Are You Proud of Yourself? - SCP Foundation

“The gods are coming to the city.”

Kit nudged aside the Minions throw that had been stapled across the window so he could stare out of it as it rattled and clicked in the sea breeze. On another window ledge to the left of him, two guys sat in the open window, sharing a cider, on the border between falling back a few inches or falling forward three stories.

Dawn, on the mattress next to the one Kit used, looked up groggily. “…Whatcha say, Kit?” She mumbled, adjusting her boobs in discomfort. She wished she had the choice not to sleep with them on, but the last time she had removed them, they had somehow ended up thrown on top of a ceiling fan and down someone else’s top, respectively. They weren’t the breast forms she truly wanted, but they were what she needed to get her through each day – and boob money wasn’t exactly something she had an excess of.

Kit looked back, momentarily distracted. “What? Oh. Nothing. Go back to sleep.” He let the blanket fall back into place, to reduce the glaring morning light. Despite the time, the streets were crowded, hectic and sensorily overwhelming. The first Saturday in August – it was Pride. A parade in the streets, a crowd on the beach, and a fuck fest in the sheets and stalls of the park. From here, their illegally occupied office of a home, they would get enviable views of the parade, and they would hear every song from every stage where the parade concluded.

Kit got up from his crouched position, dumped his parka – which doubled as a duvet – on his mattress, feeling secure that Dawn was right there, and she had learnt how not to take shit and how to dish it out, too. His coat would be safe. He absent-mindedly realised he had rainbow paint and glitter all over his face and hands from a sacrificial action the night before, but he didn’t care, nor would anyone else.

Kit had to step over a dozen mattresses to get out into the living room, mumbling an apology to a still drowsy girl called Maria who always dressed all in black and fishnets and mesh and blackened her lids and waterline with Sharpie. She stared up at Kit with distant eyes, then buried her face back into a greying pillow.

Kit's next couple of steps in his Doc Martens was into the living room which was more like their meeting room. It had stacks of unmatching, unsteady chairs dumped in one corner, a whiteboard, and permanent markers that seemed to be everywhere on the floor.

He paused at the ‘Cum-munity Notice Board’, which was just a wall below a window, so Kit crouched again. All the writing was from different people, some signed, some not, some written decently, some barely legible.

‘Bring me 2 lyfe’

‘Bring me 2 snakebites and black – Smokescrin’

‘Bring me stfu’

‘we could destroy all we wanted if we wanted I no because I asked – Karma’

‘love is love is love is love is love is love is hate’

‘all you need is love love is just a game – Rouge’

‘every ting gud has 2 stop’

‘Best tread lightly if you’re using my feet – Magick’

‘we luv the West Pier’

‘g a y’

‘u wait until PRIDE i’ll show u gay – Proud Cocksuckr’

‘we advert is in now? cos i’ll give u lip service – Dutch Dike’

There was a little bit of squabbling and advertising various services – not just blow jobs and cunnilingus but haircuts, rare treat foods as well as extra blankets and pillows. Then –

‘we need a cat again – Woody’

‘im allergic fucuk you'

Kit sighed and picked up a pen.

‘u pussy – Kitten’

Honestly, who was squatting and decided their cat allergy was of any concern?

After catching up on the gossip but seeing nothing of interest, Kit went through to the galley kitchen – long and cramped, but it served its purpose, with a nice surprise of the cold water still running, as Kit took a long drink of water from the first clean mug he found. Then, he reached into his t-shirt, fumbled and fiddled with something, and produced a vial with a pink-purple petaled flower.

Such beautiful petals. Kit could hardly believe he had managed to ignore temptation for a whole damn week, saving it for Pride. Surviving on bennies and dollies – that was no way to live. But now there was the perfect corked vial, with the perfect-coloured flower, now there was Bloom and it was all for him.

It was easy to find the pestle and mortar – it was sensibly next to the electric scale. There was some white powder left in the mortar, and Kit rubbed it on his gums without thinking twice. It was only a teeny tiny amount, after all. Very carefully, Kit got the flower out and started plucking the precious petals.

“She loves me,” Kit glanced out of the kitchen, across the living room, into the mattress room. Dawn was looking outside at the crowds waiting for the parade. Kit dropped another petal. “She loves me not,” and now Dawn was looking at him, saw what he was doing, and looked away. “She loves me.” Always best to start low and slow, just one more. “She loves me not.” Fuck it! It couldn’t end that way. “She loves me.” And now the last three petals looked lonely. “She loves me not.” Two, two, what was the point of two when he was just one, wouldn’t even touch the sides, couldn’t save them. “She loves me.” A deep breath, he should have stopped sooner. “She loves me not.”

It didn’t take Kit long to prepare the purple powder into a bubbling purple liquid, then retrieve his works from the sole of his steel-capped boots. Tying off his arm with a purple band, finding a good vein that didn’t collapse after one poke, pulling back so a little bit of blood mixed with the purple liquid, then injecting it in.

Bloom had a kick like a mule – quick and hard and fast. Kit held on to the edge of the kitchen counter, but his head with its long and tangled hair tilted back, eyes rolling as he stared at the ceiling. He wasn’t sure if he nodded out for a moment, or if it happened the second after he had injected, but suddenly the front door was open.

Leo stood there, gangly tall with a frizzy afro that matched his name. At some point, he had appointed himself leader, or at least community outreach, as he often came back with new people. That seemed to be the case this time – a young man, shorter than Leo and with bleach blonde hair slightly browning at the roots, also stood in the doorway, with a rucksack in one hand and a plastic bag in the other. “Guys, this is Sand.”

“Sam.” Kit thought he heard the man say quietly, but his head was still woozy so maybe he made it up. He looked more like a ‘Sand’ anyway.

“He’s been homeless for a week, left home, blah blah blah, we all know how the story goes. Sleeping on the beach sucks ass and it’s fucking hot as hell out there. So, in exchange for some nice treaties, and the chores the rest of us have to do, he’s gonna be with us until he doesn’t want to no more.” Leo pushed Sand forward, who looked slightly awkward but dropped the bag of goodies on the floor. Packs of chocolate bars, some fizzy drinks, multipacks of crisps – really, things they all missed. But Kit, at that moment, was more interested in Sand.

With anyone awake being distracted by grabbing their favourite things, and Leo trying to ration it, Kit sauntered over to Sand. He gave him a gap-toothed but charismatic smile. “Sand, huh? Lemme guess – because of your hair.” Kit reached out and ran a hand through those blonde locks, which were dirty but surprisingly untangled. “I like it. So…are you proud today, or just a friend of those of us who are a friend of Dorothy?”

Sand looked taken aback but found answering the question easy. “I’m proud today.” He said, with a chuckle. “You know – the only day people like us are allowed to be proud.” He had to assume Kit was that way inclined, too, because of the way he dropped his hip, the way his hand trailed from his hair down the side of his face, the way they had just met but Kit was touching in such a familiar way.

“Hey, you wanna come with me? I know somewhere we can be alone. Everyone here is lovely, but they become destructive zombies whenever sweet or salty foods are involved.” Kit almost purred the question, trailing just one finger down from Sand’s decolletage to the bottom of his rib cage. Sand paused, but then nodded, letting Kit curl his hand around his wrist, and take him towards a room labelled ‘Stationary Cupboard’.

Even though the room was windowless, the crowd outside, the parade outside, began with loud gusto as Kit pressed Sand against the wall, letting their chapped lips lock together. As Kit put his leg between Sand’s, he could hear one of the floats outside, singing “What have you done today to make you feel proud?” His grip tightened on Sand’s waist as the screaming, stomping, and banging made the street come to life.

Literally.

Graffiti stepped off buildings, huge abstract figures, barely legible tags, tiny spray paint rats, rebellious women spray painted in rebellious clothes, and the two kissing policemen. They climbed off abandoned buildings, and banks, out of playgrounds, and from tunnels and car parks. People had to duck from whatever counted as feet, and press themselves flat against walls to allow 2D giants their freedom, like they were becoming the graffiti instead. Inside the cupboard, Kit just inched forward, pressed himself against Sand, chest to chest, and felt their hearts beat together, trying to work out whose was slower so he could know – who might die first?

The long trailing rainbow flag carried by 30 volunteers on each side freed itself from its human moorings and drifted into the sky, where it took over. Instead of optimistic blue or British-brand grey, it was all the colours, the sun piercing through and blending the space around it. People stopped and gasped, gaping at the miracle of a rainbow overtaking every inch of the sky. Kit ran his free hand against Sand’s inner thigh.

The sea and its waves were grey that morning, the colour of so much paint smeared together. It clashed against the rainbow sky and the sun beating down in the aching August heat. People were doing nitrous on the shore, inhaling from rainbow balloons and laughing at the lightheaded ridiculous feeling. Dead nitrous canisters scattered among the pebbles; vape pen trash too. The sea started to come in. Gently first, although far from the hour it normally came in, waves licking the heavy sand and troublesome stones. Kit pulled away for a minute and studied Sand like a piece of art, waiting to be framed or fucked.

Smeared rainbow paint, transfer from Kit to Sand, across his forehead, accompanied by beads of sweat. There were also Kit’s two handprints on the wall on each side of Sand, showing the degree of their impulsive intimacy. The sea paused in its triumphant return. Sand had cheeks the colour of wine, a sunburnt nose, and lips chapped from living by the salt-strong sea. Piercings, of course, they always had piercings.

Through blurry vision, Kit could count seven as he lifted his hand to stroke that alabaster skin, couldn’t resist using his finger to twirl the paint around into a hypnotising shape on Sand’s forehead. The Bloom was making him feel a million miles away, but also far too close in this room, breathless as if it were running out of oxygen.

“I’m not gay.” Kit finally said, staring into those blue-green-hazel-everything eyes that made him feel lost and small and lost.

“I’m not either.” Sand said, staring back at the boy with the wild brown hair, dreadlocked by time unwashed and sleeping on the beach.

"'Stationary’ means to keep still.” Kit said, abruptly, sinking down the wall to the floor, setting up his works again. “We’re in a ‘Keep Still’ cupboard. I think people outside are frozen in time. You want a hit? I promise I haven’t got shit. M’sure you’ve heard that line before, but it’s true. I mixed too much, y’know, I didn’t want to fuck up my dose on my ‘proud’ day, but I had to figure out if this girl loves me.”

Sand sat next to Kit and watched him fumble around with his kit, clumsily. “What was the conclusion to this very scientific experiment?”

Kit laughed hollowly. “More research needed. Petals are telling me…she doesn’t. But flowers don’t know jack apart from how to photosynthesise.” As he drew liquid back into the needle, he frowned thoughtfully. “S’gone quiet outside. You think it’s another bomb scare? I dunno how long you’ve been here, but there was a scare like, 10 years ago. Turns out it was cameras. Felt awful for the poor people standing there in wigs in August heat, waiting to be allowed to go and tryin’ to keep their make-up in place. Dawn says it’s hard. Wouldn’t know, I use acrylics on my face.”

Sand laughed a little. “Can’t say I didn’t notice that. Trying to get in the mood? For Pride, I mean.” Kit paused, then shook his head. “I was preparing…for the gods come to the city today.”

Down on the beach, the sea had stopped dragging itself in, going against its tide, but from somewhere deep inside it, millions of butterflies flew out of the water. They were all the shades, all the colours that a human could see, and some they couldn’t see, but they were there. The butterflies all formed a hand, and came down on the beach, picking up nitrous canisters and vape pens by the handful, and throwing them into the rainbow sky, where they exploded as fireworks.

Across the entire city, everyone could see the display, the rubbish turned into something beautiful, just like Pride brightened up Brighton, just for a moment.

After one last huge handful, with everyone in the city staring at their rainbow sky, surrounded by the spray paint artwork that belonged to the people, the fireworks exploded once more, this time to dramatically write –

The End

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