Gothic Lies

If his name was Lee, I don't quite remember. He was skinny, sick, gothish, but not by choice. A true goth. Life, it seemed, was actually out to get him. Where ever we met, I also don't remember. I want to remember it was in the TV room. We had a TV in our room and a bathroom for an extra $35 per month, but they played shows like The Simsons and Ren & Stimpy in the large room walled with couches. We only got the channels that played hockey night in Canada or the news, which I hated.

The girl who wore white clothes stained with black hair dye drippings sat in the spot also stained with her black hair dye drippings. Who else would? Once I got a peek in her room by wandering around the halls. I can't exaggerate enough how deep the levels of mixed pizza boxes, trashed newspapers, and ashes went. I suppose there was carpet underneath it all but I highly doubt anyone ever saw it.

We shallowly assumed he was a male prostitute. He wore black smudged eyeliner as I imagined one would. There were a few very weird humans in the building, not much unlike Lee and myself. I had seen a few slithering about the floors like ghosts from a George A. Romaro-like nightmare I'd often had. But none were as young as Lee. I was 17 or 18 at the time and I am certain Lee was younger. The riff raffs didn't scare me in real life as much as I dreamed they would. But in retrospect, It was me who was probably the scary one. The pretty school girl voted most likely to kill herself. Some kind of overly smiley Courtney Love-ish barbie way too happy to be there. Annoying.

The summer of 1998 was almost over but the piss from the warmed alley ways was stull pungent, especially in the mornings. A couple of nights before, the three of us hung out all night high. Smoking heroin mixed in joints, and playing hot lava carpet while listening to music like the Smiths and Nine Inch Nails. We laughed like little kids and jumped from couch to bed, to bed to couch. Over and over. Crashing into each other and landing on the beds or couch with our feet in the air. We were so out of it that only the next morning did I notice a bruise on the top of my foot. Later that day an x-ray tech at St. Joseph's confirmed it was broken. And to this day I can still recall how I felt I must have looked. Crutches, too high, tilted too much outwards. My face obviously in pain from the rubbing in my armpits as well as the throbbing bone broken in my foot. Standing with my boyfriend outside one of the oldest hospitals on the west coast of Canada with dagger eyes because for some reason neither one of us could even afford the lousy bus. The 25-minute walk took an hour and a half, I cried the whole way. I wanted to jab him with the crutches but couldn't find my balance no matter where I tried.

I do remember knocking on Lee's door that day, even though I could clearly see the door was ajar. Not like anyone in this place to leave their door open, regardless if they were home or not. I peeked inside. The light was on. He was home. Homes were rooms in this old building with the unaccessible middle court yard you could see from your room's window if you were on the inside. You either had a bathroom or you didn't. He didn't. He was slumped over on the couch, fully clothed but totally out. I sat down beside him lightly with my eyes glued to the table. There was a bunch of money just tossed there... I whispered. "Lee, man. Lee... Hey. You awake?" I didn't really try to wake him. I knew the very instance I saw the money and his eyes closed that I had a chance. I reached out and picked up all of the bills off the table in one swift swoop. I said again, a bit louder, as I backed away... "Lee, hey!"... Poof! I was gone. Left his door wide open, not once looking back.

I got back to the room quick. I would have run, breathless, I'm sure. Forcing myself not to breathe until I got back to my room in some weird motivational masochism designed to make me run faster. It worked. I closed the door behind me and very quietly locked it. Wouldn't want anyone to hear me running into a room, slamming the door and locking it. That'd be suspicious. I tried hard those days to "be cool". Not "spaz". Not look "suspicious".

I confessed to my boyfriend what I had done instantly after locking the door. I looked at him, and knew already the saddest part was; we didn't even need the money. He didn't care as much as I didn't care, but somewhere deep down we were just too chicken shit to admit we cared. We bought take-out, beers, and raincoats from MEC. Lee had to go to the Welfare office and ask for a new cheque. After informing the landlord he couldn't pay rent she vouched for him. Each time we saw him after that day I wondered why he never questioned me. I would look him in the eyes silently praying for forgiveness. Only recently did I commit to myself that if I ever saw Lee again I would try to pay him that $450. I'd tell him the story. I'd say I was sorry. He would tell me about his life and how much he had changed. He'd see I'd stay the same and could not afford to repay him even if I truly wanted to. "Don't worry" with a sincere look on his face he would say. I'd hate myself all the more for even bringing it up as it wouldn't change the fact that I robbed him in his sleep.

Maybe I would confess hypothetically over drinks in some late-night dive. Testing his response. Make passes at him indirectly as if to offer sex in exchange for something he never knew I took. I never saw Lee again, nor did I look. As I said, I could never begin to pay him back, after all.

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