Kissing Carrion

* * *

In the back of the studio, under a set of steps leading up to our unused skylight—the same one I spent two days painting black after we first moved in, as Rennie writhed and whined inside a double weight of sleeping bag below—there’s a narrow, plywood-lined crawlspace, originally meant for insulation. That’s where I used to put them, afterwards. Armed with a set of Ginsu steak-knives I lifted from my former best friend’s baby shower, along with a much-renewed supply of green plastic garbage bags, I used the bathroom tub to cut them up in—much to the annoyance of our downstairs neighbors, who complained about the smell. Which is where the incense came in handy.

That was always the one thing Rennie never bitched about, oddly enough. Like the untameable slaughterhouse stink of the bed, I think it kind of turned him on.

Guts in one bag, jointed, washed limbs in another, wrapped tight with gaffer’s tape. The latter went under the stairs, the former into my backpack, to be dumped later on into one of the local butcher’s tripe-stuffed rubbish cans. It didn’t seem particularly risky at the time, though I guess it probably was. But then, getting caught was never really something I’d ever worried about too much.

Quite the opposite, actually.

By the time I’d pulled the plug on the bath, flipped the futon’s mattress and stripped off its sheets—stuffing them haphazardly into a well-worn laundry bag, made from two tea-towels sewn together—Rennie was already in full post-kill ecstasy mode, sacked out in the La-Z-Boy, naked and bloody, channel-hopping between The Equalizer and Sailor Moon. I snapped my fingers against the back of his head as I went by, demanding:

“So what was the deal, slug-boy, back when I came in? You asleep, or what?”

“Sorta.”

“You awake now?”

“ . . . sorta.”

I snorted. “Yeah, well, you better get in the tub under your own speed, cause I ain’t about to drag you.”

He yawned, widely, and squinted around the room. “Where’s my robe?” he asked.

“Dirty clothes.”

“What for?”

“’Cause it’s dirty, you jerk.”

Levering himself upright with a regretful sigh, he picked through the pile in question, found said robe, and took a long whiff. “Seems okay to me,” he announced.

“Fine, then wear it.” I slipped my jacket back on, going through my pockets for laundry Loons. From the bathroom, I heard him hum as he turned the water back on, reacting as he tested its temperature. The slap and splash of flesh against liquid, as he slid inside.

“You love me, Ro?” he called

, suddenly anxious, just as I opened the door.

“Like a rock,” I called back.

“Good.” A pause. “Me too.”

* * *

Ice is a hell of a drug, all told; do enough of it, for enough time, and it’ll cook you from the inside out. I met Jos when I was twenty-two, having just dropped out of Ryerson (Hospitality program, half a semester’s worth), and became one of his preferred customers shortly thereafter. When he told me I could be getting his services for free, I jumped at the chance. Not because of desire—sex never meant too much to me, and I know who I have to thank for that. But when all you know about life is based on the barter principle, selling yourself can look an awful lot like buying your way to freedom.

By the time an unlimited supply of Jos’ Ice had me fucked up enough to leave home, I was way too fucked up to take Rennie with me. I couldn’t handle it. I could barely handle myself.

And so I left him there, for five more years. With Mom.

And with Dad.

The morning after that last party, I heard Rennie throwing up as I passed his room—a slow, lethargic retching, like he was doing it in his sleep. His face was red, hair up on end. The back of his neck was covered with fresh scabs. And he just lay there, coughing vomit all down the front of his pyjamas and over the side of the bed—thin, bright yellow vomit, linoleum-hued, intermittently laced with liquescent kernels of blood.

I wanted to take him to the hospital, but Jos wasn’t having any of that. He said it would be fine, I’d see. He said he’d make us some Ichi-Ban Chicken Noodle and buy Rennie some Tylenol on his way home, and just not to freak out, cause it was a busy day ahead for him, and he didn’t need any of my bullshit bringing him down.

Then he took off, leaving us entwined. Rennie still puking. Me sober and already a little shaky, gone hard, the way I’d so often found it better to go—more efficient. More effective.

Caught in the grip of some red dream, whimpering in my arms, Rennie seemed to sweat the rest of his pubescence out along with his humanity, while I slowly got straight for the first time in at least two years. Like his sickness had cured me, somehow, of mine.