Untitled short story (and unfinished)

I've been working on this short story for about 4 months (I know, not much to show for it, but I am the slowest fiction writer in existence). It's inspired by my not-so-proud ventures of high school, but is in no way autobiographical. I have no idea what to call it! Grr! Suggestions always appreciated :)

Prologue

I loved Lady Lazarus more than I knew I could love anyone. I loved her where I wanted to breathe her, wanted to consume her. Her features begged for rapture. Endless breakable legs, ethereal skin, dark rimless eyes the size of ice cream scoops. At her peak was the inorganic red hair—so unnatural but so fitting, she wasn’t born with it but she was meant for it. It is a curiosity that god created any human after her growth into the perfect one. And she was. From head to toe she was wonderfully fake and perfect.
Her face was not my face. From brow to chin she exemplified femininity in her lack of definition. Smooth and untainted china, invaluable. My face was nothing but corners and height. If her face was fine china mine was cutlery—and I sported it as such. No one was going to set me on tabletops and no one was going to handle me carelessly.
Lady Lazarus and I were inseparable, unhealthily so perhaps but we had no one and nothing else to do but feed each other. We lived off of nicotine and hair dye and black coffee and nothing else. We took turns using the toilet to vomit and compared notes. I know this doesn’t sound like love but it was love in a muddy way. I would have died for her and I think she would have died for me. That is how I defined love and yes I loved her.
We were enveloped in a ménage-a-trois with our only semblance of a closer friend, Bull Burden. Bull was the gentlest of gentle souls and graced everyone and anyone with his shy toothy smile. Us sick creatures took great comfort in Bull’s presence. He was a tall, thick, working horse of a man who wanted nothing more than to see us heal. We cheated him by crying all the time, nestling him for warmth. And he never complained. Not a once.
Lady Lazarus, Bull Burden, and I loved books and coffee. It’s hard to believe but that’s all that ever made us happy. Those two things and each other. So I suppose each of us had four things that made us happy.

Part I

Lady Lazarus and I embraced each other drunkenly. Her perfectly small head drooped in my solid crosslegged lap. She was moaning incomprehensibly, either unable to speak, voicing pain, or moaning for the hell of it I don’t know.
“I need to pee.”
I knew how to respond. I rolled her off and, upon my standing, grabbed her paperthin forearm and jerked her upright. While her weight rested against mine, I walked her to the bathroom, as though she were someone’s shuffling grandmother.
She was giggling now. My eyes were blurry from the eye protein on my contact lenses and the hours of nonstop vodka. I sat on the floor and in the process almost forgot her precarious position on the toilet. She was cackling uncontrollably, her chipped nails digging into the lid desperately trying to keep her body from sliding off. She loved every minute of it.
I hated to stop her idiotic bliss. She was so gorgeous in her cheap tequila-soaked moment. Forgetting everything for a few minutes, she found such pleasure in teetering on the toilet. But I had to grab her and put her pants back on. She shrieked as I lifted her, she saw the slip coming—I’m only so strong after so many drinks. Her head hit the tub.
“Oh god! I’m so sorry, so sorry, are you okay? I’m really sorry.”
She started squealing and laughing, her eyes wincing and tearing, her tongue poking through her smeared crimson lips. I started cackling until I felt my heart swell enough to rub against my lungs and make me pop with pressure. I fell onto her. Our arms locked around each other. We were in a perfect embrace. We were Tiresias’ snakes, wound together in slippery delirious glory, waiting for the mighty cane to beat us into sanity.

We always waited for sanity. We never went looking for it. That would require being sober.

Part II

I drove her to work. She was two years younger than me, with a fresh license. I suppose the difference motivated me to nestle her, making any space around her as warm and accommodating as possible. Transportation was no exception. She closed her enormous lids and wrapped her twiggy arms around the narrow area under her chest. Her seatbelt rested against her chest softly. Her cell phone buzzed.
“Can you pick me up from therapy tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
We sat in silence; she basked in the hot Western sunshine coming through the passenger window. We were both in therapy. Like classic middle-class white kids, we both took it for granted. I’m a fuck up and no one’s gonna fix me. Anyone who did not stand back and watch our fiery spiral was the crazy, quite obviously. We were artists. We were supposed to be out of control! How else were we supposed to create? We would die.

We always thought we were going to die early. It was just a matter of what was going to get us.

She worked at a restaurant. Everyone loved her. She was a charmer of humans of all kinds. I drove her across town every week. I lived with my parents. They didn’t know her. She was mine.

We were artists and we would die. Who could possibly understand?

We got Bull along the way. Bull reminded me of photos I had seen of young Kerouac, high in the forehead and always in Levis and beat up shoes. He looked like a drifter. In many ways I suppose he was, he was up for anything at anytime. We tossed him around like a used baseball—despite my undying devotion to Lady I could hate her and he went from girl to girl for supplementing our needs. He took the full force of each of us manic heavyweights and still stood. In short we both treated him like shit and he never complained about it.

“So what are you feelin’ today, Bull?”
“Whatever.”

This was typical. We drove on in silence. A half hour later we arrived at Lady’s work and dropped her off. Love told me she was grateful but I never heard it from her lips. All I could do was shrug. I turned to Bull.

“Does coffee sound good?”
“Yeah.”

And we were off. Coffee, books, and waiting on Lady’s call. Our lives day in and day out.