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bellatrixobsessed1 · 3 years

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The Killing Cure (Part 14)

It has been quite some time since Alcina has visited house Beneviento. And the unforgiving weather reminds her of exactly why that is. The wind whistles against her ears and the snow seems to freeze to her locks upon contact. She is thankful that she had let Winters convince her to swap her usual hat for something significantly warmer, something that the howling winds have trouble lifting off of her head. Even still, the journey isn’t nearly fast enough for her. Infinite layers couldn’t protect her from a cold this sharp.

And Winters, true to his name, doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest. His gaze is as sharp as the chill and it is fixed dead ahead. Dead ahead as though no lycan in the world could slow the man down. She supposes that only a father’s love and protective nature can induce such a state of unperturbed determination.

Alcina doesn’t quite have that and so she suffers every whisper of the wind. The snow that has already fallen is just as irksome and relentless as the flakes that dance in the air. It in itself is another brutal reminder of what she has lost. What would have been only up to her ankles before is now calf deep and she finds herself growing breathless trying to trudge through it. She isn’t sure for how long they have been traveling but it is long enough--more than long enough, really, to put a dull ache in her calves and thighs. She wishes that she hadn’t become so small. She wishes that she would have bothered to drop by Donna more often.

Ethan marches ahead. Boldly, confidently. As though he has made this trekk each day since his conception. She doesn’t think that he has noticed just how much distance he has put between the two of them and she can’t bring herself to call out.

She quickens her pace but the harder she pushes through it, the more resistance it seems to have until she is stumbling, nearly tripping. She knows that she is going to have to call for Ethan to slow down. And how embarrassing it is to have fallen behind already, so soon into their journey. He said that he could benefit from her presence but it is becoming glaringly obvious that she is just a hindrance--a thing that will slow him down.

She opens her mouth to call out when Ethan turns casts a look over his shoulders. Between the distance and the snowfall, she can’t discern the look on his face. But she can hear the crunch of the snow as he brings his purposeful strides to a halt. He stands waiting for her to pick up her dignity and catch up. She doesn’t quite manage the prior but, much slower than she would like, accomplishes the latter.

“Let me know if I’m going too fast next time.” He chuckles. “I think that it’ll be less dangerous if we stay together.”

“I can handle a couple of lycans.” She grumbles, though she doesn’t think that she truly can anymore. She is no good with the guns he has given her either.

Several more times, Ethan has to slow his pace for her. By the fourth time her cheeks are flushed with not cold and a potent feeling of humiliation and uselessness. “Sorry…” she mutters.

“For what?” Ethan quirks a brow.

“You’d be halfway to House Beneviento if I weren’t here.”

“I’m not that fast.” Ethan shrugs.

“Well you aren’t this slow either.” She huffs.

“You’re really hard on yourself, you know that right?”

“Walking is a simple task…”

“Maybe when the snow doesn’t reach your calves.” He shrugs. “I’m just glad that the medicines are keeping your porphyria in check.”

“For now.” She gives an indignant sniff.

.oOo.

Every now and then he glances back at Lady Dimitrescu. All things considered, she seems to be holding up well enough despite her own words. Frankly he is silently glad that he has to slow down for her, he was growing tired himself. Determination and willpower can only get him so far. It is probably best to conserve his energy for nastier battles anyhow.

He rubs his hands over his face if only to warm his cheeks which are growing rosier and rosier with each second he remains in the cold. Rosier… Rose… His stomach grows queasy. He wonders if Mother Miranda is keeping her out in the cold. Wonders if she is ignoring her cries.

He pictures his poor girl with a film of ice on her little body. Pictures her with glassy, dead eyes. Visions of a rescue made much too late flash in his mind. They dance like a flickering film reel alongside recreations of Mia getting loaded with bullets. And for it he resents Chris with all of his soul.

His mind wanders further. Wanders to darker places. Places where he loads up every gun in this damn village and unloads each into the man…

The gunshot echos through the mountains and it takes him a moment to realize that the shot has not come from his mind. His stomach drops and so does the body of a lycan just a few feet behind and off to the side of him. Alcina’s arm is still extended, the gun still smokes.

The lycan pulls itself up and snarls, its attention now on the woman. It charges, fangs bore. Alcina fires another shot, this one only grazes its arm. He sees the blood weeping out of its shoulder from the first hit. The lycan lunges and Alcina throws herself to the side. He fires his own shot, spattering brain matter upon the snow. The lycan topples, its body falls upon Alcina’s legs. She heaves it off of her with a grunt and a hateful expression. It is almost comical, it would be if he had time to laugh.

Instead he helps her to her feet. He might have cracked a joke if she didn’t look so thoroughly uncomfortable and distraught. It occurs to him that the snow must have worked its way down her pants or, at the very least, has soaked through them.

“See, it is a good thing that you came along.” He tries, “I would have been taken by surprise. That’s how they win...”

Alcina nods and clears her throat, “it wasn’t any trouble, Winters.”

He is certain that, that much is a lie--she is shivering twice as hard as before. And yet she seems somehow reinvigorated. Validation, he realizes. He has given her validation. And, God, does the woman seem to crave it.

Her steps are much more confident now; maybe she is getting a feeling for walking in it, maybe she is propelled by the reminder of her usefulness, it might be as simple as a new found desperation to get to House Beneviento for a pair of dry pants. Whatever it is, he finds that she is keeping pace with him much better now.

“We’re getting close.” She notes.

“How do you know?” It is a stupid question. Of course she knows where she is going.

She points up and he jolts upon coming face to face with what must be the most hideous doll he has ever seen in his life.

“Trust me...” Alcina quirks a brow. For the first time since the journey has begun she looks faintly amused. “They only get uglier.”

#Alcina Dimitrescu #Lady Dimitrescu #Ethan Winters #Alcina/Ethan #Fanfiction

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thewhumpstuff · 4 years

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You and I, Me and You [8]

@badthingshappenbingo [Original characters and content for prompt - Backhand Slap] Special thanks to @simplygrimly and @lettuceknighted for all their help and it was a lot! I feel like a child learning to walk and you guys held my hand throught this ;) --------------

[Teaser and Master List] [Archives of our Own] (You and I, Me and you: Chapter 9)

[<– Previous] ~ [Next –>]

Below the belt.

“Should’ve given me a chance if you really wanted to know. But you know what they say, if at first you don’t succeed, try try again.”. Her voice echoed in the cell and in his head. Jared clenched his fists and narrowed his eyes as she seemingly, threatened his life. Her words were blatant too and hurtfully so. She twisted the words he used to encourage her playfully. Not that she had any way to act on her words. Does she really want me dead, then? He looked down at the implement in his hand. And he hated her for being right. He could not simply channel the spirit of someone like Scarlett… Brutally, and yet, systematically thrashing a victim with a cane, especially an incapacitated one like Akira. Especially against Akira herself. It was not something Jared could pull off, not unless he absolutely had to. And he hated being in that situation, he had been there too many times.

But there were other things he could do… Death would merely be an unlikely sequela. In the end, it was an inevitability any way. He recognized that some part of his brain, did not quite reject that outcome as vehemently as it should have. He let the thought come… and go. No, I won’t let her take anything from me anymore. Besides, I’m better. Jared snorted. “Yeah? You wanna have a go… Shira?” She looked at him resolute, neck slightly craned to accommodate for the collar. Her eyebrows shot up with a certain eagerness. Tempers were smouldering. “You really are that curious, eh?” He answered by shoving his hand into his pocket, he clicked something, and the collar expanded. “The chain needs a valve, but the lock opens with a button…” She muttered with a mild fascination, it had enough room for her to wriggle it off her head, but it was heavy enough to require some effort.

He kept his distance and chuckled at her observation. “Didn’t expect us to employ designed theatrics?” A part of her could not fathom why he still insisted on associating himself with SpecSyn. It was her turn to slow clap. She beamed with mocking exaggeration. “Congratulations, my Red Knight! You have successfully risen to the level of your enemy. Because, honestly. SpecSyn does play nastier don't they? Either way, aren’t you proud?” Her accusation was against him as much as it was against the organization she had sworn her loyalty to. So she just decided that SpecSyn was nastier? Is that why she decided to simply stop doing her job? She really had a knack for killing the small joys he was trying to derive. The ghost of his chuckle echoed in the room. His palms were itching now. He dug his nails into them as he opened and closed his fist, stretching his fingers. “Go on then, get the shard, Akira, I’d hate for this to be one-sided.” Back to Akira instead of Shira. The sharper ache she had once felt at the loss of endearment, was much duller now.

She was tired, she was hungry, she was addled, and she was pissed. So, she leapt off her feet and flung herself at him. That was just insulting and pathetic. He had enough time and warning. His free hand wound towards the opposite shoulder, then it swung towards her face, once she was close enough. Smack. The combined momentum was enough for the impact of his knuckles and fingers to knock her back. Her face swivelled. Everything blurred. She panicked briefly, but he did not follow up with anything… yet, and gave her a chance to compose herself. Was he going to draw this out? Was this some perverse lesson? She gasped and stumbled backwards, carefully avoiding the smaller pieces of glass still on the floor. She held her ground. The sting of the slap felt intense enough to leave a lingering sense of numbness. Her ear rang a little. Her tongue jutted out to catch the trickle of blood that snuck out of the corner of her mouth, her lip split a little. Slowly, she righted her head to glare at him again. He had successfully evoked the feral in her. Never, had he struck her like that before. So, it was truly over then. This was it. At least, that is what it felt like. Her breathing was uneven, so was his.

“You expected me to roll over and die for you, Shira?” A drawl was not a common tone for Jared, but it suited him fine now. She realised that he adopted Shira whenever he got his taste of a small victory. He is mocking me… by mocking us! Or… Despite her being the captive, the interrogee… Being at his mercy, maybe she still had some hold over the situation. A part of her revelled in that knowledge. She wished to savour it for as long as she could. The power struggle between them was palpable. Akira wasn’t sure about killing him before, but she sure as hell wanted to now. An animalistic war-cry tumbled out of her lips. She threw herself at him yet again, but this time, her leap was measured.

He really did not peg her for the sort to make the same mistake twice. But then, she was being bullishly bellicose. Was she still not thinking with her head? He decided to use the cane this time, swinging it over his head almost warningly as she got closer. She did not stop. So, he decided to follow through. But he should have trusted his hunch. She was thinking with her head alright.

She did not simply lunge at him, she had a plan. Akira stepped in, towards him. Her arm shot straight out, as a wedge between him and his outstretched limb. Hers was flattened against her ear and blocked the incoming strike before he got the full-swing’s worth. The stick slid against her; she rolled her arm over his, to lock his stick-wielding wrist. Before he had the chance to wriggle out of this, which he certainly could manage with sheer brute force, she jabbed her knee into his crotch, once… twice, reared up for thrice but couldn’t follow through as her hatred waned. He exhaled sharply, then grunted as he keeled forward. The other hand caught her knee, her hesitance gave him time. “Below the belt… really?” A raspy, strained voice called her out. She would have retorted that after the slap, this barely left them even. But she was more interested in shutting him up.

She rearranged her knee, pulling it closer to herself. Her joint whisked his blocking hand on the way to its target: his face. He pulled away enough to prevent a nose break and almost opened his mouth to let his teeth graze flesh, but he did not want to fight dirty, or worse… end up with his teeth knocked in. His lips split in two places too. All he had to do, was to wait for her to make a mistake, because he was certain she would. She manoeuvred him to the floor, with his arm still in her grip. She pivoted him, by twisting the arm cruelly, as he fell. She ensured that he landed on to the glass shards on the floor. The cane slipped out of his hand. “Here, have your god-damn shards.” She hissed pressing his face into the ground with her knee and holding his arm in a lock, her hip flush against his elbow.

The small cuts against his jaw and cheekbones spouted crimson. But there were other pressing matters to deal with. Literally. Something was pressing against a joint he was rather attached to. Her legs stretched over his throat and neck as she sat back, with his arm pulled across her. She kept her elbows tucked in and his wrist in a strong lock as she slowly bucked upwards, rolling her hip against his outstretched elbow. “Having fun?” His words were still laboured, but the implication in his voice almost made her head cloud again. Almost. Keeping her motion controlled so she could draw this out, took effort, so her own voice was worn too. “You betcha!” But to show him that she was serious, she notched upwards just a little faster and just a little higher. He drew a sharp breath; he choked out a sound and swore with anguish. “F-FUCK…” Akira could have sworn she heard something crack. She loosened her grip.

In fact, she had not heard a thing, because nothing was broken. He was still reeling from the explosive pain between his legs. But his arm was fine. He flexed his elbow, it was close the fork between her legs now. In a moment of flitting anger, Jared considered taking revenge for the crotch shots but thought better of it. He sharply tucked his arm towards himself. His wrist slipped out of her grip. The moment the hold was broken, the two of them snapped away from each other, and they got to their feet in a hurry. I will walk away a better man.

Barely though, he did just test her concern for him and was surprised to find it was still there. He was not happy about the tactic he used, especially because it worked. In the recesses of his mind, he wished she did not betray any evidence of feelings that she may or may not have for him. That uncertainty, complicated things, in intent and in action. Akira let out a hollow, giddy giggle, it cracked the words she used to call out his cheap tactic. “I thought I’d be able to tell if you were ever faking it.” He rolled his eyes and absently flicked his thumb over the cuts on his face, to assess the damage. Expectedly, the touch elicited a sharp sting across the wounds and viscous crimson painted his skin.

She stumbled backwards to keep her distance, till her back was flush against the wall. “I mean… You could never tell when I did.” Her words dripped with bitterness. Naturally, she was hurt that he had exploited the fact that she still cared, it came as a surprise to her too. Now that it had been used against her, that tendon of attachment broke like the arm had not. It made her want to hurt him again. Somehow.

He had never paid much mind to the lurking feelings of inadequacy when it came to her, of not being social enough, happy enough… experimental enough. She had never let him dwell on it too, not until she left for Q.B… and met someone else, or so it seemed. It was not the original source of his antagonism towards her. He did not wish ill upon her for moving on as the distance and circumstance made communication impossible. But, with the backdrop of friction and guilt, her words touched a nerve he did not know had been exposed all this time. Neither did she.

Jared was unexpectedly swift. He really should not have let her petty words drive him to lash out. And he realised as much, in the time it took for him to close the distance and throw a punch. She barely managed a guiding parry and a small side-step away from him. The air his motion perturbed, whisked against her side. His knuckles collided with the wall. His own aim had wavered enough for him to miss, just barely. Her side step assured it. He was glad he did, even though, this time something did break. He groaned, but his fist remained against the wall and his arm stood like a fence between them. Aki’s fear rose like bile. She swallowed. If that had connected, she would be… considerably hurt. Without giving her a chance to recover from the shock, or himself from the pain, he stepped in closer yet and folded his elbow. His forearm fell across her throat. His shoe fell across her bare feet. Panic. There was the mistake he had been expecting. She tried to claw her way away from the wall and he let her, just enough to slip his arm around her throat. That's it then, for real this time. He's going to kill me. She thought as the arm coiled around her like a snake, tightening to slowly choke the life out of her. She almost wished she had taken the chance to tell him everything. She felt just as breakable as his arm and just like she could not break a limb, he certainly couldn’t break her. He did pull his arm towards him and squeezed, carefully. Not to kill, just to neutralise. As he slowly felt the struggle melt out of her body, his rage followed suit and melted out of him. She slackened in his hold.

[Category 2] [Tags: @cashieeetime and @beckstriad (because you’ve already seen the process ;) )]

#whump #badthingshappenbingo #captivity #interrogation #backhanded slap #fighting #playing-dirty #you and I me and you

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readerficsbyhyaku · 4 years

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Blank Slate (Kazumichi Irie x Reader - Soulmate AU) Part 1

summary

You do not remember anything about who you are and what you did, and your memories start the moment you are taken in by Sybil’s forces, as an exception. Your Crime Coefficient cannot be measured, yet your hue can. Locked up like an Enforcer, you work as a consultant for the Criminal Investigations Department inside of the Public Security Bureau.

In this society where a complex neuro-psychological system rules the people, there exists a mystery that it cannot solve - soul marks. You were to meet the new team of Investigators and Enforcers when fate falls upon you. How will you react to something the system never accounted for in the first place ?

author’s note

I couldn’t find any fics with my baby Irie so… Here’s my try at writing one. It will be bad, since i don’t know how to write anymore, but here is my attempt at *plot*. Yeah, that and two stupid cliché ideas fused together because why not ? Hope you enjoy !

There WILL BE SPOILERS for Psycho Pass s3 so be warned !

You woke up to a voice in your room. It was your AI assistant, like everybody had nowadays.

« It’s 7 o’clock and we are Monday, your hue is Coral Pink and the weather will be sunny today ! »

Not that it mattered very much to you, since you couldn’t really go out.

« You have an appointment at 8 o’clock today with Division 1, in the Public Security Bureau’s offices. Don’t be late ! » the voice chirped again.

You sat up and rubbed your eyes to get most of the fatigue out. You weren’t used to getting up this early. At least, not anymore. It’s been a while since you’ve been sollicited by the Bureau, even though you were living inside the NONA tower. Jumping out of bed, you remove your clothes and proceed to take a shower to further clear your mind.

« Your energetic intake yesterday was 2000 kilocalories. I recommend a breakfast adding up to 280 kilocalories ! »

« Make it 300 » you mumbled, rubbing your scalp with shampoo. « And i want eggs, bacon, salad, french toast flavours in it. And coffee »

If your assistant could’ve judged you, they would have. You knew you needed to eat something solid before going to meet with the inspectors and whatnot. Some cases were nastier than others, and even though you doubted to be consulted that early on, it never hurt to be prepared. You had encountered a few unpleasant surprises before.

You ate your machine-made breakfast while still drying your hair and body, then went up to the mirror to dress up. There, you saw the bandaid covering your soul mark was peeling off. With a sigh, you rip it off neatly and fetch a new one, your eyes barely lingering on the name there. You didn’t really… care for it. As far as you remember you always had it, on the left side of your torso, on your ribs. Soul marks were not something Sybil could explain, yet it had to deal with them, because it couldn’t get rid of them.

Numerous studies had shown that Psycho-Passes could affect each other via soul marks, and deteriorate. Other studies showed that soulmates that were together had lighter hues, and could recover from clouded Psycho-Passes. So all in all, Sibyl recommended you find your soulmate, and there were a few methods to do so. You could search their name, since it was written onto you. They could also make a check to see if two people’s hues followed the same patterns, but considering area stress and about a ton other factors, it wasn’t a reliable way.

You hadn’t searched for your soulmate, or read any info about them, or even accepted Sybil’s services to find them. You figured it would only hurt you more to know who they were, or weren’t, since you didn’t have the freedom to meet with them.

You covered the name with another bandaid, the cream color a bit off from your skin. You didn’t need to cover it, but you felt better not having someone’s name branded there, like you belonged to them. But even with it covered, you knew what name it was. It had been impossible for you to evade the sight of your own body for so long, and when you caved in and read, you only felt about as lost as before. It was just a name. It’s not like you could guess what type of person was behind it.

The clock showed it was 10 minutes before your appointed meeting, so you dressed up quickly in a pair of thighs, formal shorts, a dress shirt and a vest. Right before exiting, you slipped inside a pair of black combat boots. The door slided, locked behind you and you headed towards the upper floors, where the meeting was held.

You arrived in the office, and everybody was there, or at least you assumed so. You were 7 in total so there must have been 4 Enforcers, and 2 inspectors. Excluding Karanomori Shion, whom you already knew, and Shimotsuki Mika the chief inspector. You greeted everybody with a curt nod, bracing yourself for the exclusion, and reminding yourself to not get attached to any one of them, especially the Enforcers. They had a bad tendency to get killed here, and you didn’t want to relive that. You had seen a few other generations of the division one staff, and only a few left unscathed, if you could even call it that way.

“Now that everybody’s here, I’d like to present myself and my colleague. His name is Kei Mikhail Ignatov, and I’m Arata Shindo. We’re very excited to work with you !”

The shorter of the two men was the one who spoke, his yellowish eyes glittering underneath his fluffy brown hair. He looked so… innocent. The other inspector named Kei was taller, sported a short cut of black hair and felt definitely colder… Especially with those blue eyes. What an odd duo, you thought to yourself.

The Enforcers then decided to say their names. The only other woman from the lot was Kisaragi Mao, and the timid-looking red haired boy stuttered out a “Hinakawa Sho, pleasure to meet you”. The older, white-haired man said he was Todoroki Temma, and pointed his thumb toward a grumpy-looking tall man with a goatee and an earring. You already felt like these two were troublemakers, and you sighed internally.

“And this guy’s name is Kazumichi Irie”

What

A loud buzzing noise had overcome everything else when you heard the name. Your mind was reeling, you knew that name, you knew that name ! You felt engulfed in a fog, everything veiled around you but that, and that loud, shrill sound in your ears. Heat rushed to your head, numbness to your body, and a physical pang of pain to your gut.

All the members of the first division were looking at you, expecting you to maybe say your name and present yourself, but you were too stunned to do so. Simultaneously, their watches activated and warned them.

“Attention, a hue is degrading quickly in your vicinity. It has exceeded authorized values. Please take action.”

The ringing in your ears became unbearable, and with a quick “excuse me” you rushed out of the office towards your room.

A few instants later, a call came in from Karanomori to one of the inspectors, and addressed everybody present.

“Sorry about that, she’s a bit special. I’ll do the presentations for her since she couldn’t.”

She pitched in your name with a drag of her cigarette.

“The alert is normal, as I said, she’s a bit weird. She’ll tell you more if she want to, but basically she’s confined like Enforcers are. She’s not a criminal per se, but her Crime Coefficient cannot be measured.”

Eyes widened in the room at that revelation.

“Her hue can be measured, as indicated by the alert, but it fluctuates a lot and usually settles in the clear tones, so no worries. She’s just an oddball and Sybil decided to keep her close because of that. She also has Mentalist abilities, so feel free to ask her for help about your ongoing cases.”

Behind her screen, Shion sighed again. Why were you letting her do all the hard work ? You’d have to repay her for that.

Back into your room, you frantically undressed and ripped the bandaid you so carefully and casually applied earlier, this time scrutinizing your mark in the mirror. Studying each letter, you compared it to the name you were just given and there was no doubt left. It was the same name. Fear, dread and anguish washed over you as the information settled in, like a stone in your gut.

“Of all people he had to be an Enforcer, of all people he had to be an Enforcer !”

You held your head in your hands and wanted to curl into a ball. Way to make first impressions too…

Feeling a bit cold, you put on the oversized sweater you wore during the weekend and laid on your bed, retracting under the covers. Why now ? Who is he ? Did you really want to know ? A myriad of questions rushed into your mind, until you managed to calm down a bit and popped your head back outside of the confines of your duvet. You checked your hue and yep, it was definitely darker. You let out a sigh and thought about the whole situation. What a shock, to hear that name out of all of names. As if sensing your unease, the marking on your ribs itched a bit, reminding itself to you in a way it had never before.

Your watch buzzed and you took the call, it was from Shion.

“What are you doing ? I had to present you to the new inspectors myself. God, what happened ?”

“Yeah sorry, I was feeling kinda shy meeting the new team” you lied “I’ll tell them I’m sorry tomorrow”

“Tomorrow ?!” Shion’s voice screeched at you “There is a case today, and if you’re not in my lab in 30 minutes to hear about it I’ll send someone drag you there !”

Gosh, she wasn’t cutting you any slack.

“Please ? I’d risk clouding their hues with mine” you pleaded, showing the crimson indicator for your mental state. The analyst narrowed her eyes.

“You know as well as I do that your hue fluctuates a lot because of your emotions. So either you tell me what was really the problem” she took a drag of her cigarette “or it was just a temporary stress and you’ll handle just fine in 30 minutes” she ended with a smile.

Defeated, you grumbled an “Okay” and ended the call. You didn’t really have a choice, did you ? You didn’t want to tell anyone about your soulmate. You didn’t even want to admit it yourself ! But for the sake of Shion and the trouble you had given her all those past years and today, you crawled out of your bed and prepared to go out, again.

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florafey · 4 years

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New Year’s Day Snippet!

Happy New Year! I hope 2020 brings everyone a boatload of happiness and fulfillment!

I was indeed awake last night from about 11am to 4am, and I was considerably drunk for the last 6 hours of it heheheheh but anyways here’s something nobody asked for but I’m giving you anyways: another scene from The Tipping Point that I wrote in one sitting last night when I may or may not have been off my shit drunk on White Claws (yikes I know, college amiright, but they were the mango ones so its fine lol)

I edited it somewhat today but no promises. It’s in third person POV rather than first, which the first snippet was, but I’m playing around with them because I don’t yet know which one I prefer.

Let me know what you think! Or don’t, I still love you

Thea’s eyes slid open, heavy with the sensation of fleeting sleep. She shifted uneasily inside her sheets and glanced around her darkened room. Why had she woke? No strange shadows lurked in the darkness, not even...Clover. Thea sat up, her nightgown falling off her shoulder. Her puppy was not at the foot of her bed, nor was she sniffing absentmindedly around the room. Thea frowned sleepily, suddenly grumpy at her mischievous ward. Her door was cracked open despite her shutting it only a few hours ago and a dim ray of light cut a stark impression on the floor. Was it possible for Clover to have pushed the door open? Thea supposed so.

She settled herself deeper into her blankets and curled her legs up to her chest. Clover would encounter nothing exciting in the vast estate except for maybe the slippery floor of the foyer and a bored guard willing to rub her belly. Lucius had a dog of his own, Clover would find a friend in him. Confident in her pet’s wellbeing,Thea allowed her heavy eyes to slide shut and her mind to fall into the silence. Silence. Only a few seconds passed before Thea bolted upright again, her heart in her throat. Silence. The entire estate was drenched in a quiet that had not been there when she had fallen asleep. Lucius had been pacing the floor downstairs, audible enough for Thea to fall asleep to. There were currently no footsteps, no whispers, no gentle rattle of a sword.

Her guards didn’t fall asleep. Not her friends, her trusted men.

Thea threw the bedcovers off and hit the cold floor with a jangle of nerves. She did not care that she was in her nightdress or now scared out of her mind. Something wasn’t right.

The hallway was a touch lighter than the inside of Thea’s room. As she dashed across the landing, Thea spared a quick glance down the sweeping staircase. She felt as she once did when she was a child, running out of a dark room after she had switched the lights off, feeling the irrational fear of a wraith or a monster reaching out from the dark to snatch at her ankles and if only she could just run fast enough-

Thea slammed into Rosie’s door and it fell open. Rosie was startled awake ungracefully, her curly hair a wild mane around her face, her smooth face pinched with worry that Thea could just barely make out in the darkness.

“Thea? What-”

“Hush. Hush.” Thea reached out for Rosie and pulled her out of the bed. “Something’s wrong. I don’t know what it is, but we aren’t safe. Not anymore.”

“Safe? From…” Rosie trailed off, holding Thea’s gaze. Thea’s fingers tightened around Rosie’s in response. Rosie swallowed. She was now wide awake. Her fingers fumbled for the buttons of her nightgown, trying to close the few that had come undone.

“What do we do?”

That was a good question. Thea had no idea what the situation downstairs was, where her guards were, or who was down there that shouldn’t be. If she was lucky, it was Iona, making the trip from the capital on their heels. If she wasn’t lucky…

“The stables. We have to get to the stables. If we can get a horse and make for the roads, we can find someone who can shelter us for the night. Or we can ride until morning.”

Thea’s heart ached at the thought of leaving her faithful guards- but where were they? Leaving Clover felt like more of a betrayal. Thea only had the puppy for a few weeks and she was already proving to be a terrible guardian. Thea shook the insignificant thought out of her mind when Rosie’s fingers dug into her arm at the same time her ears pricked. Unfamiliar voices were floating up the stairs, barely audible at all. But Thea could hear them, as could Rosie, and they did not belong to Lucius or Quinn or any other guard of Thea’s. Hot panic flashed down Thea’s spine. No, no, no. Then, fine, you want to play? In my own house?

“Come on.” Thea eased Rosie out of her room and back into the hallway. Rosie’s doorway was just barely hidden from the view of the downstairs, giving the two a temporarily safe place to stay out of sight while they formed a plan.

“I have to get my sword,” Thea whispered to Rosie, her lips touching the other girl’s ear. “It’s in my room. Stay here-”

Rosie grabbed Thea’s arm and shook her head, eyes wide with fear. No, she mouthed. Dangerous. Thea chewed her lip. Rosie was right, the risk was too great. And if she was spotted before Rosie and drew the Tithonius men upstairs, it would only accomplish cutting off Rosie’s chance of escape.

“We go down the stairs,” Rosie whispered. “They might see us, but at least we might be able to lose them in the back halls.” She had a point. At this time of night, the back hallways of the estate, confusing on any clear day, would be a labyrinth to manage. Thea tapped Rosie’s hand to signal her agreement.

The staircase was easy to reach, their footsteps fast and quiet. The stairs widened at the bottom and let out onto a vast expanse of marble floor just beyond the foyer. Lucius had been pacing at the bottom of the stairs when Thea went to bed but the floor was empty now. It might not be for long, however, and the thought caused Thea to speed up. Thea’s bare feet were so cold against the stairs that they started to burn. She cursed the length of her nightdress and her failure to think ahead enough to slip into something easier to run in.

The terrible silence was suddenly interrupted by a worse sound: footsteps. Thea hesitated, reeling back from the last few steps. The footsteps were close and traveling towards them; they would never make it across the floor without being spotted but they were too far down the staircase to safely turn back. Thea’s hesitation pulled Rosie to a stop, but only just enough for her to shove Thea behind her small form.

A man rounded the corner and stopped short at the sight of the two girls on the staircase. A clap of recognition hit Thea at the sight of the lean form and the thick, dark beard. Marcellus. The same man who had fought at her side no more than three years ago to defend the palace. The man she had spilled blood for. He was in her house with his men, threatening her guards, Clover, Rosie.

Thea shoved Rosie between the shoulder blades, hard, causing the girl to stumble down the rest of the staircase. Another shove had Rosie sprinting across the floor towards the doorways opening into the back of the estate.

“Go!” Thea yelled. Her voice bounced off the walls and made her ears ring with discomfort. She could not follow. Not yet. And she doubted Marcellus would let her slip past him; he had not moved when Rosie ran past, but Thea knew how quickly he could get to her.

She looked up at the once-familiar man with her lip curled. Rage unfurled itself in her chest, smothering the hottest flames of terror as it went.

“You.” She hissed. “I spilled blood for you.” Thea’s fingers itched for her sword even though she doubted if she would be able to use it on him. Marcellus’ face split into a sharp, unnerving grin. Thea hid her shudder.

But rather than reply to her words, Marcellus tipped his head back and yelled into the estate, his voice echoing and carrying countless more times than Thea’s had, “Cicero!”

Like the split second before a door slammed on a hand, Thea was hit with a wave of panic. Rage succumbed to fear once more as she scrambled for a way to escape intact. Marcellus was enjoying the strife evident on Thea’s face. His harsh laugh grew mocking but Thea didn’t have the energy to care if it was directed at her.

A million cruel words bubbled up in Thea’s chest, each nastier than the last and just as useless against the man. With a sense of grim finality, Thea spat, “Bootlicker,” and raced for the doorway Rosie had disappeared through moments before. Marcellus’ laugh faltered for a second, then boomed even louder.

Thea raced through the back hallways of her familiar home, her breath coming in sharp, frightened pants. Rosie, where was Rosie? Was she close to the stables? As Thea fled, the rage she had felt on the staircase came rushing back so quickly it nearly made her stumble. How dare the Tithoniuses drive her from her home? And how dare she run? But despite the fiery anger threatening to eat her alive, the reasonable part of Thea knew that there was nothing she could do by herself. She had to assume the worst about her guards- and did so with a violent ache in her heart. Even if she could somehow get to a weapon, the best she could hope to do is put down a man or two before she herself was killed.

Thea slowed, realizing too late that she was in the incorrect hall if she wanted to get to the stables. She had been nearly tripping over herself to get as far from Marcellus as she could that she barely registered where she was running to. Doubling back, Thea took note of the steady silence in the estate. No distant yelling of guards, no clanging of swords. She didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad sign. Surely if Rosie had been seen fleeing there would have been a commotion. Thea located the correct hall and ensured the coast was clear before slipping out of the shadows and correcting her route. Her chest burned now as well as her feet, and she felt sweat plastering her hair to the back of her neck.

Her pace down the hall towards the door she knew would lead her outside was quick enough to be efficient but allowed for her to keep her ears open for any sign of someone following her. Marcellus had not shouted into the manor for no reason; someone else was here. It was precisely due to her efforts of listening through the silence that allowed for her to hear the soft, almost inaudible thump behind her. Thea spun, her heart pounding, but saw nothing in the dimness extending down the hall. The sound had been a ways behind her, telling her that she did indeed have a head start, but it was close enough to warn her that her head start was getting much less helpful. She continued her escape, this time with all her senses perked. Not a few seconds later did the same sound come, louder this time, closer. Thea recognized it as a door being shut when it sounded a third time. He was closing off her escape routes if she happened to get around him.

The thought simultaneously sparked dread- this was going to be the encounter she feared- and, irrationally, pride. She had only just been considering using the vaulted ceilings to her advantage- the tallest rafters were still supported by beams and she had long since figured out how to reach them- and it gave her a strange sense of satisfaction to know that Cicero knew she wouldn’t hesitate to use every piece of her surroundings to her advantage. Thea’s initiative shifted; this was no longer a chase, it was a game. A deadly, unfair, revolting game that Thea suspected would either end with her and Rosie in the stables or with her own blood spilled. How vastly had the two families changed over a few short years.

Thea tilted her head up to peer at the darkened rafters above her, dusty with disuse and lack of exploration. She had been seventeen the last time she used the rafters to sneak around her parents, some five years ago, but how much had really changed? She was still small and nimble, her legs and arms still strong enough to get her high enough. Even in a nightgown. Thea was bunching it in her hands, about to launch herself at the wall under the lowest beam, when she heard a whine. Her first thought was, Rosie, but it was too shrill, too animalistic to be a young girl, and her thoughts flew to Clover. Thea turned. And faltered.

Clover was barely visible through the stifling darkness, seated on the rug running down the middle of the hall some fifteen feet away. Her small, hunched form was facing away from Thea with her tail was tucked tightly against her body, ears flat. She was obviously frightened but refused to turn even when Thea called out to her as loud as she dared.

Thea’s skin prickled at the darkness in front of her and knew her head start had run out. Any sensible individual would abandon the animal and flee- there was still time to make it to the stables- but Thea felt a personal duty to find out who was scaring her puppy this badly and kick out their kneecaps. A tiny voice in her head rudely reminded her that she already knew who it was. Marcellus had shouted loud enough to bring the ceiling down, after all.

Thea set her shoulders and took a step towards Clover when a form rounded the corner and took shape in the shadows. Thea froze. Dammit, Clover, come here! But the dog just whined again and lashed her small tail once. Thea watched with muted dread as Cicero’s shadow stopped in front of Clover and slowly tilted his head down to look at the animal no bigger than his boot. Clover was standing now, sniffing his toe. Traitor, Thea thought. What could you possible be smelling? Deceit?

Even with only Cicero’s half-silhouette, Thea could tell he had changed. He was broader now, stronger than the nineteen year old whom she had last seen him as. She could see his broadsword strapped to his back- Ramsariian, he had named it- and his Magi strapped to his thighs, forged by his own hands. He had come ready for a fight.

In a smooth movement, Cicero bent down and plucked Clover off the floor by the scruff of her neck and straightened back up. Clover wiggled, her paws kicking, but didn’t resist. Cicero cocked his head to the side, observing the animal.

“Charming.”

It was the first thing Thea had heard him say in years and the sound of it almost knocked her flat. The familiarity of the faint accent pulling on the ends of his words, wrapping around dry, humorless snark that had oftentimes made Thea want to smack her forehead against his.

“Put her down.” Thea’s words surprised her when they didn’t shake. Cicero’s eyes snapped to her and stuck, his bronze gaze holding her in place. Thea stared back. Cicero finally bent down to place Clover on the floor, easing back up into his full height. When Clover didn’t move, he used the side of hit boot to nudge her away. Thea watched her puppy slide away and slink off into the darkness of the hall. She opened her mouth to pummel Cicero with the multitude of questions she had for him, but he was moving towards her before she could begin. Thea stumbled back from him, her questions melting away in favor of a slew of mental curses. When Cicero reached the shallow pool of light emanating from the torch on the wall, he stopped, and Thea truly saw him for the first time in years.

He was both the same and a stranger. A friend and an opponent. Same hard jaw and amber eyes that stood out against his nut-brown skin he got from his mother. Same reddish-brown hair that sparked burgundy in the torchlight. He had cut it since Thea had seen him last, and now it barely touched his shoulders. He was wearing half of it pulled back, a motion she had seen him do so many times she could practically paint it in her sleep.

But yet, different. He had forged new Magi in the time he was away and this set was a dull black metal with the shining of precious ore forged within. There was a day or two’s worth of facial hair shadowing his jaw and cheekbones, making him look older than his twenty four years. The fingers of his right hand were toying with the head of a small axe hanging on his belt as he watched Thea watch him.

Her muscles were growing sore with how tensely she was holding herself when Cicero rumbled, “Cute dress.”

Thea’s fingers twisted in her nightgown. “Yes.” Stiffly. “How kind of you to barge into my home in the dead of night and drag me from my bed.”

“You rose from your bed on your own, dior. But you have a point, I suppose. I would have come to get you.”

Thea bit down. “What the hell do you want, Cicero?”

“Think. You’ll figure it out.”

Thea already had a few ideas in her head and she wasn’t thrilled with any of them.

“This is about your uprising,” she hazarded. “Whatever the hell that has to do with me, I don’t know and I don’t want to know. You come in here, you kill my men-”

“Your men are alive. In fact, they were getting along just fine with my men when I left them.”

“They...what?” Thea tried to imagine Lucius and Quinn on speaking terms with Marcellus and Felix, and failed. Cicero’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.

“As you were saying,” he prompted.

Thea swallowed down her beating heart. “I want you to leave. Now. I don’t care why you came. As far as I’m concerned, your father has gone mad and has declared himself a traitor practically for all the Isles to hear. Leave. Leave, and tell your traitor sister that if she harms my family in the capitol I will have no scruples hunting her down.”

Cicero feigned a wince and clicked his tongue. “Now, now. No need to say things we don’t mean- and don’t tell me you would be able to kill Iona because you wouldn’t.”

Thea, who’s mouth had opened in protest, fell silent.

“But there’s no reason to worry,” Cicero went on, “She won’t harm your parents. Your father will die by my blade one day and your mother can do as she pleases, it matters not to me.”

“Do you expect me to stand here and listen to you threaten my father? As if all these years isn’t enough! Get the hell out of my house, Tithonius!”

Slowly, deliberately, he drawled, “No.”

Thea let a breath out. “What,” she gritted, “do you want?”

By way of response, Cicero started forward. Thea stumbled back as she fought to get away from him, but his legs were longer than hers and he was able to seize her arm and pull her after him as he opened a door off the hallway and pushed her into it. Thea caught sight of the small key he slid into a pocket once the door was sealed.

“How did you get that?” She demanded, slightly breathless from being thrown into the room. Cicero was silent as he lit the nearest torch with a piece of flint he hit against the steel brace, lighting the room with dull light. They were in a library, one of the smaller ones.

Once the room was half lit, Cicero leaned against the door and folded his arms across his chest in a lazy, almost bored manner. Thea suddenly felt exposed in her thin nightdress.

“Tell me why you’re here since you seem intent on staying. Or I suppose we could just bicker until dawn.”

“Seeing as I’m the only thing in between you and your way out, I don’t think you’re in any position to be making demands.”

“I’m not joining your traitorous regime. As long as you have a grudge against my father, I won’t listen to a word you have to say. Send Iona, and maybe I’ll reconsider.”

Her words were harsh but she couldn’t help the petty banter that Cicero seemed to invoke. Cicero’s lip curled, the first sign of his shortening temper.

“You will listen if I have to keep you here all night. Don’t push me, Theadora. We can talk about your father and I for as long as you want but you will not leave this room until you’ve heard what I have to say.”

“What makes you think I want to hear what you have to say?”

“What makes you think you don’t?” A tilt of his chin, a raise of his brow.

“Shall I go alphabetically or chronologically? Let’s start with you wanting to murder my father and move to how you’ve killed my guards!”

“Your guards,” Cicero forced out, “are not dead. Do not question the integrity of my word. The sooner you shut your mouth, the sooner you can go see them.”

“And Rosie. Where is she?”

Cicero blinked. “The dog?” He asked slowly.

“What? No, she isn’t the dog! Rosie’s my maid! If she’s hurt-”

“If she’s hurt, its because she tried to wrestle Marcellus and that makes it her fault, not mine. Your maid is a pretty thing, I saw her fleeing down one of the hallways. I can’t imagine Marcellus will damage her in any permanent manner.”

“Don’t talk about her like that!” Thea snapped, upset. “She’s worth a score of your men and if she has a single scratch on her when I find her, there will be hell to pay-”

Cicero had crossed the room in two swift motions and had a hand covering Thea’s mouth, cutting her off before she could spit the rest of her curses at him. She let out a muffled sound of protest and tried to wrench his hand away but his fingers only tightened. When Thea dug her nails into the skin of his wrist, he only frowned and extended his thumb to pinch down on her nose, cutting off her air supply. She froze. Cicero’s smile was sharp.

“I’ll let go if you promise to be quiet. You annoy me.”

Thea, knowing how to swim very well and being used to holding her breath for long amounts of time, was not yet worried. She rose a delicate hand and showed Cicero her middle finger. His expression didn’t change.

“Very ladylike. Don’t think I won’t black you out.”

Thea made sure Cicero felt every bit of her scathing glare before she nodded once underneath his hand.

He let her go, stepping back against the door where he crossed his arms again. Thea settled herself on top of a nearby desk, crossing her ankles and leaning back on her hands. After a short period in which Cicero just observed her, Thea made a dramatic showing of indicating to herself as if to show him how quiet she was being, just like promised.

Cicero smiled slowly. “Yes, I see. Half of me didn’t think you could do it.”

“You piece of-”

“Hush.” His tone was sharp and Thea involuntarily fell silent. Cicero continued. “I haven’t come here to hurt you, Thea. Nor have my men. In fact, we’d much prefer you and your guards alive. You know by now that my father leads the rebellion against the crown, a rebellion that has grown to involve almost half the noble families fighting against the King.”

“Half?” Thea was stunned. “Surely not-”

“The only families that stand with the crown are House Gallio and House Dexion. And, of course, yours.”

Thea couldn’t form words. All those families, serving the crown for as long as history stretched back, turning on the very bloodline they swore fealty to. When she looked up at Cicero, her horror was evident.

“Why?” She whispered. “Why, Cicero? Can’t you see what this is? It’s treason set to turn our city into a river of blood with innocent lives lost in the wake. What could have possibly happened for your father to rally Houses to his side? What insult was so unforgivable?”

“It was no insult.” Cicero’s voice was low, serious. For the first time that night, Thea realized she wanted to know what he did.

“Tell me.”

Cicero huffed out a humorless laugh. “You just fought tooth and nail for me to fuck off and now you want to hear what I have to say?”

“Don’t you want to tell me? Isn’t that what this whole...intrusion is about?”

“No, actually. It isn’t.” Cicero settled against the door, looking very much like a dog setting his heels into the dirt before a fight. “You’re coming with me.”

Thea reeled backwards, uncrossing her ankles. “I’m sorry, this is a kidnapping? Do my guards know that? Or did you actually kill them because you couldn’t be bothered to get through them?”

“The next time,” Cicero threatened, “you want to accuse me of lying, I will drag one of your useless guards into your ballroom and hang him from the ceiling. Then you will have killed him.”

Thea’s mouth dropped open. “You’re despicable,” she whispered.

“Hmm. Yes. But you’ll come with me all the same.”

“And why is that?”

“Because of the one thing that won’t ever change about you, Thea. You had it as a child and you will have it as an old woman. That nagging curiosity, that need to know what you know you don’t already.”

“Or,” Thea snapped, “You could just tell me whatever it is you need from me and fuck off.”

“Or you could listen to what I’m saying and think, Thea. Four noble families just drew blades against the crown, risking their lives, their wealth, their children, and you think it's as simple as me telling you a single problem? You know as well as I how completely inadequate those sycophants at court can be.”

Sycophant. That was the word Thea had meant to call Marcellus. She would have to find him again.

“And even with this knowledge, you expect me to believe there isn’t a good reason for four noble families to openly defy the source of the King? The source of their luxury? I’ve lived with Duchess Quintilla’s preening for twenty-two years and in all that time I’ve never seen her wearing anything less than a king’s ransom in diamonds. Yesterday I watched her slice a man’s throat in the streets without hesitation. I didn’t even think she owned a weapon.”

Cicero’s smile was vaguely amused, as though he imagined the famously spoiled Duchess drag a blade across someone’s neck and found it entertainment.

“I never said there wasn’t a reason. Those were your own words, Theadora, not mine.”

“Then tell me. Tell me why- I deserve to know.”

His smile turned indolent. He really wasn’t going to tell her. On this, she would have to do as he wished and follow him out of the safety of her estate. But it wasn’t like he hasn’t just proved how unsafe the estate could become.

Thea heaved a sigh and, scarcely believing herself, said, “Alright. Fine. Say I come with you. What then?”

Cicero’s face gave nothing away. If he was relieved or happy about her showing concession, he didn’t show it. “Then you come. You listen. You hopefully pull your spoiled head away from daddy’s shit long enough to think for yourself, and you decide whether or not you want to be facing me on a battlefield in a few months.”

Thea felt nauseous. There were a million responses she wanted to give but when her mouth opened, all that came out was, “Why do you need me?”

Cicero’s smile hurt Thea’s heart. It was so familiar, yet so far away. She no longer knew it.

“You’ll find out,” he taunted.

“If you’re using me as bait-”

“For whom? Your father? I wouldn’t make the mistake of believing your father would act on your behalf, at least not directly. Oh, don’t make that face, you’re not a child. And you know I’m right.”

“You aren’t right! You’re a piece of shit!”

“So you’re saying I should use you as bait.”

Thea huffed indignantly and closed her eyes. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to go with you.”

Cicero, who had shifted to open the door, turned to look at her over his shoulder. “Tough. If your ass isn’t on my horse in three minutes, I’m coming after you. Roll the die, if you wish.” With a razor smile, he opened the door and vanished.

Thea stayed rooted to the floor, watching the empty doorway where Cicero had vanished. Her heart was pounding in her throat and her palms were clammy. She hoped that standing still would calm her roaring thoughts but she was proven wrong. After a stretch of silence, Thea shook herself and slipped out of the library to hunt for Clover.

#the tipping point #thea #cicero #personal #flora

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rjmorrisonuniverse-blog · 4 years

Text

Nolan and the One-Hook Day

1. NOLAN

What a shit storm of a day.

Distilled angst, chain of events, cosmic joke funnel, harpoon of the gods.

I know as I sit near him that I will have to throw the best punch I have ever thrown; one with technique and violent finality. I'll have to lift up from the chair, slide it back as I tell him "I'm going for a piss", and deliver the perfect right hook that begins from my heel and gains muscle torque up the calf, thigh and buttocks. I'll pivot with it as I rise and all my years of practice should unconsciously find that sweet spot on his jawline. I have to throw for a kill.

One chance or else big trouble.

Even I know that you don't get into punch-ups with massive off-duty cops.

One knockout hook, and an expedient exit through the side door on the far end of that pool table. It has to be soon, before the after work crowd shows up and this shit-hole becomes witness city. Before the pork behemoth gets even nastier and I run out of time. You bet your ass the pig reference is intended; this guy has the face of a swine. Mammoth jarhead on a stump neck with beady red rimmed eyes and nose vascularity that bespeaks years of hard drink. His voice is gravel, whisky phlegm and flat hard, and his salt and pepper goatee has an ugly way of framing an unsmiling mouth.

Motherfucking pig, prick, douchebag.

I guess we should backtrack some. My name is Nolan. You don't need the surname, so get over it right now. I work for a metal stamping plant, and we make mostly automobile fenders. The job pays well but the environment is a hell on earth; a gargantuan space lit by low sodium lamps that hang forty feet above the floor. Two-storey tall machines that thump and roar like monsters starved for metal and perhaps human flesh, and a long shift there with earplugs inserted and legs taking shock after shock wave is about as otherworldly a job as I've ever had.

Is it any wonder I amped up my mixed martial arts training and aimed at the UFC?

Lunch breaks at A.G. Simpson were hilarious, as the zombies filed into the cafeteria in various states of exhaustion, depression, hangover, debt, disillusion. Even there, with the long bank of windows that overlooked the main work area below, the fucking lighting was brutal. In your face harshness, bad food, a sickly mint green high gloss paint on the cinder block walls... I mean, no amount of overtime could justify my being there and ONLY there to make ends meet. I remember a painting crew that was hired to spray the ceilings and recoat the washrooms, and those guys were freaked OUT by the vibe. They took their breaks in the cafeteria too, cursing themselves for not bringing their own food to the job, bitching about the watery vending machine coffee, and more than a dozen times asking us "how the fuck do you stand working here?"

So, given my size and mindset coupled with a love for man-to-man conflict resolution, it was a no-brainer for me to embark on a little side action in the octagon. I started as a gangly kid with the amateur boxing and proved a quick study with natural power in each hand. Even with the headgear and twelve ounce gloves I was knocking people out cold, and sparring partners too. I always seemed to have that mean in me, but as lady luck, that rotten bitch, would have it... I was a "cutter". If I didn't knock his ass out in the first couple of rounds, sooner or later I'd be bleeding. Bottom lip, bridge of nose, and for a brief stint in the pro circuit, both eyelids. I was an undefeated slugger fighting out of a loser gym, punching for power and lantern jawed, but that goddamned skin of mine pushed me toward MMA combat, and that was fine by me. I didn't like my fellow man as a rule, and most days, hitting him made more sense than conversation.

I started out lucky, through a cousin who was being trained in the Pat Miletich camp, and found myself under the tutelage of the great man himself. I could list details about the intensive training that mixed kickboxing and Jiu-jitsu, Pat's karate methods and a stripped down version of Thai boxing that seemed best suited to my power... I could talk about the first dozen fights in Iowa, all victories by knockout in the first round.

I was busting my hump at the metal stamping plant all day, training five nights a week, and taking fights for shit money anywhere they would put me. Eventually I was given an opportunity to match up against a name opponent, even though his career was on the downward spiral, and representatives from the UFC were ringside. That was one motherfucker of a highlight reel knockout, let me tell it. My six foot four two hundred fifty pound hammer was primed to drop and I don't mind saying that poor bastard was knocked out during the stare down. Stoked? Homicidal.

The first thing he attempted was a leg kick, and in missing, he presented me with a clean shot at his mandible. I saw his eyes go all wide and wild just as I uncorked a sweet left uppercut and felt that indescribable delicious shock of connection when it exploded on the sleep spot under his chin. He was out before his head bounced off the canvas, and even today the debate continues about what killed him; the punch or that heavy landing. My celebrations ended when I saw that he wasn't getting up, and by the time the stretcher arrived I knew it was serious. I won't lie to you. I won't say it chewed me up inside that my opponent died a week later. These are gladiators and they go into it fully aware of the dangers. Highly skilled, trained to the nth degree, all it takes between two combatants in that arena is a nanosecond of error and somebody's lights go out.

Permanent injury, career ending injury? Not common, but I wasn't a common hitter either. Maybe we can thank my father for that. Every opponent wore his face and I don't throw to win. I throw to injure.

I was told that a contract was being drawn up for me in the aftermath of that fight; that all the way up to Dana White's office, the name "Nolan" was being spoken as the next money magnet. Then that poor bitch died and the contract offer was postponed until the media hornets nest died, too. I was pissed, maybe even a little at myself, and for sure at the man whose physically abusive ways had forged the fires that shaped me.

Two weeks later, I busted up one of Miletich's top young prospects during a heated sparring exchange, and that was the end of my UFC dream. Back to the zombie show at A.G. Simpson I went, and no amount of prying from fellow workers would get me to talk about just how close I had come to fame and financial freedom. Fuck it, fuck them, and fuck dreams. That became my mantra, and I withdrew into a mean sonofabitch's shell. Nobody messed with me back then.

Well, not until I took on that part time gig as a bouncer at Bunny's strip club. That was where I met Sherry-Ann.

2. SHERRY-ANN

Here in the bottom of the barrel tavern, I motion to the waiter for two more pints and listen to the gravelly voice of the big prick sitting at the corner of the table. He's talking about his failed marriages, the failings of the judicial system, the failure of society to appreciate what he does for a living. Failure? I'll show the motherfucker failure. Then, as the waiter sets down two more pints, I hear off-duty pig's speech beginning to slur.

"You shoulda been a cop". He fixes his cold eyes on me, looking at my down-to-the-wood hairstyle and clean cut features. He's bitching about the career path and in his next beery breath he's pitching a sale.

"My woman wouldn't have anything to do with me if I was a cop", I tell his stump of a face while Sherry-Ann drops the needle down on some distant memory that plays a song of sex and rage. Pig-mug leers into his ale, and I glance down at the broad knuckles across my right hand, square and knobby and designed for pain delivery. I had been forming a fist as he bitched about his marriages, and now I force myself to flatten out the fingers on my thigh.

You may have thought that Sherry-Ann was a stripper, based on my mention of the club where I watched the door and floor. Nothing against the girls inside who worked the laps for money, but I would never date a peeler. I fucked a couple of them when I first took the job because they were practically throwing it at me. These all-American clean cut features of mine would have been enough, but toss in some nasty scar tissue and my indifferent conduct, and it was shooting fish in a barrel time. I don't pretend to understand the mind of a woman, but there is a fundamental truth about their being attracted to rough men. They may not love us in a lasting way, but a lot of them want us between their legs.

My first weekend on the job, on the Saturday shift, this feature dancer "Savannah" kept taking her breaks in the entrance lobby, near the door and near me. Nothing wrong with my meat radar, and I knew where the harpoon was headed. This joint, "Bunny's", was a rough place in a nasty part of southside downtown. Blood spatter on the sidewalk out front was common, and in time a lot of it was extracted by yours truly in the doing of his job; I always thought it funny how these down and out motherfuckers could find money for beer and lap dances. How many of them had wives and hungry children at home?

Some of them came in looking for trouble, pissed off at the world, and I took pleasure when reducing their dietary needs to soup. The owner of the place didn't give a shit how we did our duty, as long as the money came in and the cops stayed away and the girls were kept happy. So, when Savannah finished her final three song set of the night, instead of taking private dance requests she asked me if I would join her for a drink. Rose, the owner, cleared it with "Night's almost over... long as you keep an eye on the room."

Savannah and I shared a small table near the entrance door, and she did most of the talking while I admired her rack and scanned the patrons. Her body language was nothing less than a carnal invitation, with those shapely legs spread and her hand coming up often to touch my bicep, forearm, knee. A vacant, giggling, augmented and needy blonde caricature.

Shift finished, I invited her back to my two-bedroom apartment for a few more drinks and some good hard fucking, but on the way out the back door I first saw Sherry-Ann and she laid a burn job on my mind. She was leaning forward to talk to a potential client through the driver side window, and I caught sight of long-honed legs flowing up into a tightly rounded naked ass calling to me beneath her hiked black skirt. Statuesque, easily six feet without the twat-for-sale boots, and when she heard the back door squeal open and slam shut she turned for a second to shoot me and my companion a hard appraising look. The street lamp threw a sleazy orb over her beautiful features, with that young Margot Kidder sneer, too much lipstick and tumbling waves of ludicrous wig-red tresses tickling the mid back.

Untamed; that was the immediate impression. Lanky and dangerous and maybe a little crazy, and the kind of bedroom ride that was sure to be a roller coaster. We experienced that intense time-stand-still-eye-lock and I felt the kinetic energy between us that stayed with me all through the next two hours of sex with Savannah. That final climax, doggie style with her face pushed into the back of my sofa and her hands braced against the wall... that was another woman's bird I was basting. A woman I was determined to meet at the next opportunity. I remember drama-Savannah's look of injury when I handed her cab fare at four in the morning and bluntly told her I needed to sleep alone. She tried to protest and I gave it to her straight - "We both got what we wanted tonight, and now it's time for you to piss off."

"You really shoulda been a cop, I'm telling you."

I nod as if in agreement, look at the clock above the bar and realize that I'll have to do my thing soon. Sherry-Ann will be expecting me home from work, completely unaware that my day is an official shit-storm only beginning to hit the fan. The huge man sitting with me lifts the pint of ale to his mouth, still glaring my way over the rim, and I see his police-issue service revolver sitting snugly in its shoulder holster. The open front of his brown suede jacket, the bulging stomach, massive arms barely contained by sleeves, and a pungent body odor of sickening complexity.

This doomed fuck doesn't have a clue that I followed him here.

3. PARENTING

A week after I first laid eyes on Sherry-Ann's lanky goods, I was on duty at Bunny's with a sense of excitement that I hadn't felt in a long time. The shift was uneventful, and when I went through the back door, there she was at the end of the block with another chick. I thought about walking over to her, but decided to roll up in my Grand National. It was a hot night and she was sweetly tucked into a pair of high-riding denim shorts and a tight red t-shirt with black boots at the mid-calf; straight platinum blonde wig. I saw her eyes move from her companion as I rode up slowly, window down.

What a fucking body. Built for cock of Nolan. I can't explain the power of the attraction, and I had never considered paying for sex even once in my life. She just had that sneer, defiance, youthful strut and a physique to match. I'll admit that I had a soft spot for the ladies of the night, because my mother had been one, and I hate on pimps and everything they represent. Sure, I had some Travis Bickle in me, and Sherry-Ann was my Jodie Foster.

"Looking for a date?" her upper lip curled at the corner, and then I could see her remembering me from the weekend before. She smiled as I stopped, and her girlfriend took a long look through the windshield before casually strolling around the corner out of sight. "Hey, I remember you, stud."

Long story short, we did a little negotiating and she got in the car. I drove around the block and parked in behind Bunny's near the fire escape and garbage bins. Very romantic. Turned out that Sherry-Ann was new to this stroll, and didn't fuck. She was oral only, and I had to wear a jimmy hat Her old man was a biker-type who also had a piece of the action in the very club where I worked; a few girls who took on after hours customers at his command. He'd taken a shine to his newest meat, and didn't want Sherry-Ann riding any cock but his. I was as stiff as a fucking girder when she started stroking me through the dress slacks, but when I tried to enjoy her tits she moved my hand away gently, bending to unzip me and set the crowbar free. As soon as she started rolling that goddamned rubber over the head I could feel myself losing the erection.

"This isn't how I want it" I told her flatly, and she froze, raised herself back up and looked me long in the eyes. I remember thinking that I knew her from somewhere, maybe another life, and for the first time in my thirty four years I felt that I wanted something intensely. Her. "I wouldn't mind grabbing a coffee somewhere for half an hour, for the same money, if that's cool."

We started that way, and for weeks I would take her to a seedy twenty four hour diner near her stroll, to learn about her life and tell her about mine. Both of us were survivors of violent childhoods, but her father was nothing compared to the evil piece of shit that was mine. Her dad was heavy into the booze, gambling, and spousal abuse. My father was the angriest most self-entitled rage-aholic in existence, and from my first childhood memories it was his fists that marked my growth.

That prick verbally abused my mother and took sadistic pleasure in kicking the shit out of his only child. As I grew into a large teenager, the beatings escalated in duration and ferocity. He never told me why he hated me, but I knew instinctively that my life had been an accident... a miserable wait around that cocksucker's reality. As Sherry-Ann and I shared these sad stories over coffee, we could feel a mutual caring develop between us, and I always had that sexual hunger for her.

In time, she trusted me enough to explain that she wanted to get away from "Roy", who was becoming increasingly demanding and violent. He'd brought in another girl from the bus terminal, and that was his new top bitch. Sherry-Ann had to start earning like the other girls, and when she told me that, I took care of the situation for her. I spent a couple of weeks in hiding, watching for this fucker, and quickly enough I was able to figure out his schedule. He'd roll around just after the sun went down, in a beat up blue panel van, and again after three in the morning to collect the pussy rent... I waited for the Thursday of the third week, told Sherry-Ann exactly what I planned to do, ignored her warnings and pleas, and when Roy showed up later that night for his money...

Nolan came out of the shadows across the street. Roy was in the driver's seat, window down, in conversation with one of the other girls and I casually walked around the back of the van to push his bitch out of the way with my right hand before looping a short left hook into the center of his face; it had brutal follow-through and Roy's head whiplashed before he hit the bench seat sideways. Two of the girls started running away, but Sherry-Ann stayed for the show. I yanked open the door and grabbed a generous handful of beard and long hair, pulled the semi-conscious Roy back to a sitting position. The blood was cascading out of what remained of his nose, down his shirt and vest, all over the money he had dropped into his lap. I gave him a good shake and his eyes rolled open, tried to focus, and before he could attempt anything I drove a hateful straight left into his open mouth, putting him OUT. I loved the sight of him sagging back to a lying position in a grotesque slow motion of jaw-hanging gore. "Sherry-Ann is with ME from now on" I shouted into the cab, and who knows if he heard it or not...

"Call an ambulance for this piece of shit, and let's go get your things." An hour and two pieces of luggage later, Sherry-Ann took refuge in my apartment. A roach-infested den of depression and about as dead end as it gets for a pretty young runaway of twenty three. We had sex for the first time that night; a two-way act of consumption that I won't ever forget. We felt like we knew each other far beyond those few weeks of talking, and her forthright way of telling me how to fuck her, how to do the things that she needed done, the way her sexy mouth formed a leering curve when she came so hard and violently around me. It would be a long time before she heard it, but when I called in sick the next morning, I was sure I could love her.

Roy? He hadn't seen what hit him. I heard that he lost most of his upper and lower plate, had to have his nose reconstructed, and a few weeks after that night he and his women vanished from Bunny's and the block. Sherry-Ann settled in with me, took a waitressing job, and we fell into a year-long calm spell... I had saved almost all of my earnings over the past eight years and we made plans to get a house together outside the city core. We had a friendship and the sex was ferocious, but there were hurdles to overcome. I helped Sherry-Ann quit the glass pipe, and she helped me open up.

Which brings me back to this nameless drinking hole and the large man sharing a scarred wooden table with me. Brings me to a heartbeat of hate, and the day that marked the history of Nolan with a river of tainted blood.

4. SHIT, MEET THE FAN

A Friday that began like any other, with the five thirty alarm. Sherry-Ann's warmth against me under the sheets, and the new anticipation of weekend reward in my life. I gave up the bouncer gig at the strip club to spend weekends with my woman, and for the first time ever I had days to look forward to during the workweek. Long lazy mornings in bed together, watching television, having sex, lost in conversation... me, the short fuse with lots on his mind and little to say. Simple, beautiful hours.

That Friday I ate my breakfast alone then walked quietly into the bedroom to kiss Sherry-Ann on the forehead as she slept. Me, the guy who told himself he would never give a shit about anyone... she was asleep on her side, dark brown hair fanned out across the pillow. I ran it through my fingers to make myself believe again that this amazing change had come to my existence, and then left to make the half hour trip to the A.G. Simpson metal stamping plant. I first noticed the horizon of fire when I made the turn into the industrial park on Laird avenue; jet black smoke billowing upward to form the devil's cloud cover, licked from below by a massive wall of flame. I hit the gas and felt my guts sink into the comfortable abyss of my usual state of being, knowing what I was going to see at the end of the avenue, reaching for the radio as I saw the rows of cars lining each side and stopped by a phalanx of police cruisers, ambulances, and fire trucks. The all-news station was on the scene and I learned that a huge explosion had ripped through my place of employment, killing four workers and injuring dozens of others.

"Jesus H. Fuck!" I pulled over and parked on the strip of grass adjacent to the two lane blacktop, got out to watch the blaze. Co-workers either sat in their cars or stood around in groups, shaking their heads at the sight of the apocalypse before them. A couple of them acknowledged me with nods, but most of them ignored me. I told you before, people tended to avoid me and I like it that way. I asked a couple of the guys what they knew, and nobody had shit for info other than the explosion happened just before dawn. Fuck me, I kept thinking, there goes work for a while. Maybe for good if the place is gutted.

I went back to the car, sat and watched the show, and after a couple of hours it occurred to me that I should just go the fuck home to be with the only person I cared about before she went in to work her half day. All the way back toward the small house we were renting, my mind was in a fog that reminded me of the worst of times during my childhood. My sixteenth birthday, when the man who called himself my father arrived to take me out of school because my mother had overdosed on heroin. Waiting in the hospital as she fought her last battle, he found a way to blame me, and that night after her death the beating he dished out had me fearing for my own life. I fought him back for the first time, and even though I hurt that motherfucker, he got the best of me and I spent two days in my room bruised, battered, and determined to leave. Two weeks later, he went in to work the night shift and I escaped. Some day I'll tell you about those first few months... I did things to survive that no one should resort to. If not for my mother's sister, I wouldn't be here today to break deserving skulls.

A half block away from the house I could see a car in the parking pad. A rusty Pontiac Laurentian, dented along the passenger doors and crusted with dirt. What the fuck? I glanced at my watch and it came from the stomach up to my throat; a sick knowledge of a thought that I stopped from forming... without realizing it I was on the brake and slowing. Ten in the morning on a day I'm not supposed to be here until five thirty. She goes to work at twelve, comes home before five. I put the car in reverse and backed up to park against the curb about a dozen houses away from mine, killed the engine and sat in silence. I watched the car in the driveway, looked at the front of the bungalow that framed the inevitable act of betrayal that life had in store for guys like me. For the first time in nearly twenty years I didn't take immediate action. I couldn't, man. I was paralyzed with a cold sweating fear, choking on a feeling like being trapped in a plunging elevator. There was no rationalizing in the car that morning as I sat there watching and so certain that Sherry-Ann was in there destroying us with another man who was soon to pay a price beyond reason.

Almost two hours went by, in a blur, before I decided to leave the car. I strolled over to the house, slowly and not feeling anything I can describe. I was thinking about a movie that I'd seen called "Into The Night", where the main character played by Jeff Goldblum comes home early to find his wife screwing someone. As I walked between my place and the neighbour's, around the side to the back bedroom window, my mind went numb. I always knew that God had put me here in this body for a lifetime of getting fucked. Life is a better fuck than pussy. Life is a twenty four and seven joystick, motherfuckers.

Our bedroom windows bottomed at eye level. An air conditioner filled the lower section of the far pane, so I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered through the glass of the east frame... the blinds weren't dropped all the way down to the sill and I was able to make out the two shapes on our bed. The bottom of the bed faced the windows, giving me a clear enough look at his big legs and ass as he pumped his erection into her. I felt a scary chill of calm for a moment, watching his balls move back and forth as he rode that beautiful pussy and blocked her from my view through sheer bulk. The sight of her long naked legs, one bent upward and one straightened, and a small hand gripping the blankets... that started the tears and I turned away quickly to walk back to the car.

Those were the longest two hours of my life, longer even than the wait for news about my mother that afternoon in the hospital. I'm not a smoker, so I sat and chewed gum in silence, waiting and getting used to the idea that once again, the dream is over. Fuck life, fuck love, and fuck dreams. Welcome back to reality. You fell for a whore, asshole. She's been turning tricks on the side all this past year and you bought the Hallmark card version of what it should have been and isn't. Last Friday had been a good fucking day that lasted clear through until the following Monday, and THIS one is the end of the world as you know it. Job, woman? Fuck you. Gone.

The bartender, myself and this half drunken off-duty pig, plus six others who sit at the bar on the far side of this shit-hole. Four hours ago I watched this man leave my house through the front door, as though it were his, and casually get into his old Pontiac. I gave him a decent head start and then followed him across town into the city core. He parked in front of a tired brownstone on the south side, got out and lumbered up the stoop past a sign that read "short term rentals available", and I parked further up the street and did some more waiting. Him first, her later. I couldn't believe it and yet it made perfect sense. I'd deal with him, then Sherry-Ann would get one chance to explain this to me. Just one. I turned to lean against the driver's door, stretched my legs out across the seats, flexed my fingers, and watched the front door of that brownstone. When I made the decision to stop waiting he emerged from the building wearing the same clothes, and I followed him to the fucking dive that now serves as the shit-storm epicentre.

I gave it fifteen minutes before I entered the nameless hole. It took my eyes a moment to adjust from bright afternoon to damaged liver gloom, and the smell of piss and old beer and sweat that hit me like a swinging back-fist. All eyes turned at my entrance, but he was hunched over a pint and facing away from the front door and was the only one not to see me come in. I went straight to the bartender and asked him in a low voice what "that guy over there" was drinking, ordered two pints, and walked the length of the room to his table.

I set the pints down in the middle of the tabletop and pull out a chair around the corner from his, and he looks first at me and then the beer. Back at me, eyes widening as I lower myself and bore lasers into his pupils. "Still a cop?" I slide one pint toward him and raise mine up for a good swallow. He doesn't answer right away, staring me in the face, sizing me up, lost in something... "YOU shoulda been a cop" he mutters. "I followed you here" I tell him right away, let it soak in for a moment. "From the place where I'm staying?" he runs a huge hand through his goatee and greying hair. "No, from my place... the factory where I work is burning today."

He nods slowly, looking down into his beer... "been looking for you, son."

"I've never been your son, mister. I have the scars to prove it."

"I heard you left the city to stay with your aunt for a long time... " his voice trails off in memory. "So you found out where I live, dropped by for a friendly visit, did you?" He smirks a little and I almost throw the bomb right then, but it isn't the right time... I'm throwing for a kill, remember. I play it like I don't mind that he found me, and of course he has no idea that I saw him fucking my woman... no idea that as I sit here getting psyched up to stop his motherfucking heart, my own has been smashed. "So here I am, sir. What can I do for you?" he smirks again.

And it goes like that for nearly an hour, as this beastly childhood force sits next to me and attempts to... what? Atone for something? Correct the damage that he inflicted on his only child? I sit here and listen to his talk about the difficulty of losing my mother, and the failed second and third marriages. I let him ramble through his anger, and I hear nothing but an older version of the gigantic negative force that took all of my potential and crushed it into a compact life-hating machine. I can't even come up with one iota of pity for this prick, and now it's Sherry-Ann I'm thinking of as I glance again at the wall clock and decide it's time. How she could betray me... us... like that, and with THIS of all monsters.

"Tell me something" I interrupt his self pitying rant about spineless judges. "How much did you pay?" He looks at me stupidly, one bushy eyebrow lifting. "For Sherry-Ann this morning" I raise my voice a notch. "What did that cost you?" His hand comes up with the pint as he says "I didn't pay" and I slide the chair back, start the hook from my hip as I rise and pivot to throw thirty five years of poison through my torso and shoulder and forearm and fist as a projectile unlike any I've ever unleashed. Instinctively aimed for his heavy jawline as he tries to react too late, jerking beer over the rim of his glass when I land it and envision my knuckles removing his lower face. The jolt of it through my arm is like an orgasm and he and the chair hit the floor as though a wrecking ball has swung into the tavern. I'm not even looking at the others in the room, and in one chain of events I squat to look at his hanging jaw and the teeth that he is pushing out of his mouth with a bleeding tongue.

The cocksucker is still conscious but the force of the hook has probably broken his neck. I've never seen a head swivel like that. I grab a handful of vest and start dragging him across the floor as the witnesses just begin to realize what has happened, maybe not even giving a damn in a place this rough. I drag the piece of shit across the floor and his face is hitting the legs of chairs, his arms are limp. The bartender yells "hey! take that shit out of here" and I feel a nasty smile crack my mouth. The door near the pool table has one of those metal bars on it that you push, so I lift up my prey with both hands and ram his face into it. Outside in the late afternoon sunshine I can see that his fucking head looks like a shotgun suicide, and his breath is heavy and blood thick. There's a big blue garbage dumpster around back, and I drag him face down by the vest collar, hearing his gun scrape along the asphalt, feeling the swelling along the top of my hand.

I prop him up in a sitting position against the dumpster and step back to deliver a looping head kick to his temple. His skull whiplashes and he hits the parking lot on his right side. I feel myself nod in agreement, then finish him off with a short toe kick to the throat. From the moment I first hit him to the lifting and tossing of his body into the dumpster I have been outside of myself. I take one final look at his imploded features and spit on them, dropping the metal lid down on the fucking garbage.

Do you think the blades of the fan are now filled with shit? No. There's just one more detail to cap my Friday to end all Fridays. I drive back to my house, just ahead of rush hour traffic. My hand is swollen and cut where I clipped his teeth. My mind is a seething pit of rage and fatality. I don't care about a fucking thing at this point other than to have Sherry-Ann look at me with her gorgeous eyes and talk me out of this crescendo. Tell me it was a moment of weakness, of old habits dying hard... tell me what you have to but tell me everything will be okay.

I pull into the driveway, enter the house, and see that she is home early. Her purse and shoes and waitress outfit are all in the living room. The house is silent and I walk quickly down the middle hall toward the last room on the left where she is lying in bed with her eyes wide open and the belt from her bathrobe knotted up around her neck. My breath hitches in my chest. I turn on the ceiling light. The bedsheets are on the floor, the pillow case beneath her spattered in blood, the tip of her tongue is showing between bloody lips. I nod again in agreement with the universe. Nolan is getting cosmic-fucked now. How DARE I fall in love? Who am I to change what I am?

In an echo of my earlier gesture that morning, I bend over Sherry-Ann to kiss her forehead, then close her eyelids. No tears now. I pack one piece of luggage, turn off the bedroom light, and get into the car to head for the nearest automatic teller. I'll get a hotel room and tomorrow I clear out my savings. Nolan blows this town forever. I'm on a mission now, and before I'm finished people will know about me from coast to coast.

Every lowlife motherfucker in every shitty part of every city has it coming, and I'm the delivery boy.

#fiction short-story #brutalism

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fathersonholygore · 6 years

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Many drugs are mind altering. Opioids, and specifically heroin, are life altering. I’ve never taken heroin, even though I’ve seen others take it and had it offered to me. My addiction was contained to many of the other opioids, from oxycodone to Demerol to garden variety morphine. Nine years clean and I still remember the stranglehold they held on my life, intent on ruining everything good in my life. It wasn’t exactly Trainspotting. Still, I’ll always understand Mark Renton (Ewan McGregor) and the lads, to some extent. Opioids pull you away from the world, both with an otherworldly physical sensation and in the mental isolation they instil in the user, effectively shielding them from reality. On an existential level, they end your life. The addict becomes suspended in a space somewhere between fantasy and reality, as if experiencing a form of spiritual death. Danny Boyle’s Trainspotting is a humorous if not bleak look at the truth that hard drugs are, for the junkie, a version of the afterlife, during which they experience heaven, hell, and purgatory at various intervals. Boyle’s choice to weave the gritty life of a group of heroin addicts shot, by necessity, in a low-budget style with moments of magical realism captures the process of addiction in vivid and at times terrifying detail. It’s like a 20th-century version of Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy narrated by a lad from Edinburgh hooked on skag. Renton guides us from Inferno to Purgatorio and finally to Paradiso. This journey is facilitated by Boyle’s use of magical realism to convey the fantastical, if not devastating effects and consequences of taking heroin.

“In the middle of the journey of our life/ I found myself within/ A dark woods where the straight way was lost.” – Inferno; Canto I lines 1-3

Immediately, the “Choose Life” monologue from Irvine Welsh’s book – originally located around the middle of the text, moved to the beginning of the screenplay by Boyle and screenwriter John Hodge – is essentially the anthem for all narcissist drug users. The viewer has no doubts about Renton or his friends Spud (Ewen Bremner) and Sick Boy (Jonny Lee Miller) being addicts right from the opening scene. The “Choose Life” monologue also reveals the utter obsession of the addict with nothing else except getting high. Renton could’ve chose any number of paths, and yet he chose one that lead him into those dark woods of Dante. Nevertheless, those dark woods, for him, are just as good as heaven if he has heroin to guide him. No matter how it appears outwardly to the non-addict, junkie heaven is the high itself. Boyle puts us directly in the midst of all the needle use and the decrepit apartments in rundown public housing complexes. He never glorifies the drug lifestyle while not shying away from illustrating how much an addict enjoys being high. After spending so much time in heavenly bliss, the junkie gets so desperate to crawl back to that chemical fantasyland they’re willing to mentally bend reality themselves to get there. Even when Renton decides on getting clean he’s desperate enough to go fishing in a nasty pub toilet for opium suppositories he lost. The Worst Toilet in Scotland scene is prefaced by Boyle adding “The Worst” and “in Scotland” to the toilet door’s label, similar to Dante’s vision of hell where a sign hangs above the entrance warning: “All hope abandon, ye who enter here.” The toilet transforms via the junkie mind into a clear pool of water. In the throes of desperation, Renton is suddenly no longer a junkie – he’s a diver searching the ocean floor for glorious, valuable pearls. Boyle doesn’t let the viewer stray too long, though. He reels us back up out of the water and into the stall of that hideous toilet where – just as it does when baby Dawn perishes from neglect partway through the film – the reality of the junkie once more returns in all its brutality.

“I did not die, and I alive remained not/ Think for thyself now, hast thou aught of wit/ What I became, being of both deprived.” – Inferno; Canto XXXIV lines 25-28

When Renton overdoses in the apartment of his dealer, Swanney a.k.a Mother Superior (Peter Mullan), he passes between life and death; not quite alive, never fully dead. Boyle’s magical realism here is a double dose of symbolism. After Renton shoots up, he literally sinks into the carpet. On one hand, this is a metaphor of the opioid high itself, as the warm, fuzzy carpet hugs him into it with open arms. It’s also symbolic of the antisocial nature of heroin; the retreat into the carpet is the junkie reverting completely within themselves. On the other hand, Boyle shows us the banal, everyday death of the junkie symbolised by the carpet transforming into a coffin, and the floor of the apartment acts as a grave. D.P. Brian Tufano’s camera assumes the point-of-view of Renton, pointing up through the opening of the makeshift grave while Mother Superior looks down upon him. The viewer becomes a corpse looking out from a carpeted grave. When Renton makes it to a hospital and the nurses give him adrenaline he comes back to life, even though he wasn’t totally dead. He then re-emerges from the carpet-lined coffin. As if hovering on the line between life and death wasn’t disturbing enough, it’s Renton’s drug purgatory where the actual horror begins. Following his overdose, Renton is forced into a cold turkey, homemade rehab by his mother and father. This is his personal purgatory, or as he describes it himself “the junkie limbo,” before any of the nastier symptoms take hold. Withdrawals turn fantasy into terror, and those happy, cosy fantasies of junkie heaven are subverted into nightmares. Magical realism is now horrific realism. He see his friend Begbie (Robert Carlyle) under his sheets representing the social shame of being a junkie. He sees his parents on a television set answer game show questions about AIDS, which symbolises his fear of the consequences of his intravenous drug use. There’s also the most harrowing representation of heroin’s consequences: baby Dawn, who was found dead in her crib by the group of junkies, now crawls along the ceiling, and her head spins around, before she falls down onto Renton in bed. Later comes the guilt when he sees Spud in prison chains after Renton managed to escape any charges for their doomed robbery, and he sees Tommy (Kevin McKidd), who he introduced to heroin, in a wretched state of advanced addiction; both of which signify his own psychologically debilitating guilt. His parents assure him he will get through it, just as Virgil tells Dante in Purgatorio: “My son/ Here may indeed be torment, but not death.” Torment doesn’t necessarily end there, either. The worst comes after purgatory when the junkie must return to reality. They’re not able to sweat and vomit the guilt out, neither can they rid their system of the damaging memories of the things they done and what they’ve seen. Suddenly, life is hell, which is no less difficult even if it’s part of the route to heaven.

“You dull your own perceptions/ With false imaginings and do not grasp/ What would be clear but for your preconceptions.” – Paradiso; Canto I lines 88-90

Renton remarks that “once the pain goes away that’s when the real battle starts” because Trainspotting’s vision of junkie hell is real life itself. After first kicking the habit, Boyle’s magical realism vanishes. For over a half hour near the end of the film the viewer and Renton experience unfiltered reality. Even when he relapses the ugliness of reality does not leave because his eyes have opened from the slumber of addiction, and while physically he’s falling back into drugs he refuses to fall back there mentally again, too. This is punctuated by Renton witnessing his maniac friend Begbie cause a violent, bloody scene in the pub for no other reason than his own clumsiness and anger. He sees the destructive reality of his life in no uncertain terms, which only fortifies his will to make an actual, lasting change. Ironically, Renton’s betrayal of his friends is the absolute best personal choice for him, and the only way he can truly escape addiction. Just as it is in real life, sometimes to be free of addiction we must shed the skin of our former life, even though our friends are a part of what makes up that skin.

“Open thy mind to that which I reveal/ And fix it there within; for ‘tis not knowledge/ The having heard without retaining it.” – Paradiso; Canto V lines 40-42

Boyle’s magical realism puts the viewer through the afterlife of drug use and addiction alongside Renton. More importantly, it acts as a guide along the journey. We experience the heavenly hallucinatory highs of heroin with him, then we go through the purgatorial space of withdrawal, as well as the hell of real life where there’s no more fantasy, just pure and honest reality. This doesn’t mean there is no hope for Renton. Dante’s Divine Comedy is thematically concerned with sin, in that it suggests the individual must recognise and accept one’s sins in order to find a path to heaven. Once Renton fully accepts his addiction and the magical realism slips away, he experiences a version of hell, yet in a sense he’s also able to move closer to a real heaven that’s non-drug induced; reality instead of fantasy. Although Trainspotting ends on a bittersweet note with Renton betraying his longtime friends, this is actually his salvation. It isn’t exactly what Dante would’ve envisioned, though it’s as close as someone like Renton will get to salvation. If someone like him – or me, for that matter, nearing a decade into my own recovery – can escape that life and the cycle of addiction, it’s attainable for anyone willing to undertake the journey. This is why Renton narrates the film to the viewer, almost as if he’s our guide, similar to how Virgil was a guide for Dante. If we consider where he ends up in the sequel, T2, at least we know that he’s able to stay clean for many years. What neither Mark Renton nor the rest of society can afford to forget is that addiction never leaves us, it’s a force we must constantly battle even after the addict is clean. This means that the important lessons of Trainspotting are pointless if they’re forgotten.

TRAINSPOTTING; Or, Renton’s Divine Comedy Many drugs are mind altering. Opioids, and specifically heroin, are life altering. I’ve never taken heroin, even though I’ve seen others take it and had it offered to me.

#Addiction #Brian Tufano #Choose Life #Danny Boyle #Dante Alighieri #Divine Comedy #Ewan McGregor #Heroin #Inferno #Irvine Welsh #Junkie #Magical Realism #Opiods #Purgatorio

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literateape · 6 years

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American Shithole #7 — Besties

By Eric Wilson

I figure if I’m going to demonstrate that this column is not solely devoted to American Politics, I had better do it soon. I can feel the gravity well of the gun violence movement pulling at my psyche. The maelstrom at the White House demands response. The roiling stink of greed coming off Washington that would make a Billy goat wretch, beckons.

Today however, I feel compelled to shut the front door on all the chaos of our political hell-scape, and instead write a short article about friends. Best friends, really. Not the particulars about my best friend — we shall call him, Peter — but the bonus points in life you generally receive if you’ve been lucky enough to have developed a best-friendship along your way.

Often some shared experience, some trial or tribulation to overcome is the catalyst for bonding, but there are times when two people hit it off for no apparent reason at all — like me and Pete. I met Peter freshman year in high school, and the first thing I ever said to him was, “What the fuck is your fucking problem?”

He was blocking my path. We have been besties ever since.

The boon of my friendship with Peter — plucked from a truly long list of gifts received — is what I imagine to be a benefit of all great friendships, and that is the life-long infusion of positivity; or mutual positive reinforcement. You might be inclined to think the author of American Shithole to be a misanthrope; this is not true.

It is through this powerful friendship — present throughout part of my childhood, and all of my adult life — that I have remained positive in disposition, even when I was suffering the most. The buffer this relationship has provided to the nastier elements life has to offer, is only now coming into focus as I gaze into the rearview.

Of the many bonding experiences that I have catalogued for an eventual return to my home planet, I fondly recall the earliest events with Pete most often, one of which I would like to share with you.

It was late August 1984, the blissfully worry-free days following our junior year of high school. We lived in the Chicago suburbs, and in those times, summers were mostly, if not wholly uneventful. Life was downright boring.

When I had returned from a visit to Albuquerque, our days and nights prior to senior year were spent playing D&D and watching movies, mostly. In those days I would actually go to the movies — you sort of had to — and the two of us would often end up at the long since demolished Tradewinds Cinema.

Tradewinds was one of those strip mall theaters of the ’80s that you could pay a buck or so, and see a film that premiered a few months earlier. The kind of theater where people would get stoned and drunk for the midnight double feature of Led Zeppelin’s The Song Remains The Same, and Pink Floyd’s The Wall. Also me.

Peter and I found ourselves in a largely empty theater one August afternoon, with the only other patrons nearby being a couple sitting a few rows from us. The film on the reel was Top Secret!, with Val Kilmer, and we have never laughed that hard in our lives. Even to this day, I cannot remember ever having laughed like that.

The movie was pretty funny as well — I have seen it since, although I wasn’t capable of paying much attention at the time. It wasn’t Kilmer’s precocious (s)mug that was cause for so much joy, it was the intermittent exchange between the couple a few rows away. Let’s call them Fred and Alice. Fred had been shifting uncomfortably in his chair, breathing heavily ever since the opening credits. Then he started moaning, and doubling over.

“Ooh, aarrgh, oh sweet lord. Oh god,” Fred cried out.

“Honey, enough,” Alice chastised, under her breath.

Fred shifted and groaned, writhing in his seat, while Alice continued to berate him in hushed tones.

“I can’t, I can’t…” Fred whispered, as he shook his head back and forth.

“Oh honey, no!” Alice pleaded.

It was at that point that Fred cut loose the mother of all farts right there in the theater. I mean, it reverberated.

The two boys sitting a few rows away, had their brains set on fire with delight. It was that perfect kind of laughter that cannot be stifled, from that perfect storm of both unexpected hilarity and an inappropriate environment or situation. Fred might as well have farted in church. This routine continued shortly after we recovered from the initial waves of laughter and exhaustion.

“The pressure, it burns. I can’t. I… oh noooo…”

“Oh honey, not again!”

Again Fred would release the Kraken. Again the boys would squirm and squeal making every attempt possible not to explode with laughter. I remember at one point sliding down my chair onto the filthy Tradewinds theater floor, in fits and spasms as I rolled around in who knows what. This went on and on, and every second of it was a delight.

“I can’t hold it back any longer…”

“God damn it, Fred! Get up and go to the bathroom, right now!”

Best fucking movie experience of all time.

I tell this brief tale of silliness — for there is nothing quite as silly in youth as public flatulence — to in part celebrate a life-long friendship, but also as reminder of what our lives were like before the specter of gun violence invaded every corner of our existence.

Peter, I love you. Your friendship is the cornerstone of support I have relied on for nearly forty years. So, feel free to crop-dust me the next time we are aimlessly wandering some crowded street fair in Chicago.

I hope, dear reader, this message finds you well, and in the company of your closest friends.

It’s not so easy, or silly for kids today. I hope they experience harmless absurdity like my ’80s fartpocalypse, but now these moments often come tainted with fear. The fear that every kid is saddled with, every damn time they go to the movies, or shopping, or step foot in school. I call B.S. on that.

It isn’t just the horrible violence and aftershock for those that survive these mass-shooting atrocities, it’s the ever-present fear acting as an interloper to all memory and experience of our time — for all children. All American public experience is tainted by gun violence now. Everything.

What kind of America prefers quiet, terrified children, too afraid to laugh at a fellow moviegoer’s incontinence? I joke, but that’s not right. I probably wouldn’t even laugh at a guy farting in a theater these days — I, too, would worry I’d get shot.

I am fairly certain our youth build friendships as strong as we have in the past — I imagine they must, given the shadow of fear that gun-worshipping ignoramuses and the NRA cast across them. I am not worried about their fortitude one bit though, after what I have witnessed in the last few weeks.

Yet, not only is the safety and happiness of every single child in America being ruthlessly held hostage by an American terrorist organization, but all of their memories too, good and bad, they are forever saturated, tainted with this madness.

It’s really all for these fucking monsters. The Stephen Feinberg's of the world. These are the men Lapierre represents. The kind of humans that covet power over all things. Those that would gladly profit from all human suffering.

Which makes for an easy segue this week to:

The B.S. Report

This is the first edition of the B.S. Report, where American Shithole saves the closing paragraphs each week for issues and events related to gun violence — particularly those surrounding the efforts of the many brave students and youth movements across the country.

In case you missed it, (future besties?) David Hogg and Cameron Kasky appeared on HBO’s Real Time with Bill Maher. The young activists did a fine job across from Maher, and I appreciate that he didn’t kid-glove them in any way.

The NRA is rapidly mobilizing members in Florida to resist any gun legislation. No surprises there.

Remington, maker of the AR-15, is currently embroiled in bankruptcy proceedings; this has been in motion for a while.

If you are looking for information on the March 14th national school walkouts, womensmarch.com has put together this kit for organization, and maintains this list of the schools scheduled to participate.

Stay strong, sane America!

#friendship #D&D #Top Secret!#B.S. Report

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theliterateape · 6 years

Text

American Shithole #7 — Besties

By Eric Wilson

He was blocking my path. We have been besties ever since.

Of the many bonding experiences that I have catalogued for an eventual return to my home planet, I fondly recall the earliest events with Pete most often, one of which I would like to share with you.

“Ooh, aarrgh, oh sweet lord. Oh god,” Fred cried out.

“Honey, enough,” Alice chastised, under her breath.

Fred shifted and groaned, writhing in his seat, while Alice continued to berate him in hushed tones.

“I can’t, I can’t…” Fred whispered, as he shook his head back and forth.

“Oh honey, no!” Alice pleaded.

It was at that point that Fred cut loose the mother of all farts right there in the theater. I mean, it reverberated.

“The pressure, it burns. I can’t. I… oh noooo…”

“Oh honey, not again!”

“I can’t hold it back any longer…”

“God damn it, Fred! Get up and go to the bathroom, right now!”

Best fucking movie experience of all time.

I hope, dear reader, this message finds you well, and in the company of your closest friends.

Which makes for an easy segue this week to:

The B.S. Report

The NRA is rapidly mobilizing members in Florida to resist any gun legislation. No surprises there.

Remington, maker of the AR-15, is currently embroiled in bankruptcy proceedings; this has been in motion for a while.

Stay strong, sane America!

#friendship #D&D #Top Secret!#B.S. Report

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