dragonchaser
a game of choices
words + MS Paint masterpieces by Sophie McIntosh
(⬆click to play the tunes!⬆)
i.
Sun Prairie, Wisconsin.
late evening. late May. 2015.
it’s so fucking humid that it feels like you’re sucking swamp out of the air instead of oxygen.
you’re 17 years old.
you’re lying in your bed.
you’re bored and horny living with a variety of as-yet undiagnosed mental illnesses.
your phone buzzes.
i.
your heart stutter-thumps. then starts pounding.
what do you say?
ii.
ii.
ii.
you debate adding a 💚 but decide against it.
stupid stupid stupid shut the fuck up with that shit.
instead, you roll out of bed.
you put on a nice-but-not-trying-too-hard shirt.
and you pull up Kev’s contact.
ii.
ii.
you’re dressed and ready. but it’s a Thursday, and your parents aren’t fans of letting you go out on school nights. or of drugs. or of your rebellious, green-haired, frighteningly bisexual best friend.
you’ll need to come up with a plan.
what do you do?
iii.
you assess your options.
listening at the top of the stairs, you can hear your dad watching Law & Order down in the living room. you could try and sneak behind the couch through to the kitchen and out the back door.
there’s also your bedroom window. you could crawl across the roof and shimmy down the maple tree by the porch.
which do you choose?
iv.
you slide open the window and crawl out into the bathwater-warm night. the whole world feels drenched in sweat.
you move toward the maple tree, scrabbling for purchase on the slick shingles of the roof.
before you make it five feet from your window, your feet slip out from under you.
you fall eighteen feet, your skull cracking open on the concrete of your porch.
iv.
you pad to the top of the stairs. hesitate. and then tiptoe down, listening carefully.
on the landing, you trip on a pile of folded laundry and totally eat shit. fuck.
luckily, it happened just as the judge on TV was banging her gavel. “order! order!”
you pick yourself up. crouch down to scurry past the back of the couch. slip into the kitchen and out the back door, closing it soundlessly behind you. made it.
iv.
you hustle downstairs, trying to emit “oh shit, big emergency” vibes.
your dad sits up on the couch as you barrel into the living room, yawning and puzzled.
“Lilah? what’s the matter?”
Time to think fast.
what’s your excuse?
iv.
“hey. dad. I gotta run back to school. I left my, uh, trig homework.”
“you waited this late to start your homework?”
“I, um. forgot.”
“huh. well, you’re not going to be able to get into the school this late. you’ll have to head over extra early tomorrow morning and get it done then.”
“but—”
“better get to bed now so you can set an early alarm.”
now he’s pissed. and suspicious. no way you’re going to get out of the house tonight.
iv.
“hey. dad. I think I need to run to Walgreens.”
“what’s wrong? are you sick?”
“no. just some, um. lady troubles. I just got my period, and it’s really…”
he leans back like he’s expecting a red tide to burst from your crotch and drown him.
“gotcha. gotcha. I was about to head to bed. think you can make it yourself, or—?”
“I’ll just walk over quick. no need to wait up.”
he nods and sinks back onto the couch as you step outside. made it.
v.
you slip into the forest behind your house and start heading toward the marshy patch of woods that’s been the favorite local smoke spot for as long as you can remember.
Kev says it’s called Nam because one time he got so high that he started having war flashbacks from a past life.
Jen always says it reminds her of that chapter of The Things They Carried that you read in English last year—the part where that guy gets sucked into the shit-mud and dies. She hates smoking here.
you check to see if she’s texted again. she hasn’t.
v.
Kev is sitting on a stump, smoking a spliff bowl from a one-hitter shaped like a mushroom. or possibly a penis. it’s too dirty to really tell.
“hey, Lilah. got that quo for you.”
he tosses you a Ziploc with a quarter ounce of mid-grade bud. impossible to say what kind.
“thanks, Kev.”
“it’s good shit.”
it’s definitely mediocre shit.
“yeah, totally.”
v.
you reach for your wallet to get his money. but you realize you forgot to grab cash while you were planning your escape. great.
“Kev, I’m so sorry. I’m short right now. but I can get you tomorrow.”
“hey, it’s cool. actually, there’s something else you can do for me.”
you brace yourself for some skeevy scumbag shit.
“you’re close with Jen, right? Jen Russo? think you can put in a good word for me?”
he grins. a stupid stoned smile.
“maybe she’d give me a shot if you told her I was cool.”
v.
you see red for a second. then a sickly wash of green. something bitter floods your mouth.
Kev is still looking at you.
“what do you say, Lilah?”
what do you say, Lilah?
vi.
“don’t be fucking weird, Kev,” you snap. “she’s not into you like that.”
“right. kay. sorry. should’ve figured.”
he’s giving you a look that’s part pissed and part hurt and part knowing. way too knowing.
“what’s that supposed to mean?”
“nothing, Lilah. just gimme my shit back, okay?”
“I can pay you tomorrow.”
“then you can have it tomorrow. g’night.”
as you push back through the woods empty-handed, your phone buzzes again.
vi.
vi.
vi.
waiting.
waiting.
the air is so damp and close it feels like being swallowed alive.
vi.
(stupid stupid stupid)
vi.
vii.
Jen is waiting in the church parking lot when you get there. she’s playing with her lucky lighter, flicking it on and off. you can make out pieces of her face in staccato bursts.
chipped front tooth.
crooked, sloping nose.
flinty hazel eyes.
the clean, hard line of her jaw.
frizzy green hair like pissed-off Easter grass.
vii.
she stows her light when she sees you coming. not like you’re going to need it. you swallow down a lump of shame, but her name still catches in your throat.
“hey, Jen.”
“hey.” she lifts a bottle of tequila from the deep pockets of her army jacket—the one you thrifted together in Madison from a Goodwill that smelled like cat piss. “got us covered.”
“oh, awesome. thanks.”
you hate tequila. but you’re relieved. at least you haven’t totally derailed tonight’s debauchery.
vii.
there’s a single light on in the rectory as you sneak back to the church’s garden shed.
you think fleetingly of the time Jen commented that religious institutions should stop giving all their shit such erotic names.
the inside of the shed feels like a waterlogged Easy-Bake oven.
Jen pops open the tequila and takes a pull.
you suck down a mouthful and wince in a way that she usually laughs at. but this time you don’t even get a smile.
you really hate tequila.
vii.
“how was Barnes & Noble today?” anything to break the sandpaper silence.
“dead.”
“damn.”
“yeah.”
she takes another pull. flicks her lighter on.
off.
on.
off.
vii.
“are you mad at me?”
“why would I be mad?”
“I don’t know. sorry.”
“why are you sorry?”
“I don’t know.”
your eyes are burning. but it’s definitely, definitely just the tequila. you take another slug.
the shed is getting even warmer. you wonder if this is where they send the shitty, sinful kids at church to demonstrate what hell feels like.
vii.
“the Bronies came in again today.” her mouth quirks as she says it. the closest to a smile you’ve gotten yet tonight.
“oh shit, yeah?” you lean in, eager. she loves an audience, and you know how to be captive in just the way she likes.
“there was a book release. Twilight Sparkle and the Crystal Heart Spell. they all came to get their copies and do their little book club.”
“oh my godddddd.”
“traumatized the shit out of all the kids in the Beginners Chapter Books section.”
vii.
you laugh. and she laughs. and it’s one of those rare, magical moments where it’s all just easy. so fucking easy.
you shoot the shit and drink more and bump against each other’s shoulders and cackle like fucking loons.
(do loons cackle? or do they just wail? you’re too drunk to care.)
(you’re almost too drunk to want anything more than this.)
(almost.)
vii.
her lipstick is on the rim of the bottle. some of it transfers onto your own mouth as you pass it back and forth.
it tastes like chalk and unripe cherries.
there’s a drop of sweat in the corner of her smile.
you can see that freckle you love on the heel of her hand. when she rests her palm on your knee, you feel it burning against your skin like a lit cigarette.
Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen
vii.
you want her.
you want her you want her you want her you want her you want her to want you you want you want but.
but.
you don’t want to fuck this up.
you don’t you don’t you really don’t.
but you want.
you want.
vii.
“Lilah? are you fucking good or what?”
you want to tell her.
but you don’t.
but if you don’t, you’re going to burn alive.
but if you do, then what?
then what?
“Jen—”
so?
viii.
“listen. I…”
“yeah?”
“it’s, um.”
your tongue is a wet and hairless dead thing in your mouth.
“jesus, Lilah. what the hell?”
oh god jesus fuck shit dammit fuck I can’t I can’t I can’t I I I I
hazel eyes narrow. concerned. wary. distressed. or maybe disgusted.
viii.
you reach out and sort of grab her shoulder. look right at her.
“you know. you know. you have to. have to—”
“know what?”
“what I. what I. how I. Jen, please.”
“Lilah—”
eyes inches from hers. tequila breath sharp in your nose. burning.
“you know me. so you have to know. you have to.”
and from the way she looks at you, you can tell she does. she’s maybe always known.
viii.
and you can tell she’s never burned. not for you. not like that.
“Lilah. look—”
“don’t.” you pull back. clumsy. crushed. collide with a stack of clay planters and send them clattering to the floor. “please don’t say anything.”
“hey—”
“please.”
“okay.”
so you sit flat on your ass in the broken shards. in the simmering silence of shit better left unsaid. until the porch light snaps on at the rectory.
viii.
“motherfucker.”
and Jen grabs your hand and yanks you to your feet
the world slantwise and streaming
stumbling across the lawn as a voice from the rectory shouts sharp and scared
“who is that? who’s there?”
as you crash back into the woods, lashing past branches and lurching into creek beds
until you stagger up against an old white pine and paint its trunk with puke.
which feels appropriate, honestly.
viii.
“shit.”
“shit,” Jen agrees. she’s holding your hair back. like she always does.
“thanks.” you wipe your mouth on a leaf. spit into the creek.
“I just.” she’s staring at the shine of your phlegm in the brown water. not looking at you. “I never wanted you to want… I didn’t ask for that.”
you swallow. “I get it. I’m…” but you realize that you’re sad, but maybe not actually sorry. so you leave it there.
“yeah,” she tells you. “me too.”
viii.
it hurts like a bitch. but then, it always has. now it’s just got a different sheen to it.
she leans against the tree next to you.
cautiously, slow enough that she could shift away if she wanted, you lean against her.
and Jen leans back.
and it’s enough.
viii.
“yeah?”
shut up shut up stupid stupid fucking just shut. up.
“do you, um. do you have any water? I feel…” swallowing down the slick, scrabbling thing trying to crawl up your throat. “I feel kind of…”
“oh shit. are you gonna vom?”
“I don’t—” but the puke is already squeezing its way out of you, spilling over your lips and fingers and all over the shed floor.
and you’re convulsing helplessly, empty of everything except what you really, really needed to come out.
viii.
“shit shit shit shit,” Jen is hissing, fingers tangling in your hair as she holds it back. like she always does. you reach for her, but she dodges away from your vomit-covered hands. “that was loud as fuck. we better bail.”
and you let her drag you across the shadowed lawn and back toward the woods. one arm wrapped around your shoulders. holding you steady. drawing you limb from fucking limb.
you stop against an old white pine. try to catch your breath.
Jen laughs. “you’re a fucking mess, you know that? they’re gonna go in there tomorrow and be like, ‘what the fuck?’”
“yeah. they’ll… yeah.”
viii.
she cocks her head. “are you alright?”
no.
“I think I just need to go home.”
“shit, alright. you want me to help you—?”
“I can make it.”
“you sure?”
“I’ll see you around, okay?”
viii.
she looks at you. you don’t know what that look means. you’ll never know. you’ll never ask.
“am I still giving you a ride to school on Monday?”
no. no. every time you come near me I want to climb out of my own skin and I’m fucking sick of this I’m sick of myself I’m sick of being so fucking pathetic.
“that’d be great, Jen. thanks”
“cool. I’ll see you then.”
“text me when you get home, okay?”
“sure.” she squeezes your shoulder and heads off into the woods.
viii.
you lean against the tree until you’re sitting against the tree until you’re lying against the tree.
you wait for her to text you.
she never does.
you notice something lime green on the ground beside you. Jen’s lighter.
you pick it up. light it. dance your fingers over the flame.
let her sear you raw again.
vi.
“sure, Kev,” you say. being so so super cool about it. “I could tell her, like. um. yeah. I’ll definitely tell her that.”
“hey, thanks.” he’s so high that his eyes look like Anakin Skywalker’s after he murked all those baby Jedis. “you’re a real one.”
“you too.” smile. just keep smiling. “and I’ll get you back for this tomorrow, okay?”
“you got it, boss. have a good one.”
Kev ashes his one-hitter into the swamp as you turn and head back into the forest.
your phone buzzes in your pocket.
vi.
vii.
Jen is waiting in the church parking lot when you get there. she’s playing with her lucky lighter, flicking it on and off. you can make out pieces of her face in staccato bursts.
chipped front tooth.
crooked, sloping nose.
flinty hazel eyes.
the clean, hard line of her jaw.
frizzy green hair like pissed-off Easter grass.
vii.
she holds up the light when she sees you coming. like she’s at a rave and you’re her favorite shitty emo punk band. you grin. too big. turn it into a casual smile. “hey, Jen.”
“hey.” she’s wearing the army jacket you thrifted together in Madison from a Goodwill that smelled like cat piss. “thanks for hooking us up.”
“no prob.”
“hope Kev didn’t try to hit on you or anything. he’s such a jackass.”
“nope.” you swallow down the hot green flare in your chest. “didn’t give me any shit.”
“good. shall we?”
vii.
there’s a single light on in the rectory as you sneak back to the church’s garden shed.
you think fleetingly of the time Jen commented that religious institutions should stop giving all their shit such erotic names.
the inside of the shed feels like a waterlogged Easy-Bake oven.
Jen tears up the weed with her hands and rolls a lumpy joint. you let her take the first hit.
when it’s your turn, you take way too big of a rip and hack your lungs out. Jen presses her hands over your mouth to shut you up, but she’s laughing.
her hands are soft and smell like skunk and dirt.
vii.
“how was Barnes & Noble today?”
she snorts as she plays with her lighter again. flicking it on. off. on. off.
“sooooooo dead.”
“damn.”
“yeah.”
the shed is getting absurdly warm. you wonder if this is where they send the shitty, sinful kids at church to demonstrate what hell feels like.
vii.
“the Bronies came in again today.”
“oh shit, yeah?” you lean in, eager. she loves an audience, and you know how to be captive in just the way she likes.
“there was a book release. Twilight Sparkle and the Crystal Heart Spell. they all came to get their copies and do their little book club.”
“oh my godddddd.”
“traumatized the shit out of all the kids in the Beginners Chapter Books section.”
vii.
you laugh. and she laughs. and it’s one of those rare, magical moments where it’s all just easy. so fucking easy.
you smoke and shoot the shit and bump against each other’s shoulders and cackle like fucking loons.
(do loons cackle? or do they just wail? you’re too high to care.)
(you’re almost too high to want anything more than this.)
(almost.)
vii.
her lipstick is on the rim of the joint. some of it transfers onto your own mouth as you pass it back and forth.
it tastes like chalk and unripe cherries.
there’s a drop of sweat in the corner of her smile.
you can see that freckle you love on the heel of her hand. when she rests her palm on your knee, you feel it burning against your skin like a lit cigarette.
Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen Jen
vii.
you want her.
you want her you want her you want her you want her you want her to want you you want you want but.
but.
you don’t want to fuck this up.
you don’t you don’t you really don’t.
but you want.
you want.
vii.
“Lilah? are you fucking good or what?”
you want to tell her.
but you don’t.
but if you don’t, you’re going to burn alive.
but if you do, then what?
then what?
“Jen—”
so?
viii.
“listen. I…”
“yeah?”
“it’s, um.”
your tongue is a dry dead husk in your mouth.
“jesus, Lilah. what the hell?”
oh god jesus fuck shit dammit fuck I can’t I can’t I can’t I I I I
hazel eyes narrow. concerned. wary. distressed. or maybe disgusted.
viii.
you reach out and sort of grab her shoulder. look right at her.
“you know. you know. you have to. have to—”
“know what?”
“what I. what I. how I. Jen, please.”
“Lilah—”
eyes inches from hers. smoke sharp in your nose. burning.
“you know me. so you have to know. you have to.”
and from the way she looks at you, you can tell she does. she’s maybe always known.
viii.
and you can tell she’s never burned. not for you. not like that.
“Lilah. look—”
“don’t.” you pull back. clumsy. crushed. collide with a stack of clay planters and send them clattering to the floor. “please don’t say anything.”
“hey—”
“please.”
“okay.”
so you sit flat on your ass in the broken shards. in the simmering silence of shit better left unsaid. until the porch light snaps on at the rectory.
viii.
“motherfucker.”
and Jen grabs your hand and yanks you to your feet
stumbling across the lawn as a voice from the rectory shouts sharp and scared
“who is that? who’s there?”
as you crash back into the woods, lashing past branches and lurching into creek beds
lungs heaving, gut churning and chewing on itself
until you stagger up against an old white pine and paint its trunk with puke.
which feels appropriate, honestly.
viii.
“shit.”
“shit,” Jen agrees. she’s holding your hair back. like she always does.
“thanks.” you wipe your mouth on a leaf. spit into the creek.
“I just.” she’s staring at the shine of your phlegm in the brown water. not looking at you. “I never wanted you to want… I didn’t ask for that.”
you swallow. “I get it. I’m…” but you realize that you’re sad, but maybe not actually sorry. so you leave it there.
“yeah,” she tells you. “me too.”
viii.
it hurts like a bitch. but then, it always has. now it’s just got a different sheen to it.
she leans against the tree next to you. pulls out the rest of the joint, which she somehow, miraculously saved.
cautiously, slow enough that she could shift away if she wanted, you lean against her.
and Jen leans back.
and it’s enough.
viii.
“yeah?”
shut up shut up stupid stupid fucking just shut. up.
“do you, um. do you have any water? I feel…” swallowing down the sharp, scrabbling thing trying to crawl up your throat. “I feel kind of…”
“oh shit. cottonmouth?”
“yeah. maybe. I don’t—” suddenly you’re coughing like fucking crazy, all of the air in your body scraping out in hot bursts against your teeth.
convulsing helplessly, empty of everything but what you really, really needed to come out.
viii.
“shit shit shit shit,” Jen is hissing, pressing her hands over your mouth. smothering you. “that was loud as fuck. we better bail.”
and you let her drag you across the shadowed lawn and back toward the woods. one arm wrapped around your shoulders. holding you steady. drawing you limb from fucking limb.
you stop against an old white pine. try to catch your breath.
Jen laughs. “you’re a fucking mess, you know that? hacking your lungs out like a little bitch. like freshman year all over again.”
“yeah. I’m a total… yeah.”
viii.
she cocks her head. “are you okay?”
no.
“I think I’m greening out. I just… I need to go home.”
“shit, alright. you want me to help you—?”
“I can make it.”
“you sure?”
“I’ll see you around, okay?”
viii.
she looks at you. you don’t know what that look means. you’ll never know. you’ll never ask.
“am I still giving you a ride to school on Monday?”
no. no. every time you come near me I want to climb out of my own skin and I’m fucking sick of this I’m sick of myself I’m sick of being so fucking pathetic.
“that’d be great, Jen. thanks”
“cool. I’ll see you then.”
“text me when you get home, okay?”
“sure.” she squeezes your shoulder and heads off into the woods.
viii.
you lean against the tree until you’re sitting against the tree until you’re lying against the tree.
you wait for her to text you.
she never does.
you notice something lime green on the ground beside you. Jen’s lighter.
you pick it up. light it. dance your fingers over the flame.
let her sear you raw again.