Leviathan

May. 29th, 2012 09:37 am
i_17bingo: (Default)

The first thing she remembered about that day was how annoyed she was that she had to come onto campus during the summer. The asshole still lived on campus, even though he was, like her, a senior in a month and a half. Besides, she'd heard he was rich, so if he really felt like isolating himself, he could live anywhere. Whatever. It was one of those stupid fucking things he did to make himself seem cool and unique--kind of like that stupid fucking sweater of his.

Lisa's relationship with the asshole had cooled by that point, so they could actually take a small amount of comfort in each other. Maybe it was because their mutual presence brought to mind her boyfriend--his best friend. Maybe it was because she couldn't trust him to be alone with his own thoughts, and vice versa. What mattered was that it was Fourth of July weekend, her boyfriend was back home in Idaho, she was bored, she was hungry, and she was going to drag his skinny ass over to May's Cafe for a greasy omelet.

When he didn't answer the door, something she couldn't put a finger on thought it was a little weird. He was always home, except when he was at her place. Sure he was entitled to go to the restroom or buy cigarettes or something, but not if it inconvenienced her. She knocked again out of spite, and, for a second there, she thought she'd heard something. She knocked one more time, and there it was--a dull moan. She tried the knob, but it was locked. After a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching, she pulled out her men's wallet and removed a key.

What she was doing with that key was a long story, but the short version was this: before she came to college here, she ran with a pack of hoodlums. The alpha hooligan, a sneaky son of a bitch and aspiring criminal mastermind named Fuentes, taught her dozens of tips and tricks for breaking the law, none of which she'd forgotten. High up on the list was never to let a good skeleton key go to waste. Lucky for her, her boyfriend was an RA, and that meant he had access to every room in this dorm. She made herself a copy, not because she'd been planning on stealing anything, but rather to honor her heritage.

Besides, you never know what that kind of thing might come in handy. And that day, it was really fucking handy.

Inside, the asshole was lying on his back with his eyes half-open and a little stream of drool trickling down his cheek. It didn't even take her a second to figure out what was going on.

"No!" she whispered. "No, no, no!"

Breathing deeply, she tried to figure out what needed to happen next. "Think," she muttered, "what would Fuentes do?" He'd figure out what it was that was killing the person in question. That was easy. The asshole was overdosing on something. The next thing would need to get a little more specific. Something about the drool shouted opium, so she'd go with that. Next up was the delivery. It wasn't a needle, because there wasn't one lying around anywhere, and he wouldn't have had enough time to stash it. She was pretty sure that wasn't possible to smoke that much heroin, and besides, there was no smell. Snorting was out, or there would have been blood coming out of his nose. That left his stomach, and that she could do something about.

She crawled into bed next to him and listened to his chest to make sure he was still breathing. Satisfied, she stuck two fingers in his throat. He gagged, and, just before he threw up, she rolled him over so his head was hanging over the floor. She let him finish, and then repeated the procedure, just in case. When she was sure he was done, she wiped her hand on his stupid sweater and sat him up.

"Hey fuckface!" she yelled.

"Uh?" he mumbled.

Oh, thank God. "Yeah, you, fuckface!"

"'Appen?"

"You tell me, you rock-stupid motherfucker!"

He shook his head imperceptibly. "No."

"No, you're not going to tell me?"

"Don't," he coughed. "Stop."

"This is getting us nowhere. Phone." Because, honestly, she'd forgotten that hers was in her back pocket.

"Sweat," he sighed, "er."

It was right where he said it'd be. She called 911 and told them, "I have someone here that OD'd on something."

"I need you to calm down, ma'am, and tell me where you are."

"This is my calm voice!"

After a bit of back and forth, she stayed on the line while at the same time trying to stop him from nodding off. Just when she thought she couldn't keep it up anymore, the EMTs showed up and did whatever it was that EMTs do, and in no time, he was gone.

They had a lot of questions too: "Do you know what he took? Does he have a history of mental illness? Is he your boyfriend?" Shit like that. She answered the best she could--"No. I think so. Are you fucking kidding me?"--until they left her alone.

She held it in as long as she could, but really, that wasn't very long at all. She collapsed onto his bed and sobbed like a goddamned baby. Eventually, she pulled her shit together and remembered the phone in her hands. Sniffing, she sat up and scrolled through his contacts. A part of her was disappointed when L went by with no mention of her. That part, as much as she hated it, pushed her back down onto the mattress, where she cried some more.

Finally she returned to the phone and scrolled down to where it said "Mother." She hit send and waited.

On the other side of the phone, an exasperated voice sighed, "What is it this time, Sean?"

"Mrs. McCoy?"

"My name's not fucking McCoy."

"What the fuck is it then?" Lisa didn't know why she asked that question.

"Yoshida."

"That your first or last name?"

"Look," the voice snapped, "stop wasting my fucking time and tell me why you're calling me on my son's fucking phone."

"I think he tried to kill himself."

The other end went silent.

"Hello?"

"Goddammit!" the voice bellowed. "What the fuck?"

"I'm sorry."

"I can't keep dropping what I'm doing every time he pulls shit like this?"

"The fuck?"

"Are you with him right now?"

"No," Lisa replied.

"Well, where the fuck is he?"

"Hospital."

"Are you there with him?"

"No," Lisa told her, "I--"

"Well get the fuck over there and keep an eye on my son until I get there!"

"Okay?"

The call ended, and she stared at the phone for what was probably five minutes before she finally shook her head and muttered, "Asshole doesn't fall far from the bigger asshole, does it?"



to be continued...

Haute

Jan. 27th, 2011 07:44 pm
i_17bingo: (Default)

Before this ordinary duplex in the middle of this ordinary town, a bellow rose from the earth, deep and dark as if it had been mined by an army of industrious dwarves. Birds took flight from the surrounding trees as words formed: "Anybody home?"

The most reasonable reaction to this sound would be terror and retreat. However, baking in a cloud of ozone on the roof of this ordinary duplex were a pair who could not be described as reasonable; she knew no fear, and he just didn't give a damn.

He shouted, "We're on the roof!"

The bellow replied, "The door's locked!"

"Please," he muttered. "As if that would stop that."

"You're useless," she told him with a glare. "Keys!" she announced before flinging them over the edge.

From beneath them came a roar of pain.

"You could have given some kind of warning," he said. "Or at least aimed."

She punched him in the shoulder.

The building shook as it ascended the stairs, stomped across the threshold of the apartment, and approached the window, blotting out all light from inside. "You guys out there?"

"No," he replied.

"Sean, is that you?"

"No," Sean said before she hit him in the shoulder again. "Yes."

"Cool." Somehow, it pulled itself through the narrow window without breaking anything. When it was fully outside, the A-frame of the roof bowed, but held. This particular golem was named, appropriately enough, Rocky. "Smoking weed?" Rocky asked.

"No," Sean replied, "we're sitting here with bloodshot eyes, heightened appetites, and mellow demeanors, wondering where that smell is coming from."

Rocky's eyebrows slid together into a frowning shelf. "You think it might be coming from that pipe in your hand?"

"Care to join us for once?" Sean offered.

"I can't," Rocky replied.

"Why not?" he asked.

"I kind of ..." Rocky started. "It's hard to explain." He tried: "I ... change."

"Into what?" Sean begged.

"Trust him," she said, "and just let it go."

"Not now that my curiosity has been piqued!"

Rocky sighed. "Fine."

She bolted to her feet. "You don't have to do this, Rocky."

"I'll be okay."

"No you won't!" she pleaded. "Remember what happened last time?"

"You know Sean," he told her, "he's like a Chihuahua."

"I'm more of a Shih Tzu," Sean declared.

"He won't let go until he sees for himself," Rocky continued.

"While that is a softly blended metaphor," Sean said, "it is accurate."

Ignoring him, she asked Rocky, "Are you sure this is okay?"

Sean appeared between them. "Enough with all this foreshadowing!" He handed Rocky the hash pipe and a lighter. "On with it!"

After a few thoughtful, cautious tokes, Rocky sat down and exhaled.

"Well?" Sean whispered to her.

"Wait for it," she replied.

Rocky jumped to his feet and exclaimed, "Zut alors!"

Startled, Sean lost his balance, but she caught him before he could stumble off the roof.

"Tu bien?" Rocky shouted at him.

While Sean gasped for air, she said, "He'll be fine, Rocky. How are you?"

"Comme ci, comme ça."

Regaining his physical and mental balance, Sean cried out, "What the fart?"

"We warned you," she said, "he changes when he's high."

"Changes into what?"

"Je suis français," Rocky explained.

"What?" Sean took a few deep breaths before asking, "Why?"

"Je ne sais pas," Rocky replied.

"Are you just fucking with me?"

"No," she lied.

Rocky shrugged. "Ça va."

Sean retreated through the window, mumbling, "I can't deal with this."

Rocky smiled an enormous smile and handed the paraphernalia back to her.

"Tu es très haute?" she asked him.

"Mais oui," he replied.

Icarus

Jan. 22nd, 2011 01:43 am
i_17bingo: (Default)

previously...


"What's your relation to the patient?" the duty nurse asked her. "Family?"

"No," she replied.

"Girlfriend?"

She would rather get a pap smear with a rake than date the patient in question. Still, desperate times... "Yes."

"I see." The nurse wheeled her chair back to a stack of files on the other side of the desk.

"He wake up yet?"

The nurse glanced at one of the folders. "There's been no change in his condition."

So he wouldn't be much company. There was some good news. "Can I see him?"

"Room 313," the nurse said before returning to whatever it was that duty nurses did.

She crept down the corridors of the intensive care unit, in no particular hurry to get there. She didn't know what to expect when she did. It couldn't be any worse than finding him alone on a bed in a dark room the night before. She was wrong about that; seeing him today, alone on a bed in a bright room, was much worse. Instead of shivering and convulsing like he did last night, he now just lay still.

But what really disturbed her was the way he was wrapped in needles and tubes and pale sheets rather than in the droopy cotton sweaters he preferred. She'd known him for a while, and had no idea he was so tiny. Sure he wasn't all that tall, but she'd always attributed that to his slouch. Turns out he was just this little skeleton with some skin on it.

He wasn't going anywhere, so she might as well get some rest. After settling into the visitor's chair, it took only a moment for her eyes to drift closed. They took less than a moment for them to shoot back open as soon as something she'd seen reached her sleep-deprived brain.

Wide awake now, she hopped to her feet and crept closer to his side. Slowly--oh so very slowly--she rotated his wrist to get a good look underneath. A white, surgically precise scar ran down the length of his forearm. It had completely healed, but still couldn't be more than a few years old. And it was serious. Whoever made this did not want it to close up.

She sank to the floor. When she'd discovered this drooling mass of sweat and flesh in his dorm last night, she'd just assumed his overdose was accidental. Now she felt really, really stupid. He'd always been the kind of guy who just shuffled his way through life, glassy-eyed and distracted, as if he'd rather be elsewhere; but it wasn't until just now that she realized that he really did want to be elsewhere.

She'd had to drag herself through years poverty, abuse, illness, and mountains of cruelty to be alive, and yet here he was, surviving a second suicide attempt out of dumb luck. What an asshole!

Behind her, on this bed, without his cigarettes and marijuana and smartass comments and narrow, condescending eyes, he looked just like a little boy. And that's all he was: a petulant, self-absorbed, frightened little boy. So why the fuck did she even care about him?

She didn't even like kids, much less this guy. It was only a combination of boredom and curiosity that brought her to him in the first place. If she had any sense whatsoever, she'd get up off of this floor and fly the fuck away while she still had a chance to escape.

But she couldn't.

After a while, she melted into sleep, waking some time later to a soft voice croaking, "Crap. Not again."

Embarrassment yanked her to her feet immediately.

He blinked a few times, squinted, and frowned before focusing in on her face. "Shit," he whispered. "If you're here, then I must be in hell."

The only thing keeping her from laughing in relief was the way she collapsed back into the visitor's chair. Too late now. She was going to burn, and it was her own damned fault.

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Jeremiah

January 2013

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