jacksauvageâ:
@gabrieldesilva
There had been something Jack was supposed to attend. There were always things Jack was supposed to attend. Art openings, motion picture premiers, birthday parties, weddings, funerals. The social scene among the Paris bohemians had begun to exhaust him of late, in ways that Jack was unable to articulate. His dwindling fame, his dwindling creativity, both had an immediate effect on his reclusiveness.Â
So, though the invitation in the junk pile beside his door remained unforgotten, Jack was, instead, on his eleventh cigarette and his fourth glass of gin. Or, that was his best guess. He had long since abandoned his glass for the bottle itself. And the cloud of smoke that settled over his entire flat occasionally made a panic bubble in his chest and sent him right back to the floor of that nightclub inferno. Sometimes his lungs ached in protest, but he ignored them. Instead, his fingers punched away at typewriter keys all through the night as if he werenât missing out on a single thing in the world. This type of focus was rare of Jack, whose work came in fits and starts during episodes of manic hysteria or drug fueled visions of all the ghosts who haunted him.Â
Unfortunately, his name was being forgotten too quickly for him to wait around for an episode that would leave him with an unintelligible script and a feeling of dread so deep in his bones that he would spend weeks dreaming of opening every vein in his body.
Jack hadnât looked at the clock for what must have been hours, maybe days. Page after page of what felt like nothing were haphazardly stacked on the floor at his feet. A knock on his doorâpounding and franticâpopped the bubble of his concentration and Jack was equally frustrated and relieved. âHang on, hang on,â he said, barely able to imagine who might be disrupting him.
Was it possible to drown on land, or has his heart has finally decided to give up? Gabriel de Silva sped down the narrow roads of Paris, driving his yellow sports car erratically, after fleeing the disastrous encounter with one Monsieur Bhari Sinclair. The critic had managed to put on a brave face in front of his former friend though no sooner than he left, did he feel like demanding the writer to reconsider everything. The man was like a brother to him, and despite his protestations, have unknowingly clung to the man in the couple of years that they have known each other.
And now it has come to an end.
So where to go? To the golden-haired songstress whom he promised to meet once the criticâs affairs had concluded? But she wouldnât understand, not quite like him, and before Gabriel knew, he was making a turn past the little apartments, to the houses of different stages of decay, and like the very man himself who for Gabriel embodied everything that vile and rotten in his life, the Spaniard came knocking.
His fist slammed on the cinephileâs door, angry and desperate as he went on. Finally, he heard Jean-Baptisteâs voice and the moment the door swung open, Gabriel shoved him inside, hands clasped on either side of Jackâs face as he pressed his mouth against him in a violent kiss.Â
