From the living room of her cluttered and unkempt home, Julianna heard the radio's chatter, the menial goings on and advertisements, of the station it had last been tuned to. Johnny lay on the couch, mumbling incoherently and hugging a soft, crocheted afghan around his shoulders. Clutched in his fingers was a crumpled sheet of notebook paper stained with a small, coffee-colored circle where he'd accidentally spilled his drink sometime during his drug-addled ramble. Julianna snatched the paper from his grip and nearly tossed it across the room, seeing the many corrections made to her own neat cursive writing. Then, deciding perhaps she'd better check on him, she smoothed it out and began reading.
It was part of a piece she'd actually helped him write—a one-time occurence—that he wanted to start fleshing out more fully into a song when he met up with the rest of the guys at their last practice. They'd been getting around more and were hopeful about further upcoming oppurtunities, and the prospect of getting noticed by something bigger, so he's been putting more time and effort into his little art project lately. Things had gone well; or, she'd hoped, until she'd seen him come home, completely plastered with his eyes blazing and that he'd had a huge fight with Van the other day over something that had struck a nerve, even though nothing seemed out of place. He was in a bad state when he'd come through the door, babbling incoherently.
This morning, he was sleeping as if he'd not seen a bed in days. But this new behavior had Julianna feeling particularly sour toward him. What started out as his silly need to cling to her, annoying with the way he'd look over her every moment as if he just wanted her to smile or listen to his every word or let him hang on her, had turned into a big problem that she herself hadn't anticipated, but which he couldn't seem to fight. His growing addiction was out of control, and his increasing dependence on her was becoming too much for her to handle.
She glanced over to see the syringe peeking out from the side table's drawer, still there, untouched and lonely. Her attention kept being drawn back to him, still and listless, drooling, the sheets balled in his hand. Eventually she sat down beside him, reached over, and punched him hard in the shoulder, making him flinch. "John, what the fuck!"
He tried to sit up, turning away and sputtering, "I-I'm awake." He was unfocused. His body was giving out on him, tired, fatigued, worn, his attention struggling against the drugs and alcohol he'd abused the night before.
Her hand came up to grip his hair, preventing him from rolling over. He was so drugged out and foggy that he couldn't focus properly, couldn't even seem to stand. For a little while he just let her hold him, as if he didn't have a clue as to what he should be doing, sitting and listening, trying his hardest just to concentrate on breathing.
It was times like these when he scared her with his behavior. He really had become strange, and the way he looked at her, and touched her, and acted like they were the only ones in the room and that they always would be, and like the tiny mobile home was the whole world, sometimes had her forgetting what he was like in the rest of the world. Forgetting that other women had existed, and that he wasn't usually such a hopeless romantic fool or that he hadn't always needed her cuddled up to him to relax or reassure himself. There was really something not normal about the way he was acting.
And to some degree, it got to her.
They hadn't done anything intimate since that one drunken and drug-fueled night the week prior. A sober Johnny was too nervous around her and hesitant to come too close anymore. She hated him at times, the way he acted. One moment, so bold and sweet and carefree with her, the next he flinched when she got near.
And so she encouraged his bouts of recklessness and intoxication, even knowing how utterly worthless, the way it gave him a certain amount of brash, fumbling, fearlessness. All this stuff he did, it was so he could be near her without coming off as nervous and confused, without the pauses and fumbles, without worrying about looking foolish and inexperienced.
Pulling herself closer to her lover, Julianna planted a kiss on his sleepy lips, bringing his hand back around to her middle. "Awake enough to do something?"
The question made him lift his head, the slightest hopeful look perking his expression. He seemed more alert. "Yeah?" he mumbled, eyes searching and fingers making gentle motions across her hip and side, thumb finding its way under the hem of her top. "What do you mean?"
His movements weren't efficient or fluent, due to the heroin haze clouding his actions and thoughts. But even knowing this, he managed to slide himself over her and get in a better position before pausing, indecisive, and needing her to reach her hands up to the side of his head and pull him down for a kiss. And another. Then another, deeper. After that he couldn't seem to stop, letting her guide him with her hands to push his head up and bring his lips back. His eyes drifted closed and his kisses became more sloppy and hungry.
Johnny mumbled against her lips about a place for her hands and about her touching him. Even his mumbling was distant, fading at the end and slowing down. He'd slid back off her and was just laying with his forehead pressed to her jaw and his stubble tickling her neck. His hands still gripped her shirt, he still put himself between her legs, but his whole body was limp. After a few moments it was too obvious he was getting nowhere.
And although she appreciated him being right there on top of her and definitely still attractive, his total lack of motor control and willingness to go anywhere with their tryst pissed her off. So, instead of shrugging and having at him anyway, Julianna pushed him away and shoved him back into his corner of the couch, pulling the afghan back over his body and not paying him any heed as he attempted to sit up again to regain her attention.
"No...wait. Julie baby, hold on," he said hoarsely, his throat feeling dry as he coughed and his gaze darted about as he tried to focus again on her. He felt for her hand, holding it, hoping she'd let him move close once more and actually start something this time. "I can get it up, I'm just kinda hungover."
She could see his heavy eyes looking at her, trying to seem eager and aroused and desirous of the prospect of sex. It seemed almost urgent, his need to please and make this go a little farther. The way he spoke became very subdued, almost apologetic.
"But...in a little bit, could we...? Just me and you?" His hands started to drag along her leg, then found her upper arm, pulling slightly. It was an awkward gesture, a movement made absentmindedly. "Bug, don't be mad. Okay?"
"For Christ's sake." She quickly pushed his hand away when he pulled her toward him. Bug was the pet name she used for him, but she always tried to say it with disdain. And it always succeeded. "When will you ever not be so fucking annoying?" she muttered harshly, only meaning to say it in her mind, only turning to look at him when he didn't respond.
Johnny had laid down again and was curled into a ball on the other end of the couch. The pillow she'd been holding had been pulled in his arms. "Sorry," he said listlessly. He'd obviously picked up what she was thinking and was no longer trying to convince her to fool around anymore.
He seemed to avoid looking directly at her the rest of the evening and only occasionally tried to talk to her.
Part of her wanted to puke. An apology. Fuck you. The bitter taste of remorse settled into her mouth; that was the fifth time she'd fucked up by being nasty with him today, although not as bad as whatever his ex had done to him by the fact he was still bothering with being affectionate to her, but enough to be worried she was taking it too far. But...then again, he deserved it for being an asshole sometimes.
There was no change in Johnny until he was high again, when the need to ramble on to her came back full force and he nuzzled her. She couldn't believe him. He was completely shit faced, strung out, and clearly so fucked up. He couldn't even fucking stand up straight. It's a shock he hasn't ended up in a hospital yet, she mused, glaring daggers as he turned back and grinned at her hopefully. She'd love to send him flying face first into the bathroom wall to smash his head open and spill his stupid brains and dirty his pretty looks.
So she did the next best thing. He got close again, reaching for her, probably looking for a kiss. So she met his face with her fist. The force of the impact caused him to stagger a moment. Shock, then hurt, then pain crossed his face. Finally, disgust. At her or himself, she couldn't tell. Julianna could see a mark beginning to form on his face where her hand had broken his skin. Crimson began to trickle across his features, giving him a more animal appearance with his widened eyes, and finally making him seem alive. It suited him. She always thought he was like a ragged coyote who'd somehow found himself in human society begging for scraps. And no matter how scary it was, he'd never get vicious.
It almost enraged her, his reaction. He just wiped his face with the back of his hand and without another word, he turned and walked stiffly to the bathroom and shut himself inside, leaving her in complete silence.
For a few minutes she could hear him shuffling around, maybe cursing and cleaning himself up a bit. Hours later, after he'd abandoned the bathroom and skirted around her by keeping to the edges of the rooms, obviously afraid that she might snap at him or further injure him at any moment, she returned to their shared bed and was startled to find him already under the blankets, with his back to her. She had wanted to be the one to be cold this time. She'd wanted him to ask her if he was allowed to share the bed, not to throw his right to be next to her in her face. But, he was there, his breathing even, as if asleep.
"Up, you asshole." She shook his shoulder.
No response.
"Hey, hey, scumbag!" She gave him a shove.
Nothing.
There was a feeling creeping into her, like ice or crawling insects, making its way up her spine as she grabbed his hair and pulled, turning him around so she could see his face. A tiny spatter of red was still smeared near his mouth. One soft eye was closed, the other, a slit peering at her. Then they closed. His mouth opened in a small, "oh." Slowly the muscles of his body started moving; a stilted, jittery, erratic attempt, like the engine of an old car having trouble starting. His head lifted and rocked forward with a small gasp, both eyes, sharp and white, stared at her suddenly. They burned. "What do you fucking want?" His hand held him up, twitching and grasping the sheets.
"Couch. Now."
"Why?"
"'Cause you pissed me the fuck off, why else?"
Silence.
"Either the couch or the floor, 'cause you ain't sleepin' with me."
Hurt. Defiance. Anger. Again, "What do you fucking want?!"
A slight pause. He had pushed himself up off the bed. In Julianna's mind he looked less threatening; with his thin arms dotted with pinpoint bruises, and his clothes a rumpled mess of fabric. Vulnerable. Alone. Unprotected from her words and from the world. The realization was attractive to her, almost arousing. Despite herself, she gave in to the curiosity of his eyes' burning glare and answered. "Something I thought you'd give me, not have to ask for."
Suddenly self-aware and not liking the situation, Johnny swallowed. "I'm not a whore." His voice was tense. It trembled, but was firm, like a man prepared to fight for his dignity. The notion confused Julianna to no end. She watched Johnny crawl off the bed and away from her, the blanket halfway dragged off the bed with him.
"Sleep wherever."
Then came the grumble. "Fine. Your loss, though, baby."