Red-Velvet

My name is Épais Velours and this is not the beginning of my story. My name isn't Épais Velours either---but I made it up because I don't like my real name (But I like my last name. It sounds funny in Estonian: Kibestunud). I am 12 to 21 years old. In a few minutes my father will take me to an Asylum. He says it has soft rooms and bright, white lights. And nice people in white shirts who will take care of me. I don't want to go. I heard him tell my mother it's next to a 'desolate' beach, slithering towards a sleepy sea. I made sure to take my mother's vial of pills from the cabinet in her toilet before my father and I left in his favourite sedan. Apart from some of my clothes, my bag consists of a toothbrush, a vial of diazepam, a vial of dextropropoxyphene, three strips of nitrazepam, smoking paper and a gram of cannabis. I'm sure there are a few alprazolams in my bag, hiding. I'll find them later. Before we'll leave I'll smoke a doobie outside in the garden, behind mother's blooming rhododendrons. My cousin was supposed to come with us, and toke with me, but he didn't turn up. I don't know why. Maybe he's sad. Or depressed. Depressed is a nicer word. It has a more official feel to it.

The doobie is over.

8:15 PM. We're finally on the road, and my father is humming his favourite song. I've never liked it. He learnt it in the army.

8:30 PM. I'm in the backseat of the sedan and on five tablets of nitrazepam. It'll take a while to hit. It takes six hours to drive all the way to the Asylum.

9:15 PM. 10 nitrazepams, 5 diazepams and 15 dextropropoxyphenes. I found some sort of pill in my bag called ACE-PROXYVON, and I popped three of them. I feel sort of woozy---some sort of effect on my cerebellum---otherwise I'm experiencing a slow slur towards double vision and an aching desire for a smoke.

2:15 AM. My name is La Lumière Rouge, and this is not the beginning of my story.

4:00 AM. Timothy Tart brought in dead. Cause of death: Overdose.

This is the beginning of my story.

If God was a desert,
You would be his desert flower.
And if God was a desert,
I would be his mirage.

And if God was a mirage,
I would be religious.

And if I were to be religious,
We could've been good together.

We could've been good together,
If I were to be religious.

But, alas---