Senior Bathroom and Chase



The senior bathroom is about four minutes away from any normal class with the exception of the office and tutoring center. It’s shoved all the way in the back of the building, right in the corner beside the lecture hall like they hoped everyone would forget it exists. The lecture hall butts up against the girls’ senior bathroom, which backs against the cafeteria. Altogether, it makes this neat little pipeline straight to the senior benches and the courtyard. Real convenient if you’re trying to skip class without making it obvious. Not that anyone really cares. It’s typically barren of any teachers or snitches; an unspoken reservation for shitheads like me.



Our bathroom’s—except for the staff and SPED—don’t have doors. No doors, just wide open entryways like we’re animals or something. Admin says it’s to “stop smoking”, as if that’s ever worked. Like someone’s going to pull out a lighter and joint and then go oh no! wait, there’s no doors—guess I’ll respect the rules now. Fucking idiots. Half these kids just smoke in the stalls anyways, crouched on the toilet seat like little gremlins, and the rest go behind the gym, or in the courtyard in the corner. But sure, take away the doors. That’ll fix everything. It’s not like the school cares about smoking.



And meanwhile, you’ve got the sink and mirror positioned perfectly so anyone walking by can catch a glimpse of you mid-hand-wash, mid-piss, mid-anything, as long as your reflection is caught by the mirror. Real nice design. Real classy. Nothing says “we care about your education and future” like making you piss with an open audience. Real fucking dignified.



I walk in with my fingertips grazing the bumpy tile, trailing like I’m blind or just bored. My fingers catch the edge of the black doorway, curling around for half a second before I slip inside as if the room needs permission to let me in. It doesn’t. It never does and never has.



Chase is already in the bathroom when I step in, easy to clock by the reek: stale cigarette smoke, weed haze, and cheap-ass cologne. It’s his signature scent—eau de burnout. The mix hits quick and sticks to the inside of your nose like tar. I breathe it in anyway because it's him and it's always him.



I move to the counter beside him, shoulders tight, rolling them back until my spine gives a couple of weak little pops. I feel small next to him. Not just shorter—though I am—but smaller. Like I take up less space. Like if someone walked in, they’d see him first, and maybe never see me at all. He’s got that kind of presence: scruffy in a way that looks deliberate. Built lean like a switchblade—rangy and sharp. That missing tooth just makes him look meaner. The lisp doesn’t take the edge off either; somehow, it makes him sound even more dangerous; like he doesn’t give a fuck what he sounds like because he already knows nobody’s going to laugh.



I don’t look in the mirror. I never do. Don’t like seeing myself—skin too pale, eyes too weird, face too something. Too soft or too wrong or too something. The weed still fuzzes the edges of things, makes the lights a little yellower, and makes Chase’s reflection bleed at the corners. But he's clearer than I am and he always has been.



Sometimes I look up just to see him. Just him. Not me. But not right now. Not with him so close. Not when I feel like my ribs are showing through my shirt and I can’t tell if I’m just hungry or hollow.



He doesn’t even look at me as I come in. He just leans over the sink, flicking ash off the edge like he owns the place. Which he kind of does. Nobody questions Chase—not the other dealers, not the kids skipping class to sneak hits behind the dumpster, not even the teachers half the time. He walks around like the rules don’t apply because they don’t. He’s Chase. He’s always been Chase.



We were what—nine, ten, when we met? Still smelled like plastic pencil cases and school cafeteria pizza. Back then it was cigarettes we stole from our parents’ pockets and joints rolled too loose to stay lit—that was my experience with smoking at least. Chase has always been the expert, always been the type of guy to know these things. His parents supplied him like how he supplies the entire school—lighters, cigarettes, bud, the whole package. I did coke back then too—because of course I did. I got it from my mom. Chase hated it—said it was too much, too fast—but he tried anyway. Because I offered. And I tried weed because he did. And that's how we work and how we always have.



He’s still the same and I guess I am too. Same hunched shoulders, same twitchy fingers, same I-don’t-give-a-fuck grin when someone looks too long. It’s like he was born immune to shame. Like he never once stopped to wonder if anyone would love him less for the way he is. I envy the fuck out of that. I’d skin myself alive just to know what that feels like for a second.



Sometimes I look at him—I wonder how the fuck he does it. How he walks around half-high, half-dead, missing a tooth, lisping through thick clouds of smoke, and still looks like he belongs here more than I ever have. Like he wants to be here, like the world might be shit, but he found his corner of it and pissed on it and now it’s his. And everyone just accepts that.



I don’t even know what I want from him. I don’t want to fuck him. I don’t think I do—I’m not a faggot. It’s not that. I want to matter to him, almost. I want to be someone he thinks about when I’m not around. I want him to need me in the way I need him, but not in a pathetic, clingy way—more like a permanent fixture. Like a scar he’s proud of, like one of those things you don’t try to explain because it’s just there and always has been.



And still, I don’t look in the mirror. Not at myself. Because if I do, I’ll see what I’m not. I’ll see the difference between us, drawn out in sharp lines and bad posture and purple-freak eyes. I’ll see the kid who followed him into this mess and never quite managed to crawl out.



I feel it before I see it—Chase sparing me a glance. Abrupt, but it hits like a shove. My eyes flick up before I can stop them, before I can pretend I don’t care. He’s still looking when I meet his gaze. His body angled slightly toward the farthest stall—like a silent cue. Like we’ve done this before. Because we have.



I nod. He shrugs. That’s all it takes.



I swallow it down—whatever that feeling is—and cross the distance in two quick strides. Like a fucking trained dog, as if I know my place.



There’s something about the way he looks at me that I can’t stand. Not because it’s cruel. It’s worse because it isn’t. It’s casual, dismissive, even. Like I’m nothing new. Like I’m already part of the scenery, something expected, and something he’s long since stopped thinking about.



That’s what kills me.



We used to matter to each other, didn’t we? Back when our voices cracked and we wore stupid band shirts that didn’t fit right. When we’d duck behind the dumpsters at lunch and whisper like the whole world was going to end if someone heard us. He used to light my cigarettes for me. Not because I couldn’t, but because he wanted to. That meant something. It had to.

I don’t think he remembers that version of us. Maybe I don’t either. Maybe I made it up.



He walks to a stall and I follow. Like always it's too easy; too practiced.



Sometimes I think I could just unzip him—just crawl inside his skin—I could finally feel okay. Like he could wear me like one of his old jackets and I’d finally mean something. But he never lets me get that close. Not really. He gives me crumbs, and I eat them like they’re gold.



God, what the fuck is wrong with me?



I lock the stall behind me. The metal clicks into place like a final verdict. I settle into the corner closest to the door, like always—legs stiff beneath me, as far from the bacterial war zone of the toilet I can get. This isn’t about comfort more than it is about routine and pretending this is normal.



Chase doesn’t say anything, he just pulls out a joint and the red-chipped lighter he always uses, and I watch him work like it’s a ritual. Flick. Flick. Flickflickflick. Five swift flicks, and I swear to god it’s the closest thing to religion I’ve got.



I don’t even have to hit it yet—my throat already burns. My body starts to jitter like it’s caught in static, like the anticipation alone is enough to short-circuit me. I feel the high before it hits, just from watching him move.



He exhales slowly, like he has all the time in the world. Like he knows I’m watching, and doesn’t care. The smoke curls out of his nose, thick and lazy, and I can taste it from here.



Suddenly I’m nine, maybe ten, huddled behind the shed of Chase’s yard, both of us too small for our jackets, our hands shaking from the cold or withdrawal or fear... who the fuck knows. He was the one with the lighter. I was the one with the pills. We’d trade them like it was lunch money. He’d roll the joint with calloused fingers like he’d done it a thousand times already. I’d crush my moms Vicodin on the back of my math homework—not that I’d do it anyways—because that’s what friendship looked like back then.



I remember him handing me the joint with that cocky grin, the one he still has, like he was doing me a favor. And I remember thinking—I’d follow him anywhere. Into smoke, into hell, into whatever came next. Because Chase belonged. Even then. And me? I was lucky to be orbiting him. Nothings changed. Not really.



Now I’m crouched in a fucking school bathroom stall, high off the memory of him, while he hits a joint and doesn’t even look at me because doesn’t need to, he knows I’m here.



I never believed I was an addict. Still don’t, not really. Not in the way the word sounds in my head—desperate, shaking, begging-on-the-streetcorner kind of addict. That’s not me. Right?



It’s hard to tell the difference between can’t quit and don’t want to. Like, really hard. People don’t get that. They think it’s all willpower. Like if I wanted to stop, I would’ve. But what if I don’t want to stop? What if I do—but just not enough? What if I like the edge too much? Like the way the buzz quiets the noise? Makes things slow down just enough to think without hearing my own voice screaming in the back of my own head?What if I like the smoke more than I hate myself? What if I need it to stand next to Chase and not fall apart? What if I’m not addicted, just fucked up? Maybe that’s different. Or maybe that’s worse.



Chase’s lips purse around the joint again, and the sizzle it makes is soft, barely there, but it cuts through me like a needle: Wind in a bottle, smoke from a god. His eyes are half-lidded, lazy, indifferent, like this means nothing to him. But he still passes it to me, and that means something. It has to. It feels like a ritual—like a promise. I take it with both hands like he’s just handed me his trust—or his attention—or his something.



And for a second, everything is OK. My fingers wrap around the warm paper like it’s a lifeline, like if I hold it just right, it’ll anchor me to this moment, this bathroom, this us. Just a few minutes, I think. Just a few minutes ‘til happiness. Just a few minutes where my ribs don’t ache with wanting and my head doesn’t feel too loud. Just a few minutes where I’m not hollowed out, strung out, left behind. Just let me have this.



I inhale like I’m starving, like I’ve been underwater too long and this is my first breath. The smoke is hot, chemical, burning down my throat in a way that screams yes, yes, yes. I don’t even flinch when Chase exhales his wad of smoke toward me—it’s just more of him, and I want it. I want all of it. I nurse the joint like a child, like a fucking lunatic, until the tip burns red hot and then keeps burning, warning me I’ve gone too far, that it’s spent.



I hand it back to him with shaking fingers, not even looking, not trusting myself to speak, and I let my head drop against the stall door. The thunk echoes, metallic and cheap, but grounding. I feel the lock rattle like it might break open, like someone might burst in and see me like this—high, cracked open, clinging to a moment like it’s a person. I close my eyes. The smoke swirls in my chest, blooming like flowers in reverse, and for one stupid second, I believe I’m OK. I believe Chase is here because he wants to be. That we’re still those kids who shared lighters and cheap laughs and cold-ass concrete floors. That I’m not chasing a ghost of him with every inhale.



Just a few more minutes. Just until the world starts feeling like something I can stand to be a part of. Just until he looks at me and I don’t know want to ask if I matter—I know. Just until then.



I watch as smoke filters out my nose like it’s always belonged there—slow, steady, natural. I feel like a dragon. A hollow-chested, fucked-up, chain-smoking dragon guarding a hoard of nothingness: just smoke, just heat, and just Chase.



The burn starts crawling its way up my throat, slow and scratchy, and I clamp my mouth shut to hold back the coughs. It tickles and taunts the back of my throat like it’s got some sick sense of humor, like it wants me to gag just to this over with. I swallow it down instead, my eyes watering. Could marijuana be kinky? Is that what this is? A little pain, a little pleasure? Figures I’d fall for something that hurts me on purpose.



I spend… I don’t even know how long in that stall with Chase. Time doesn’t work right when I’m high. It stretches and folds and loops in on itself like melted tape. But eventually, inevitably, Chase shifts, clears his throat, and mutters something about going back to class. As if this is nothing, like he’s not about to leave me here, alone, with the smoke hanging in the air like a ghost.



And I nod. Of course I nod. What else am I supposed to do? Beg? Cry? Tell him please don’t go, not yet, not now, not when everything still feels okay for once? Tell him I need him to stay because the second that door opens and he walks out, I’m going to feel cold again, feel the silence collapse around me like wet cement? No. I nod. Like it’s fine; like I’m fine.



We exit the stall—me first, him just behind—and for a second, I pretend it means something that he doesn’t rush ahead. I pretend he lingers because he wants to. I don’t look at him. I can’t. If I look, I’ll break, so I keep my eyes low, and my mouth even lower and let out a quiet “Thanks,” that no one even hears, I'm not even sure if he did.



The stall door closes behind us. The smoke swirls a little, then thins, and he’s gone.



I stagger forward, legs moving without asking me first. The echo the five quick flicks still rattles in my chest, then the hush. The soft slap of Chase’s footsteps fading down the tiled hall until even that’s gone. Chase leaves stillness that isn't comforting or clean and it's just hollow and dead. My palms find the counters chipped edge, slick and cold with water that kisses my fingertips and then seeps in, slow and deep, but I don’t pull way. I let it leech the heat off of me because now it needs me and I’m needed.



The silence settles heavily like stale dust. The light above hums faintly, like its tired too, and somewhere in that humming is the sound of a fly. A single one, invisible, somewhere in the corners—buzzing low and slow over something dead and rotting, something long since given up.



I don’t bother to look on the mirror. I never do. Not when I’m like this—buzzing and hollow, too full and too empty. I fidget instead. Thumb to knuckle. Knuckle to palm. Bone pops beneath skin the color of cold milk, paper-thin and speckled like bruised fruit. My nail hunts the corner of my cuticle, digs in, and begins to peel.



The skin resists at first, pretending it’s stronger than it is. It fights back with the resilience of a tired woman wedged between a monster and her crying child—bracing, trembling, but doomed to snap. And I am the man. And I win and I always win. The blood comes slow at first, then in lazy, weeping beads, ruby red and glistening under the dull bathroom light like something sacred. It trickles down the side of my thumb, curls there like it’s trying to comfort me because It’s warm and It’s real and It’s mine and It’s the only reflection I can stand to see, even if it's liquid, warped and glowing. Not a face and not me, but a shimmer of red in a world gone yellow and grey. It's almost beautiful and it's almost enough.