Table of Contents
- Home
- Introduction
- Where Goths Come From - Neef
- The Watcher - Hobbes
- The Resurrection Shuffle - Barbarella
- Cassandra - Cosey Mo
- Drunken Old Bastard - Sandro
- Alcohol - Trayce
- Shadows - Entrippy
- Entropy - Kage-Ryu
- Is There A Point - Trajik
- Whispers - Kitsune
- Confessional - Sandro
- Garden - Entrippy
- Radio - Cam
- Cold Spell - Nikolai
- Slices - Neef
- A Bottle of Something Strong - Jraff
- The Light Fades - Tim
- Rain - Tim
- Self Help - Gothic Gallae
- Cato - Trajik
- Addiction/Fragment - Trayce
- Heal Thyself - Nikolai
- Shattered - Hobbes
- Travelling Song - Solitaire
- Distance - Stranger
- Legacy - Stranger
Alcohol
Gin
Phoebe didn't call herself a drinker. Leave all that to Patrick, she'd say, tipping gin into herself like water. No, she was justified having the occasional tipple. Who wouldn't be, living with him?
But she would never call herself a drinker.
Phoebe had always loved parties. She loved to feel the warm alcohol seeping its way into her centre like a lover entering her. It made her fall in love with everyone. It made life catch fire, and she danced with her flames, gave herself up to them like kindling. She was forever searching bliss, leaping from one height to the next like a tree-dwelling creature. High blue brilliance.
Patrick didn't like Phoebe. He would sit and watch her spin about the room, a firefly, a glowing thing attracting the moths his friends had become. How could she do this to him? He sat frozen to his chair, watching her, unable to act. No-one seemed to notice.
Why they were drawn to each other was an impossible question. Somehow they evened things out, kept it fair. They balanced on a fine wire, they stitched themselves to each other with the bottle. He needed it to hide himself from her. She used it to see right through him. She wasn't fooled for a minute. She knew what he was. She spun around the room, let the light catch the clear glass of her bottle, and reflected its bright glare right into Patrick's averted eyes.