Flash fiction, ~800 words (original) (raw)

“What are you doing?” Patrick said. His voice was jarring, out of place, like a jagged streak of white lightning across the clouds in Greg’s brain.

Greg let his hand drop onto his chest to slowly rise and fall with his breaths. He peered at the ceiling in his and Patrick’s dimly-lit living room. He was sprawled out on the carpet like a murder victim, his eyes staring at something much farther away than the ceiling. Next to his hand, a thin tendril of smoke rose from an overflowing ashtray.

“Patrick,” Greg said; his voice sounded distant, like there were pillows over his ears. “I’ve been watching the lights.” He waved his hand over his body, following its path with his eyes. “They’re always the most beautiful in October.”

“What?” Patrick snapped.

“The aurora borealis, Paddy,” Greg said, a sense of wonder in his voice. “She’s been singing to me.” He gazed lovingly at the ceiling.

Patrick sighed. “Greg, what did- Greg!” Patrick snapped when Greg stopped paying attention to stare at his arm. His eyes refocused on Patrick. “Greg, what did you take? Where is it?”

Greg waved his other, seemingly less interesting hand towards the dining table across the room. Patrick stalked to the table and snatched up a prescription bottle. His throat involuntarily let out an exasperated squeak.

“Greg! Seriously? Vicodin? Is that really what’s in here?”

Greg scoffed. “Vicodin. No, it’s hydromorphone,” he said, his voice flat.

“Oh, for- Greg, what the hell- Are you an idiot?” Patrick stammered; his face had turned an exceptionally bright shade of red.

Greg hummed in affirmation. “Relax, Paddy. Grab a couple and come lay on the urban grass; watch-”

“Greg, shut the hell up,” Patrick sighed.

“Powder,” Greg said and turned his head towards Patrick.

“What! Powder! Greg, did you snort coke?” All of the color had drained from Patrick’s face.

“Aha,” Greg chuckled. “Powder, Paddy, powder snow, like it’s just fallen this morning and no one’s had a chance to trample it all to muddy shit in their absurd rush about the universe.”
Patrick stared dumbly for a moment before saying, “What in the hell are you going on about?”

“The ceiling,” Greg had a knack for the tone of voice that made people feel stupid, even when it was Greg who was out of his mind on opiates. “The ceiling is a magnificent shade of fresh powder white, and Aurora has been dancing for me; have you met Aurora, Paddy?”

“I have seen the aurora borealis, Greg. Outside. In the sky. Just yesterday, in fact. You’re delirious, man.”

“I may be delirious,” Greg said wistfully, “but that doesn’t make this any less real. In my head, it all exists, so it’s all real. In my head. You know?” He tapped his index finger against his skull.

Patrick ran a hand through his short black hair and sighed. “Of course. You’re a philosophical junkie. How typical of you. How many of these did you take?”

Greg squinted, deep in thought. “It may have been. Oh, three or four or so. Enough.” He reached out to Patrick and said, “Come over here.”

Patrick frowned and shoved the bottle of pills in his pocket before kicking his shoes off and walking back to Greg. He loomed over him, arms crossed. If he were sober, Greg might have felt ashamed at the disappointment he saw on Patrick’s face.

“Did you know,” Greg whispered, “when I was a kid, ten or fifteen years ago, I saw a picture of the Northern Lights, and all I wanted for the rest of my life was to experience that.”

“I know.” Patrick lowered himself to the floor, sitting next to Greg with his legs outstretched.

“And then I came here, you remember, Paddy? And I was going to spend that night inside, but you dragged me out to the middle of the woods instead, and I had no bloody clue what your deal was, and then we cleared the forest at the top of the hill, and-”

“There were the lights,” Patrick said softly; he knew the story by heart. He laid back with his hands resting on his stomach. Greg tilted his head to watch Patrick out of the corner of his eye.

“There they were,” he said. “It was the only thing I’d wanted for so long, and now that I’ve got it, whenever I want, really, now…” he trailed off, frowning at the ceiling again.

“Now you don’t know what you want,” Patrick finished for him. He looked at Greg, but his eyes had drifted closed, and his breathing was deep and slow. Patrick sighed and stood up. He turned Greg on his side and placed a pillow from the sofa under his head, then draped a blanket over him. He turned off the single desk lamp as he retreated to his room, the pills in his pocket clicking merrily against their plastic bottle.

Wow, it feels awesome to actually finish something after so many months of writing useless scraps and poems. Even if it is rather shoddy writing and only 800 words.