Internalised

I know it’s an
addiction. But it’s not like a real drug. I could give it up, anytime. Easy.
But why should I? It’s a buzz, it’s a high. Sets me up for the week.

It’s my escape. From
this shitty life. I need it, I deserve it. I work hard. I pay the bills,
working that crap job every day. Then all the shit at home. Especially after
the boy was born.

I sometimes think,
what’s wrong with it anyway? If it makes me feel good, if it’s not hurting
anyone. Then I remember what they say, what they’ve always said. The way they
look at the rest of them. What they say about them. Papa would kill me. Mama
would be heartbroken.

The barman always stops
me after a while. Usual six or seven. He knows. He’s watching. I always have
this rum cocktail. It’s called a Mojito, fresh mint, lots of ice.

I remember the first
time I had one. It was the first time I came here. I was shitting myself. I
felt so, out of it. So, dirty. I ordered a beer, and the barman looks at me as
if I’d grown two heads. Then I realised, they weren’t drinking beers. They all
looked so cool, drinking these cocktails. Faggot drinks.

And the barman makes
some kind of joke about my beer, which I didn’t get. Thought he was messing
with me. But he told me to chill. Offers me a Mojito – on the house. Can’t
refuse that. And hey, it’s pretty good. So I throw it back real quick, and get
another.

The barman’s real
friendly, wants to talk. But I don’t want to talk. I just want to watch. See
what they do.

A lot of them are real
disgusting. Like, they’ve got no shame. I just sit there. And watch. And get
another drink. They’re kissing, many of them are stripped to the waist, and
dancing, and their bodies are everywhere, folding into each other. Some of them
are so young, real young guys. They look so – in ecstasy – and it’s disgusting.

And I want it so bad. I
get hard, and I wish I didn’t. I know I should just go, get out of here. Papa’s
face comes into my head. I feel guilty, and I try to shake him out. Then I look
around me again. And it’s just – good. I drink it all in. And I keep it in my
head, so when Sitora wants me to fuck her, I close my eyes, and remember this.
Then I can stay hard, even though I hate it.

Shit, why am I like
this? What did I do that was so bad? God is punishing me for something. He must
hate me so much, to make me feel this way. I want to give it up, I really do,
but I can’t.

I tell the barman to
get me another drink, and he says, maybe it’s time to call it a night. Fuck
him.

I think he knows I’ve
got a wife and kid back home. Or at least he suspects, even if I’ve taken the
ring off. He says he’ll get me a cab.

It’s not like I’m one
of them. I’ll go home, leave them, but I’ll come back.

Written after the murders at the Pulse nightclub in Orlando, Florida on 12th June 2016