Disillusion: The Apartment |
Posted by
Squire-of-Gothos on Monday, May 23, 2005 - 12:24 AM PST
As it turns out, it ends up on top of the mansion, a quick ten minutes drive from the apartment. Nestled in an opulent neighborhood of Davie, between Griffin and Sterling, on 61st Ave I believe, is “The Mansion”. Some sick fucker designed a White House-like structure on a 3 acre lot, situated behind huge iron gates, and hidden under the canopies of various huge oaks, with the requisite Spanish moss and dark, dank looking pond in the front expanse. It has no windows, and is a completely open, poured concrete structure. In the back, there is an iron aviary with about 25 bird cages the size of a large storage shed, piles of ripped up marble, and a small beach house/office looking building, which could easily have served as an information desk, as well as a showroom of some sort. To say the mansion’s purpose was as much a mystery as its abandonment was an understatement: It was weird. It reeked of something gone wrong, and reminded me of the dilapidated structures one might find in a Jurassic Park sequel. None the less, it was a favorite hang out of everyone, and it held many secrets to be solved, or at least discussed over libations and marijuana.
When we get here, it’s already dark; 8 pm at least. The air smells like acrid water and smoke, but it’s somehow pleasing. Crickets buzz from locations unknown, and the grass is dewy and stiff under my Converse. I lead the pack, naturally, towards the imposing structure. “My god,” I say, and I always say, because I can’t believe I’m seeing something so big, so left to rot. We find our spot on the second floor, while Bryant goes to the lightless black expanse of the basement to listen to pop music on his mp3 player. “That fucking guy,” I mutter, and sit down next to Michael and Christy, who are sitting awfully close. Not again, I think, violating everyone’s sex laws. My mind is gibberish it seems, and I start losing track of my place in the social line.
Many drink later. I pass the pot, satiated with the cool plateau of being. Somewhere near the edge of nothingness. Michael plays a Death Cab for Cutie song on his acoustic. Bryant wanders slowly from empty hall to empty hall. Stephanie and David kiss and giggle from some dark closet next to us. Nathan and Carla wander the courtyard out back, talking about something mind numbingly important. And Christy…where the hell is Christy? I stand up awkwardly, light a cigarette, walk to the back. No one lifts their head, no one asks where I’m going. They carry on, numb. I keep treading along, and my mind’s wandering, uncomfortably. I try to focus, but on what? “Whatever,” I say aloud, and sip my Natural Ice. Passing a Drug test this week. Going home and jerking off. Gwen in England with Jason; My can crushes damply in my hand, and foam spouts onto it. Christy sitting in the aviary, crying. What?
My mind is cleared now, and somehow…somehow I went from walking to crouching next to the shadowy mass of Christy’s frame, surrounded with the dry, mossy stink of years old bird shit and hay. She cries softly but wetly, and I curse myself for not carrying a handkerchief, though I don’t know why. “Christy, what’s, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” She snorts, and coughs. I sit down roughly on the earthen surface, and offer my beer to her. She nurses it like an infant on a teat, and her eyes light up a bit.
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