Faerie Dust
a short story by Whitney R. Holp
Warning: drug use, language, violence
FAERIE DUST
By Whitney R. Holp
Chuck Snow woke writhing on the floor of his one-bedroom apartment. His skin was crawling; his head blistered in the sunlight that stabbed him with its vicious rays pouring through a crack in the curtains. Immediately he crawled to the coffee table, reaching for the ceramic box wherein he kept his stash. He withdrew the little baggie and poured out what precious little there was onto a small round mirror and carved it into two tiny rippers. They were dreadfully small, but he’d made sure to leave at least this much, and he railed them both in quick succession.
Then there was the cold pulsing bloom in his chest; suddenly he could feel the blood coursing through his veins. His hands trembled as he turned the baggie inside out so that he could lick clean the powder’s residue from the plastic and then he lay back on the floor to enjoy this wonderful feeling suffusing him. He’d been getting quite a habit of late. After all the years of suffering minimum wage jobs, he finally landed a gig that paid him nearly twice that and suddenly his life got better. But this good feeling wouldn’t last—the buzz would fade and then he’d be aching for more. So he got up and got dressed and went out looking to score.
He lived in an old brick apartment building near downtown, just a couple blocks from Vic Park, which was the hub of the city’s drug trade. An entire city block, officials had named it Victoria Park, in honor of the late queen; but in some quarters it was known as Victim Park, for here was where drug-dealers and their clients often came to meet. The Park was close to the bus station, and thus homeless people and transients were known to take shelter within its confines. Buskers were commonly seen performing here, and it was rumored prostitutes also came to earn a few dollars. Chuck wasn’t actually one of those people known as “the park kids,” a group of homeless drug addicts who lived in the park; he existed on the fringe of their periphery, just close enough to their outer circle that he was able to buy drugs from them. (“White Faerie” was their euphemism taken from a 1980s pop song later covered by Rammstein.)
At first he didn’t see anyone he knew, just the usual scattering of skaters, sunbathers and stoners. There were a couple park kids sitting in the shade by the bandstand, but no dealers among them, nor anywhere else in sight. Then he spotted the tall gaunt frame of Don Morton sitting on a bench by the playground. Don was a familiar figure to those who frequented the Park, not only because of his Mephistopholean goatee and cruel demeanor, but also because it was universally agreed that he had the best drugs in the city. Chuck was just about to head over when he realized someone was calling him.
He turned and saw his old buddy, Skip Schnee, from high-school. Many of their earliest adventures with drugs had happened together, progressing through adventures with nicotine, alcohol, weed, mushrooms, acid, cocaine, ecstasy, ketamine, and onward. Skip was actually the person who’d got him onto this stuff and introduced him to his source. Now Chuck had been hearing rumors Skip had gotten hooked and owed several grand to the man in black. This was highly unfortunate, as Don was known to often sodomize or mutilate debtors as a means of collecting what couldn’t be paid. But once the hooks of addiction set in, one does anything to maintain an adequate level of intake, heedless of the consequences. And Chuck could tell just by looking at him that his poor friend was in a rank state of withdrawal. Desperate wide eyes pleading, Skip asked if Chuck wanted to pitch for an 8-ball.
It was destiny—the reuniting of two lost souls with a common goal. Chuck handed Skip his share of the money and watched him trot over to take a seat beside the skeletal drug dealer. Over the breeze he heard this much of their exchange:
“You have my money?” said Don.
“I have this much,” said Skip. He handed Don the handful of bills Chuck had given him. Don counted them and put them in his pocket.
“This isn’t even close to what you owe me,” he said.
“Come on, man, you know I’m broke. I’m trying, man, I’m trying really hard. Come on, just give me something, just a little something to keep me going. I’ll bring more money soon, I promise.”
“Listen buddy, you’re not getting so much as a single grain of dust until I see some real cash.”
“But—”
“But nothing. We’ll talk more when I’ve been paid back. Until then, fuck off.”
Skip looked like he would just collapse and let the shakes come down and carry him away; at this point it was hopeless to do anything but sit and quiver. Withdrawal made his mind like the keys of a typewriter, jamming all his thoughts; Chuck knew the feeling.
“Tell you what,” Don said with a tone of sinister tenderness. “I’ll give you a couple G’s right now, if you think you can have my money by midnight.” He caught Skip’s eye and continued: “But if you don’t have it by then, I’m gonna cut off your middle finger and take that instead.”
Skip paused and considered this. It was an impossible bargain; he could only lose. Don’s temper was legendary among the park kids, some of whom said that when roused his anger was of such fury it would defy even death itself. Nonetheless he shook hands with the man and the little baggie passed from Don’s to his; the deal was done. Skip ran over to get Chuck and they hurried back to his place. There within the safety and confines of his apartment the ritual began. First the mirror was brought from hiding, then the powder was poured out onto it. Skip provided a razorblade, with which it was chopped up even more finely, then cut into a dozen quarter gram lines. It was ready. They both trembled eagerly anticipation; this is what they lived for.
“Let’s dance,” he said.
They took turns insufflating the dust and soon the white faerie was upon them, her whispers tickling up and down their spines—an ecstasy of blood in the veins and waves of euphoria washing over them like fireworks going off in the brain as the connections lit up. Time passed, as it will, and soon the sun had set. A couple hours later the witching hour struck. Not long after that, there was a knock at the door.
Cold dread ripped down Chuck’s spine. He was terrified. He had forgotten all about Skip’s deal over the course of their indulgences, and now the man was here to collect his due. He could see the other’s mind race, trying to think of an excuse, a way out. There had to be, but panic had the effect of salt on his brain, evaporating all rational thought, much as the need for a rail had earlier. He watched Skip go answer the door: it was Don, of course, as it could only be. His face was like a mask, expressionless. He waited foolishly to be invited in. The door closed behind him and Chuck retreated from the room, wanting no part in what was about to take place; he went to the bathroom for a cigarette.
Through the door he heard Don say, “Do you have my money?”
Skip tried being coy. “I have it, I have it, it’s just not, uh, here…”
“Bullshit,” said Don. “You remember our agreement. Give me what’s mine.”
Chuck peeked through the door in time to see Don pull out a huge butcher knife and charge at Skip. Skip tensed, eying the weapon—its blade glittered wicked sharp—then he grabbed Don’s arm and threw him against the wall, wresting the knife from his hand, and stabbed him with it—again and again. The blade did its work, piercing through fabric and flesh alike. Don’s eyes widened, his pupils shrank to pinpricks; he opened his mouth, a final curse upon his lips, and it was blood, not words, that spilled out. He fell back and slid to the floor, smearing the wall crimson. Skip stepped back breathing heavily. He watched the body warily, knife at the ready, waiting to see if it would stir; it didn’t. After a moment’s consideration he knelt beside the so recently deceased and went through his pockets. From his jeans Skip extracted a fat wallet, some keys and candies; but the inner pocket of his coat was the jackpot: a three-finger bag of dust.
“Fuck yeah,” he said. Then he turned to Chuck, who stood watching in the doorway. “Help me with this, would you?” he said and gestured to the body.
“Okay,” said Chuck uneasily, watching the blood pool across the linoleum.
“We’ll need some energy first.”
They reconvened at the coffee-table, where Skip cut over a dozen rippers, which were then railed in alternating succession. Thus energized, they set about getting rid of the evidence. The body was compressed into a fetal shape and stuffed into a giant garbage bag then wrapped with a heavy blanket then stored in the hallway closet. The blood was scrubbed off the wall and the floor mopped with bleach; the stained rags were thrown in the trash.
Tomorrow they would contend with the body’s disposal; tonight they celebrated. And so, with Marilyn Manson playing on the stereo, lines were cut—many more. Always in random configurations: lightning bolts to start with, then swastikas, constellations, etc. The mirror saw more dust in that one sitting than it had in a month. They danced well into the watches of the night and through the next day; it wasn’t until the following dawn’s first rays appeared that the faerie’s whispers ceased to entice as they once did. By the time Skip retired to the bedroom, Chuck’s heart was pounding like a trip-hammer and his brain was fried. He lay on the couch and tried to rest. He knew Skip was quite pleased with himself—there was enough dust here to last a few more days, and enough money to buy more when they ran out. “It turned out to be a good night after all,” he said.
Some time later Chuck was awakened by the sound of a door being opened and closed. He opened his eyes and saw someone standing outside the closet, a tall black shape. He couldn’t be certain because of the early morning gloom, but it could only be Skip checking on the body. Chuck had done enough blow to know a thing or two about the addict’s paranoid flights of fancy, for he had tasted of them himself. But there was nothing to worry about here: Don was dead. And the dead don’t get up and walk around.
The shape was motionless for a while. It might have been watching Chuck as he lay there on the couch, it might not have. He began to worry—was he next? Kill the witness? Then the black shape turned and shambled through the bedroom doorway and was gone. Chuck closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep. Moments later he heard a horrified scream in the next room. Then furniture shifting violently. Another scream, this one anguished, heavy boot steps under, followed by shattered glass and the jangling of metallic blinds.
Chuck was up instantly. He raced to the bedroom to see what happened. They were in possession of a murdered drug dealer and a substantial amount of cocaine—if the neighbors called the cops they were screwed. He found the room in disarray. The dresser was overturned, various objects were strewn about. The vertical slats covering the window were crumpled from being shoved aside and rippled noisily in the breeze. Whoever was just in here had to have escaped through that window… and it was an eight-floor drop to the sidewalk.
Skip was huddled in the corner, knees drawn up, shuddering convulsively. His hand was wrapped in a bed sheet that was rapidly turning scarlet. Chuck went over to assess the injury, then, suddenly shaken, went to call an ambulance. The police arrived shortly thereafter, having been summoned by the neighbors, as Chuck feared they would. They seized everything and took the two young fiends in to the station for questioning. Strangely, Don’s body was not found by the cops during their search; it seemed to have mysteriously vanished, and neither Chuck nor Skip said anything about it. Both boys appeared vaguely traumatized somehow, or at the very least, terribly spooked. The police interrogations revealed nothing and in the end all they were charged with was possession of narcotics.
For reasons that are perhaps best unknown, that was the last time Chuck Snow ever danced with the white faerie. Other details about what happened the night of Don Morton’s disappearance are scarce. The park kids are a secretive bunch and don’t talk readily to outsiders. Skip showed up a few weeks later, his hand wrapped in a bandage; he lost most of his hair due to a recently developed nervous condition, and generally spoke little. Don is thought by some to have skipped town and gone out west, but no one can prove whether that’s true or not. Chuck Snow never stopped thinking about what the park kids said about Don, about his deathless fury. All he knew was that when the last fold of fabric fell away from Skip’s hand that night, he saw that the middle finger had been torn right from the socket.
Meet the author:
Whitney R. Holp is a student of surrealism. He seeks gnosis through dreams, intoxication, and objective chance. His most recent encounter with the underside involved a scarlet woman and a ouija board. This story is from his unpublished book, Audra’s Pennies.