Slices Read Online Free PDF Page B

all on credit, and
we’d return them the next day but that night, that night they
were all ours and the whole world was all ours and fifty horror films
lit up my walls, Winona Ryder licking the blood from Gary Oldman’s
chest and Catherine Deneuve taking off Susan Saradon’s shirt
and Anne Parrilaud breaking her handcuffs, and you were my friend,
just my friend, but you were mine, that night.
    You
believed it all. All the lyrics we wrote, everything you sang. The
beauty of death and the tranquility of the graveyard and you believed
it and you left me, I came to your hotel room that night on tour,
banging on your door to tell you it was time to go, knowing, God help
me, knowing what was on the other side, what I’d find when I
had the manager let me in. You. Dead in the bathtub, razor cuts all
the way up your arms.
    And
you know what? You know something, Gabe, you poor, sweet, stupid,
stupid son of a bitch? There wasn’t anything beautiful about it
at all.
    I
rinsed the stinging bleach out of my hair, got dressed, grabbed the
envelopes, and shrugged into a huge coat. I took the envelopes out
into the cold, walked five blocks down to the nearest mailbox, down
to the river.
    The
skyscrapers of the city had finished scraping all the sky away, and
the clouds overhead were exactly the color of concrete and I was safe
and cold in a canyon of glass and steel.
    I
held the envelopes tight in my hand over the open door of the
mailbox, one last hesitation, then let go of my old life. I sat
down on a bench by the side of the river and watched the boats go by.
Watched everything go by. Then watched the clouds on the horizon
bleed red, watched the sun gather up the last of its light and leave
quietly, without even saying goodbye.
    It
had only been dark for a little while — and cold, although I
hadn’t noticed the cold until he spoke — that I heard
the now familiar voice behind me.
    “One
last sunset?”
    The
voice surrounded me, cold and liquid, and I closed my eyes and
imagined that his voice was the river and I’d thrown myself in.
    “One
last sunset,” I agreed.
    “Are
you ready to come with me?”
    “Yes,”
I told him, but he’d already known the answer.

    His
name was Sylvan. At least, that was the name emblazoned in black
wrought iron on his front gate as we were driven up to his house. My
lips formed the word silently, Sylvan, as the car floated up the long
driveway.
    The
house was what I’d imagined it would be. Just short of a
castle, overlooking the city below us. He led me through it, and I
followed him, lost in a dreamlike haze. I felt like I’d been
awake for days, I felt like I’d been drinking nonstop; I had no
body, just my eyes drifting along above the ground.
    And
somewhere ahead of us, his manservant, lighting candles to light our
way.
    The
bedroom. What should have been the bedroom. The far wall was just
glass, all windows, the almost empty room staring blindly out into
the city.
    In
the room, no bed, no furnishings; just my picture, old publicity
photo, poster sized, in a huge gilt frame — your picture was
missing, I could just see your arm in the shot, where your half of
the picture had been cut away.
    There
were flowers everywhere. Wreaths. And to complete the mortuary image,
a coffin, gleaming white and pristine.
    “Welcome
to your funeral,” Sylvan said.
    “I
don’t understand,” I admitted, when it gradually became
clear he was waiting for me to say something.
    “No.
I told you you wouldn’t.” He opened the lid of the
coffin, and waved a hand toward it.
    There
was no misreading the gesture. He wanted me to get inside.
    This
time I hesitated. Only for a moment. I stepped forward, and the
little man, unsmiling, helped me up and into it awkwardly while
Sylvan watched.
    “Do
you like it?” Sylvan asked. “The way death feels, close
and warm and white around you?”
    I
didn’t answer him. I just stared up at the ceiling,
unbelieving. The ceiling was mirrored — this had been