4

I push through the huge green double doors, and stumble into the building. It’s a church. Tauren’s wedding is in a damn church. People are milling around, picking up delicate, painfully small portions of food onto their plates. The large room reverberates with the monotonous sounds of small talk. I push my shades higher up my nose, and amble into the crowd. More people than expected. I don’t like crowds, and my instinct is to cling to the fringes, but my growling stomach overrules. I bustle to the buffet line and grab a plate. My dirty hands make grey smudges against the ivory white. Perhaps the puddle I’d washed them in hadn’t been too clean after all. I load mounds of rice, fries, fish, chicken, gravy and bread buns onto my plate, forming a heap of food that I struggle to balance.

The people that surround me, dressed like they could be god damned dukes and duchesses, keep a good distance away from me. It makes me smile. At least I don’t have to talk to people I don’t want to. I don’t need to constantly repeat the same, ‘Hi! How are you? Great! What are you doing now? Really? That’s awesome! How are the kids?’. It’s disgusting. I don’t need to cramp myself into the cage that is formal dresswear. I don’t need to stress about if my suit is perfectly aligned, or frantically fix my hair if there’s a slight gust of wind. They say people are very closely related to chimpanzees, but they all act like freaking sheep. And I’m a dingo.

“Hey! Kallix freaking Rane is that you?” somebody calls. “And wearing a tie?” Commenting on my jeans, running shoes, black T-shirt and blue silvery tie look.

I spin around to see the middle eastern, slim chubby friend of mine. Salif Rastica. “Hey, ye girl stealing twat,” I joke, plopping down my plate next to his. He’s sitting alone, to my relief. He’s probably the person I’ve known the longest. He had been my neighbor when I still lived with my parents. “Found this thing in a dumpster. You’d be amazed at what people throw away,” I tell him, holding up the tie.

“How old are you now? Fourteen? Fifteen?” he teases.

“Funny, you don’t look a day over eighty,” I scoff, accepting a glass of champagne from a waitress. She gives me a funny look, but I turn away before she can say anything.

“Hey bro, I’m only four years older than you,” Salif tells me, sipping his drink delicately and looking at me with genuine interest.

“What’d you do to your hair,” I ask, grimacing at the gel.

“What? It’s a formal event you know,” he laughs. “Not everybody can pull off then, I’m a mangy escaped zoo lion, kind of look.”

“Is that so,” I respond, downing the sparkling contents of my drink. Despite me hatting all things classy, I can’t resist my love for champagne.

“You supposed to be drinking that?” he asks, one thick black eyebrow raised.

“Says the one who used to take me out drinking when I was twelve.”

“Thirteen,” he corrects.

He’s wrong. I know he’s wrong because I remember my first time like the back of my hand. One explanation. The bastard is a Bansilin junkie.

Salif laughs. “Good times. Hey what’re you doing now? Still scrounging?”

I nod. “It’s working out for me. Are you still at that nasty office job?”

“Well, it brings food to my table. And into my girlfriend’s belly.”

“You got a girlfriend? What kind of desperate slut would date your slick ass?” I laugh.

“So how do you know Tauren?” he asks, forced kindness kindling in his eyes. I may have overstepped.

I shrug. “We’ve had sex a few times. Known her for a couple of years. We’re kind of like our go to cuddle buddies. Guess it’s over now that she’s married.”

Salif looks disturbed, but the smile remains on his face. “I don’t know how you do it. It’s the old, Kallix magic huh?”

I exhale. “How’s your mom. Still has cancer?”

That was a dumb thing to ask. No, screw him.

“Well yeah of course,” he says, turning to his food. “She’s got two months left.”

“Better hire a couple speedo strippers am I right?” I ask, grinning.

Salif’s smile vanishes.

Dumbass! How could you say that? He deserved it. Freaking Bansilin junkie!

“Yeah, I’m going check on the others,” he says, picking up his plate and drink and moving over to another table.

I sigh and grab another drink from a waiter. Since when do they even serve drinks at a church?

I see the small, balding figure of a priest at the head of the church, in front of a massive fake stain glass panel of Jesus being crucified. How do these guys even make a living anymore?

A tall, lanky man plops down in the seat next to me as I’m wolfing down my food. He’s got a mop of windswept, flickable, thin, light brown hair, blue eyes and a large nose. “What’s a handsome fellow like you doing around here,” he asks, propping his head up with his elbow on the table.

Gay.

“Buzz off, queer. I’m straighter than your parents.”

“Actually, my mom left my dad for another girl,” he says, taking no offense. “But I’m not hitting on you. Just trying to be nice. But if you change your mind, I won’t tell you off.”

I grunt.

“Name’s Malyk, and you are?”

“Kallix. Kallix Rane.”

He extends a hand, but I don’t take it.

“You know Tauren or Wesslin or are you just crashing like that crow dude over there,” he asks, pointing to a man who’s flattened black hair, spiking out at the back and pointy nose actually make him look like a crow. I suppress my laugh.

“Yeah I know Tauren. Vaginally, not personally,” I remember her words.

Instead of being grossed out, Malyk laughs. “Yeah actually that’s how I know Wesslin. We used to be roommates, if you know what I mean. Well actually I was kind of like his two-month house guest. Till I got a job of course. What do you do?”

“Live. Breath. Exist. Drink.”

Malyk laughs again. “Sounds like you’ve got it figured out, bro.”

No snarky remarks about how that wasn’t how things were supposed to be? I’m taken aback. “Really?”

“Yeah. Seems like you’ve managed to dodge the system’s cage. How do you do it? How’re you able to… you know, not starve to death? And of course, hook up with girls like Tauren.”

Kallix shrugged. “I’m quick. I can parkour out of most of my problems. Steal what I need, when I need it. Go wherever the wind takes me. I love it.”

“Damn cool, that is. I tried that after I had a falling out with my parents.”

“Bansilin?”

“No actually. Old school angel dust. PCP. Ever tried?”

Kallix shook his head. “What is it?”

“Oh, it’s like LSD, but you get the real thing. They used to use it to tranquilize elephants and stuff. This Bansilin shit creeps me out.”

Kallix nodded solemnly. “Me too. How can we get some of this Angel shit?”

“Oh, you in? How old are you?”

“Old enough.”

“Alrighty then! I’ll hook you up after this, tiny bro,” Malyk laughed, wrapping one of his long arms around my shoulders and shaking me. Despite me wanting to maintain my stone face, a smile crept up my lips.

Angel Dust. Sounds like something real. At last somebody who isn’t hooked on that damn. The two of them continued to talk, jibe, and make fun of others while the speeches and ceremonies were performed.

“Everybody shhh!” Somebody called. “Here comes the groom!”

A speaker started blearing some sort of church music, as a small, barrel chested man with a handlebar mustache waltzed onto the… stage, for lack of a better word.

“Who is this guy supposed to be again?” Kallix asked.

“He’s an architect. Like the best architect. He’s like the head of the architects club or something,” Malyk joked.

Kallix laughed again. “Sounds rich.”

“Yeah. But you know what? He’s against Bansilin. Isn’t that great?”

“Shit! One of the last I guess.”

“Totally. He’s using his influence to do whatever he can to stop the crisis.”

“And here comes the bride!”

Everybody (actually) kept quiet, as Tauren made her way up, walking precariously on six-inch heels. I hear the audience gasp at how beautiful she looks.

It’s true, she is beautiful, when she’s wearing sneakers, jeans and a worn-out T-shirt, with her hair flowing like it does naturally. Not piled on top of her head like a mound of spaghetti! The amount of makeup she’s wearing makes me cringe. She’s got a fine complexion by herself. Now she looks like a damn doll. Her dress is so white and sparkly I’m yearning to spill something on it and pull the stupid pins from her spaghetti bun hair.

The priest drones on with his monotonously husky voice. Probably a child molester. I’m nodding off by the time I hear the words, “I do,” from Wesslin. He sounds as slimy as his name.

Tauren takes in a deep breath, the chemical cocktail of dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin and endorphin make her pupils dilate and her cheeks flush. “I do,” she responds.

“You may kiss the bride.”

I want to look away, but I don’t. My own cocktail of chemicals rush through me. I’m jealous at the fact that this weasly man is kissing the same lips I’ve kissed. I’m claustrophobic because of all the formality around me, despite being in a T shirt and jeans. I’m relieved that I’ve found another defiance like me. Another stone, peeping out of the gushing, synthetic river of the Bansilin crisis. I’m relieved that Tauren was able to find something that makes her happy. Even better that he’s another stone. The world is starting to separate into two people. The stones, like me, and the stoners, like Salif. I chuckle mentally. Ironically enough, us stones have probably tried more drugs than any of the stoners. I’m bad at naming things.

“Yeah I’m ditching,” I announce to Malyk.

“You aren’t going to congratulate her?”

“On what? Going to heart and vagina prison? No. I don’t intend to,” I scoff, standing up from my chair. I expect all eyes to fly to me, but instead, everybody turns to the door, where a grimy middle-aged man as flung open the doors.

“Hala!” he screams, tripping over his own feet as four more stagger in after him.

I grit my teeth instantly. It’s not even worth mentioning which drug they’re on anymore. Most people wouldn’t be able to tell, but I’ve been around enough.

A couple men and women, including Malyk and Salif, make there way to the junkies, who’re hollering, and bellowing random, indecipherable sentences. I turn my chair and put my hands behind my head to watch. I lose the junkies in the crowd of wedding heroes, when suddenly a hear a gunshot. Second time this week. Small and rapid fire. Probably an Uzi.

Before the first old lady can faint, I’m under the table, crouched like a cat and listening like a bloodhound. I hear somebody tumble to the ground, knocking over a few things. Then all mayhem breaks loose. Damn. This shit follows me everywhere I go now.

There’s only one gunman, but it’s enough to start milling down the masses of people. I barrel in a low run towards a stain glass panel on the side of the church, checking anybody in my way. As I run, I catch a glimpse of Wesslin and Tauren diving off the stage as bullets shatter the glass Jesus behind them.

I drop to an army cross between church benches as the wind of a bullet whips past the back of my head. Why can’t I do something without having to parkour my way out? Because then I wouldn’t be doing it in the first place.

I reach the stained glass window, the tops of the benches have already been splintered. I give a single, strong kick and the lead between the glass quickly caves in. I rip the rest out and dive through, one of the shards tearing a gash in my leg. I land with a sloppy roll.

A string of hissed curses erupt from my mouth as I run, adrenaline taking my attention away from the five inch tear in my thigh. Bullets splinter the wood of the church, and I fling myself to the ground.

“Shitshitshitshitshit…” I mutter, grabbing at grass and pulling myself along. I reach the sidewalk, and see dozens of people fleeing, as well as one of the junkies, standing at the door of the church, doubled over and laughing hysterically. Sick.

I scramble away down the sidewalk, wrenching my tie off and leaving droplets of blood on the white pavement as I run. There’s no sound of police sirens in the distance.