanced and chained in stone. That is until he rebuilds the smile on his face. He was hollow when he moved. Draven knows no man could move with such deafness.
“You know who I am,” Morris says, interrupting the study Draven had silently conducted on the beauty before him, “You just refuse to admit it.”
There was a deep, primal urge sated somewhere within Draven. He zones in and out of reality, slashing the veil between dreams and materiality. It was what he wanted. Morris. Draven wonders if he is an angel, sent to guide him away from the life he strayed. Or maybe he was a demon, here to lure him further down that path. He agrees with the latter. A demon is said to be a beautiful man, with a tongue sharper than steel, and a mind full of deceit.
“You would be happier with me,” Morris says. The drowsiness in his voice was gone. It was not uncertainty. He spoke what he thought was the truth. He repeats, a breath of sadness coating his words, “You would be happier with me.”
Maybe he was right, Draven thought. There’s a taint in his brain now. Memories of Ian transforming themselves with would-bes of Morris. In one picture, Morris is holding Draven’s hand as they watch the New Year’s Eve fireworks over the military base in Belle Chasse. They kiss just as the clock hits midnight. In another, Morris weaves braids into Draven’s thick curls. His fingers worked the coarse texture better than Ian ever could. The last picture painted was of last night, though. Morris’ skin hot and heavy against Draven’s own. They finished with a cocktail of morphine and vodka.
No.
Draven erases the pretenders hiding amongst his real memories. Ian sat on his throne as Draven’s sole companion. They would walk through hell and back, with their hands interwoven with each other.
“I would not,” Draven says without hesitation.
And then he is gone.
The coolness of the stones before him rouse him awake. His head sings a song of discomfort as the taste of blood rises in his throat. Hi
s heart beats with the strength of a thousand horses in his chest, threatening to rip open his ribs and run away without him. Geneva stands over him, holding a stolen plastic bottle half full of water. Draven is made aware now of the dampness of his clothes and face.
“Jesus, fuck!” Geneva throws the bottle down as she drops to her knees, “I thought you died—”
“What happened?” Draven almost smiles. Almost.
“You looked all zoned out, Dray. Your eyes went all foggy and you got cold. I didn’t even notice until I heard you thud onto the ground. Fuck, is your head okay? Let me… Let me see.”
Her nails carefully scope the landscape of flesh. Her hands cradle his head as she searched. She feels no bumps, no cracks, no bruises, no blood. She sighs with relief. Draven, given the all clear, stands up with Geneva’s help. He’s a bit wobbly on his feet, but fine, nonetheless. Geneva stares in awe. A man who near dropped dead was already back in fighting action. He was Achilles, and his Patroclus would have her head if he came home with a single scratch.
“Ian’s gonna fuckin’ kill me.”
“He doesn’t have to know.” It seemed so scandalous to utter those words. As if they were being unfaithful to their respective partners. A smile coats his lips, honeyed with the words of friendship and platonic love, “He won’t have a clue.”
“Okay, well, when he comes poundin’ on my door about some bruise—”
“He does not do that.”
“He almost killed me after… you know…”
They were back to the restlessness from before. The surge of energy right before a storm hit. Like watching a hurricane form in the gulf, watching to see if it defected back to sea or if it grew to something catastrophic. Draven takes a short breath, more aware of the thump of his heart he heard in his ears. His body was caught in a limbo of the eerie stillness of death and the restlessness of jitters that made his organs work too quickly.
“I haven’t set foot on that street in forever,” Geneva says, “Do you think the mural is still up?”
“I’d hope so,” Draven says as silent as ever.
“I’ve got an idea for another series.”
“Shoot me.”
They both inwardly cringe at that remark. The silence besets them again until Geneva finds the proper time to speak.
“It’ll be about love.”
Her hands are clasped tight against the blacks of his camera. A new crack in its side. The paint began to wither all around the edges. Draven didn’t have the guts to replace it. Not yet. He would tell Ian about how he’d feel sorry for the old camera, how it would probably weep about being replaced. Ian would scoff and shake his head. Geneva puts the camera in Draven’s awaiting hands. She didn’t have to say anything to convey her message.
Draven turns the circular eye to the duo. They stand close, wearing a forced smile only needed for the picture. Draven wonders if his eyes will be shut when he looks at the picture later. The flash was intrusive against their eyes. Their smiles drop into something less formal. Draven turns to see what he’s captured.
Geneva smiles in the photo. She does not have to force her lips to stay open. She rivaled Helen of Troy in her beauty. Everything in this picture captured her naturalism. Beside her, though, stood a husk of a man. Two sizes too small. Barely fitting in his clothes. His eyes bruised in his sockets from the sleepless nights before he got his fix. He looked like death. Geneva, though, she breathed life into the photo.
“I like it,” she says, “It should be the cover.”
Draven agrees reluctantly. He smiles to himself, not happily, but with shame and forged content.
Shame for he does not recognize the man staring back at him in the photo.
10
The night is unmoving tonight. So unnatural. New Orleans’ thick air was a breeding ground for mosquitoes and bugs which Draven could not name. They aren’t swarming the balcony light tonight, nor can he see their swarms dotting against the tree line that protects the bayou. There’s a magnolia tree planted in the courtyard. Normally, during this hour, the tree waves hello at his appearance. Then it would dance with the song of frogs and nightbirds hiding deep in the swamp, away from the eyes of humans. Tonight, it does not dance. It doesn’t sway or chime, it doesn’t listen for the silent bullfrogs. It just sits, caught between the existence of dreams and life.
“Come out, ass,” Draven calls into the night, “I know you’re doing this.”
He materializes beside Draven. Morris’ marble skin glows in the moonlight. He was heavenly. Behind him, tethered to his skin with golden ribbons, were a pair of dove wings, larger than life. He was an angel, Draven decided. Morris was near-nude, too. A tunic covers his masculinity, the rest of his snowy skin remained open to the moon’s glow. His curled hair stays restrained by two olive branches making the skin behind his ears their home. Morris sits crossed-legged on the balcony’s cool stones. He gestures for Draven to join him. He is given no choice in the matter.
“You’re dreaming, you know,” Morris says. He has more to say, but he does not find the time to say them. Instead, he sits in idle thought, letting the words find a crook to burrow in Draven’s thinking. Such was his way, the cryptic nature of that not-so-human.
“It feels real,” Draven responds, “Almost.”
Again, with the almost. Even now they haunt him. The could-have-been’s, should-have-beens, and all that in between. That was the way of man. To survive, to live. To endure the guilt of what was meant to happen, what hasn’t happened, and what will. That was the burden of man. Their intuition that painted out all the would-haves.
“Almost?” Morris questions, “What is different?”
The silence consumes. Gnawing at the tension rising between the would-be-angel and the addict. They were in the realm of nothingness. Even the pitter of their breath seems insignificant in the plot of emptiness circling in the outside. It was here, in the void that Draven could admit the sickness that infected him: addiction.
“No bugs,” Draven almost giggles, “No Ian, either.”
The mention of his significant other strikes a nerve in Morris. Who knew angels felt jealousy? Certainly not Draven. Maybe he was a demon, still, masquerading as an angel to win Draven over. Or maybe, he was so, so much more.
“You’d be happier here,” Morris says, “With me.”
Thoughts arrive on the wings of moths that seem to appear out of nowhere. What did happiness mean to Draven? He didn’t have a good answer. There was Ian, photography—morphine. He hates that realization that had been clear since his first day back from the hospital. He hates himself; he hates Morris; he hates every goddamn person in the whole pharmaceutical scheme of addiction.
“I’m happy here.” He finally says with a breath of relief. He willed it to be true, and so it would be. It would take dedication unlike any he has had before. He smiles at his new destiny set before him. The road to recovery didn’t look like a golden brick road like he had imagined.
“Are you, though?”
And then he was gone before Draven could even think upon the words. The world returns to its busy self. The moths still stay, killing themselves against the dirty glass of a lightbulb. A mosquito lands on his calf. He does not swat it away. For once, he is happy to see those little demons. The next one that lands on him, though, does not get to taste the sweetness of mercy. It is dead before it can pump any of its venoms.
“Dray?” A voice calls out. Ian’s vanilla scent fills Draven’s nostrils, “Oh god, why are you out here? You’re gonna get Zika. Were you… were you asleep?”
Draven stares up, squinting against the too-bright balcony light, “Ian?” he asks.
There’s a pinch of sadness lingering in the air. Or maybe Draven was coming down from his high. He tries to forget his need for the pill, just once. He never wins. It was an ache, like when he had gone without food or water. A hunger. One needed to be sated.
“I’m here,” he replies. He steps away from the light, letting it cast a jaun
diced glow on his skin. Ian smiles sadly, apologetic. A moth swings by his forehead, but he swats it away.
“Good,” Draven smiles to himself before turning to face the magnolia, “I love you.”
Draven decides that he’d bleed Morris from his memory. Morphine be damned. He could conquer it. He would conquer it. He just needed help. Help, the word scares him. Help came in that little orange bottle. Help tasted like ecstasy. Help… Well, help was morphine. Already, twelve hours since his last three pills, his body contorted with the ache of desperation. It was like suffocating.
“Come back inside,” Ian opens his hand, begging Draven to take it, “Please.”
Draven allows himself this one luxury. Their hands fit together like two pieces of a puzzle. Ian squeezes his hand. For a second, they stand in silence, admiring the untouched beauty that comes from sleepiness on each other’s faces. Ian’s eyes never carried the suitcases of tiredness, no matter how little sleep he got. Draven was the exact opposite. He could sleep forever and ever, but his face would still hold the burden of sleeplessness. Ian stands on his tippy toes, his nose rubs against Draven’s.
