Or mine.

I think the meds are finally kick­ing in.

I wrote this in about 2004. The most eerily pre­scient part was when I said this: “At the edge, the very edge of his mind, a stir, almost like foot­steps out­side a spot­light. Something off­stage, in the dark, but not able to move to where it would be visible.”

That is how my life has been for the last few weeks. It’s there. The mania. Offstage, in the dark, unable to move into the light.

Unable to take the stage, to take control.

Holy fuck, the drugs really do seem to be working.

My mania stopped dead.

Not at first. 25 mg was a hint. 50 mg was a good step up. 100 mg –

If 25 mg was turn­ing a valve, 100 mg was cut­ting off the flow at the source.

The damn drugs did it, damn it, yeah, drugs actu­ally can work. My skin isn’t falling off. I have a lit­tle dizzi­ness, but com­pared to what was hap­pen­ing in my head before that … yeah, I’ll take the woozy.

But this isn’t about me; it’s about a boy I wrote. If you can believe that.

Setting is about 7000 years from now. BPs and schiz­o­phren­ics are used as couri­ers for encoded infor­ma­tion, because their brains can’t be read by Rosetta, the nor­mal­iz­ing mind-​​reading machin­ery of the year 9100-​​whatever.

Normals are trans­par­ent. They are utterly open to the mind probes. But the crazy peo­ple … they can’t be read. They’re secure. Nothing can crack their indi­vid­ual, utter mad­ness. They carry top secret infor­ma­tion from world to world.

The most unread­able, the most mad, aren’t called crazy. They are called Blessed.

And the Blessed are ter­ri­fy­ing. The Consulate cov­ers up the crimes they com­mit, when they com­mit them — every­thing from rob­bery to rape to mur­der. And they get away with it.

Because, you see, they are Blessed.

The Blessed know this, and they know how wrong it is.

They do not care.

A courier boy, fif­teen and Blessed, has been given a brain implant that nor­mal­izes his thoughts, but doesn’t com­pro­mise his basic mad­ness. So he’s super­fi­cially sane, but under­neath, he’s still unread­able, a human cipher of lunacy. And he’s spent most of his life as a courier sunk in a load of forget-​​enzymes, so he doesn’t remem­ber all the times he’s been raped in transit.

Something to remem­ber is that Cock is more insane than I am.

I think.

Thus:
==

The sixth day after his surgery he knew the first part was past.

Waking with his usual, he pushed the sheet down, reached and went to work. He was dili­gent about sex, even before the Delphans had taught him the mind– and dick-​​blowing shit they had, and slapped off sev­eral times a day if he couldn’t fire his cum into some­one nearby.

Lately his sheets’d been the main recip­i­ents of his saucy gifts.

He bucked and applied his exer­cises when the wave passed over him, his body rip­pling mus­cles, back an arch off the mat­tress, semen erupt­ing in a thick white pat­ter from his puls­ing organ along his long axis, reach­ing to his nip­ples at the hard­est two surges.

Relaxing, he cov­ered up again and let the track of goo cool and con­geal, the sheet adher­ing to his tip and belly and ster­num. Not bad, he judged, but he’d been going for his chin. Next time he’d have to work his lower abdom­i­nals a lit­tle harder at the exhales to increase the com­pres­sion, maybe look for a higher angle to his dick in those last few tingly moments. At least his aim was good star-​​to-​​lar; he’d shot his load right down his centerline.

Coming was easy. Precision com­ing — that was a skill. These prac­tice ses­sions were really meant to improve his per­for­mance when part­ners were around to enjoy the show, but he liked them all the same.

The room became silent, the scent of seed and sweat curling.

Something was missing.

He glanced over so reflex­ively he wasn’t even fully aware of it. The pil­low was empty, the space in the bed taken up mainly by him, but there was a lit­tle, just a lit­tle more room to one side, where Trel would have…

Course if Trel had been there, he wouldn’t’ve just fucked his hand.

No, that wasn’t what was missing.

And then it struck and it hit with the force of a phys­i­cal blow, and he had to wipe at his eyes in a moment.

Eve.

Every time he wrung it out by hand, ever since he’d been drip­ping the spoo, she’d had a shitty com­ment to make. When he was younger it was about how lit­tle it was, both the sauce and the source. When older, it was com­ments on range or such (fell short that time… or open your mouth next time you cum­lick­ing freak, catch your own spill like the perv you are). And more recently it was about how he’d been doing it alone a lot lately. That dug the most, because she was right. He was alone. He’d dri­ven every­one off.

It was so fuckin hard some­times to come with her in there, com­ment­ing, jok­ing, laugh­ing at his fan­tasies. But that hadn’t hap­pened today. This morn­ing it had been just him­self, his thoughts, his hand, his dick.

That fuck­ing bitch hadn’t said a word.

Eve?

Nothing.

Eve? Hey Eve, I got goo on me.

Silence, almost hissing.

He ran his fin­gers over the lit­tle slick. Wanna taste? I know you like it, you two-​​bill cunt.

At the edge, the very edge of his mind, a stir, almost like foot­steps out­side a spot­light. Something off­stage, in the dark, but not able to move to where it would be visible.

He slipped his cummy fin­gers over his lips, licked. Mmm. Salty. Second favorite treat. After Adam’s, course.

Almost. Almost there was a … and then gone.

Gone.

The most fucked up part of it all, he reflected for years after­ward, was how alone he sud­denly felt, how ter­ri­fied and sad he was for a few heart­beats, and then the sense of free­dom over­rode every­thing else and he nearly woke up the whole fuckin Barque dis­trict with his shouts.

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