Fic: LowLives part 1
um. i exist. totally. >.>
ANYWAY. NANOWRIMO. YEEAAAAAH.
LowLives
Word Count: 2642
i made a masterpost! it's exciting.
-
"I can't do this, I just - I just can't," he mutters, almost tripping over his feet as he paces back and forth across the carpet.
Arthur had been something of a runt as a kid, small for his age and always a little awkward. He got picked on through out middle school, running and hiding and not letting on until he turned seventeen, finally hitting the growth spurt that allowed him the satisfaction of beating his bullies down. We had some discussions regarding that.
At twenty-one, he's six feet tall, long-limbed with whipcord muscles and razor sharp bones flexing under his skin. His hair is dark, like mine, and curls over his forehead, not like mine, because I cut my hair like a normal person.
And he is terrified.
His breathing heaves out of his chest, eyes twitching from door, to window, to the computer screen - the webcam on top, watching - to the floor beneath his feet, and back. Always in the same order, always moving. His hands twist over each other, wringing the blood from his fingers, until his knuckles look like they are about to slice through his skin.
Clods of dirt fleck off his trainers with each pass, trailing all along the hallway and out the kitchen window where he had forced his way into the house. I wondered briefly about the state of my petunias, probably trampled to death in his attempts to sneak beneath the radar of my neighbours.
I'd woke up that morning - I say morning, though the sun is hours from breaking the horizon, three, maybe four AM at the latest - to the crack thump of wood breaking, and the muffled shuffle of feet down the hall. My housemates were out for a night on the town, it being Wednesday, and them not having enough to do, so I pulled the hockey stick from under my bed and slipped from beneath the covers.
Arthur's fingers flit over the reddened skin at his hairline, already swelling into a nice goose-egg of a bruise.
But he's still talking. Mumbling. Whatever.
"What can't you do, Arthur?" I feel like I'm humouring him, slumped in my desk chair, wearing my glasses - they're square and black, and I look like I just stepped out of a Weezer tribute band, but they were the cheapest ones at Target, and it's too fucking early for contacts.
Arthur stops in his trek across my carpet, and stands there. It looks for a second like the outlines around him are blurring, ever so slightly, like he's just a bit out of focus. He's trembling.
"You know I always come to you, right? Since - since we were j-just kids, yeah? You've always been there - been there for me, yeah?" He won't look at me.
"I'm always gonna be there for you."
It almost seems like the wrong thing to say. He whines, high in his throat, and brings his hands up to cover his face. In one fluid movement, he sinks to the floor in the centre of the room, legs folding up like a grasshoppers, until he's as small as he can possibly be.
I can see his spine through his t-shirt. He's so skinny, I can see where the scoliosis twists an soft S shape into his back.
"Arthur?"
His back expands with a deep breath almost like a sob, and then he's spinning around on his ass, eyes wild and fixed on me over his knees, spread akimbo.
"This is the last time, okay? I promise, I promise I won't ever - I won't ever ask for anything else, just please, please - "
I'm out of my chair before I can even think about it, on my knees in front of my little brother, and holding him close like I haven't since he was thirteen. "Yeah, yeah, shh, don't worry, I'm always gonna be there for you, come on man, shh - "
And then he's sobbing, wailing like he's four again and fallen off his bike. Even as I crush his bony-ass body against mine, his knees punching me in the gut and his arms crushing the breath out of my lungs, he still seems like that little brat with skinned knees and too much attitude.
He's getting tears and snot all over the shoulder of my shirt, seeping through the fabric, and all right, I'm a little bit grossed out by the noises coming out of his nose, but I've reverted to big-brother-mode, and there's fucking nothing getting between me and my brother.
By the time he can finally breathe without wheezing, I don't even know how long we've been there. He pulls away first, giving a self-deprecating laugh, just a short bark of noise with an awkward smile.
We haven't gone grocery shopping for non-essentials (and by that, yes, I do mean ramen and beer) in about a month, so we don't have any tissues in the house, and I can't give him anything better than his sleeve to wipe his red eyes and drippy nose on.
When he's done, he still won't meet my eyes, even when he starts speaking, low and monotonous, like he had rehearsed it.
"You ever heard of po?"
Only vaguely.
"It's this drug - Vincent got a new stock last week. He made us all take a hit, test the quality, y'know? I didn't want to, I didn't want to, you know that, I don't do that shit any more, but he made us and I had to." He shivers, violently, and repeats "I had to. It wasn't so bad at first, you know - Rigger got chills, and Jameson couldn't breathe for a sec, but there wasn't much to it. But then - but then. Oh, fuck - "
And he's up and out of my arms and bolting to the kitchen. I can hear him being sick in the sink and I have to close my eyes because it's too much like before, like he used to be, when he'd come over with a bad high, or when he'd do too much, and all he could do was migrate where he felt safe and then curl up to sleep it off and hope desperately that he'd wake up again.
I get up off my knees when I hear Arthur gag and spit, and run the tap to rinse the basin.
Leaning against the door frame, I watch him, head bowed and bangs dangling down to shield his face, sopping wet. He must have splashed water on his face, because his shirt is damp at the collar, and his hands are shivering where they clutch the countertop.
I cross my legs and settle in to wait, because I know better than to touch him when he's like this. At this point he's just as likely to go into a stupor as pull a knife on me.
He's done both before. I still have the scar in the back of my left knee where he tried to hamstring me. I never wear shorts around Arthur any more, because he gets so pale and quiet when he sees that scar.
"So it was a bad cut?" I need to know.
But he shakes his head, whipping his wet hair about and spraying water all over. He doesn't turn around, but he glances over his shoulder and I can just barely see the glint of his eyes through his hair.
"Wasn't bad. Best hit I've ever taken," he whispers, ashamed almost, so quiet I'm surprised I can hear him over the sound of my own breathing. "It was so fast and bright. Like I was flying, and I'd never have to come down again." He looks down to where his knuckles are white and trembling, digging short fingernails into the marble. "But it didn't stop. It was too good. I couldn't help it - I just - I just took more. Every day, Vincent'd offer some more and I-I'd take it, 'cause I just couldn't help myself. Every time I came down it was like the world ended, and my skin burned, and my head - was like my head was gonna explode from the inside out - and then - then - "
His face crumples and he whirls around to face me, eyes sparking with delirium. "They're not gonna kill me if they find out, you know. They'd never kill me."
"Why not? What do you think they'll do to you instead?"
"They want me. They'd keep me. Sell me off, maybe."
"What? What the fuck are you talking about, sell you? Who are these people?"
"Vincent!" his voice throbs with undercut emotion. "Vincent and his boss, the guy who supplies him with po, it's what they're looking for! None of the others reacted, but, but oh fuck! I did! And they'll see, they can't not, they know what to look for! Mickey's already been looking at me funny, just in the last few days, and I just, I had to get out before they noticed! Please, I need your help."
I pull one of the chairs out from the kitchen table, and snag Arthur by the shoulder, throwing him down into it.
"Okay, here's what we're gonna do," I say, peering into the fridge. The light is blue and flickers for a second before going steady. "You're gonna calm down, and then eat something. And then you're gonna tell me exactly what you've got yourself into, and we'll fix it. Okay?"
He looks blankly at the table, then gives a whimpery moan and lets his head fall to the tabletop with a loud thwack. I wince. He's gonna have the worst shiner in the morning, and not even have had the dignity to get in a real fight, the little bitch.
There's an opened can of beans in the fridge, a chunk of cheddar cheese, and a half loaf of bread. I take the opportunity to smack my head against the door, and scramble for an old receipt and a pencil, jotting down groceries that are becoming things of myths and legends for how often we actually go out and buy them. The cheese and bread, combined with a swab of crisco we've had for probably way too long and a little bit of fire, and the room starts to smell like grease and cheese and toast. Arthur's stomach growls over the sound of spitting oil and melting cheese.
Once he's eaten, I sit across from him in the folding chair that Jack had found on the side of the highway a month ago, to replace the one he'd broken the seat of. Elbows on the table and a cup of coffee in a chipped mug, and Arthur's finally looking a little more human than he had when he'd first arrived.
"So. What do you need?"
"I need out."
"Why don't you just quit? Tell them you had enough?"
"I can't just disappear though - I owe Vincent. And he can always find you." He's not even talking to me, just speaking out loud. He pulls his hands through his hair, scrubbing his palms over his eyes.
"When's the last time you slept, dude?"
"I dunno." He blinks at me. "Three days, maybe?"
"Come on, man." I stand, and try to pull him to my room, but he fights, sudden and vicious like a cornered animal, knocking over his chair with a clatter. "Arthur! Come on, Arthur, you need to sleep!"
"No! No, I can't, I can't, I can't sleep, they'll find me, and I have to get away! I can't sleep until I know you'll help me," he wails, slapping my hands away, and then he shoves and I go slamming back into the doorframe.
It hurts like a mother fucker, but he's on me in an instant, wrestling for control, and pinning my shoulders back, until I'm arched around the corner with him leaning into my face.
"Okay! Okay! Arthur, I'll help! I'll help you!"
He sags against me, burying his face in my shoulder. "Thank you."
"Of course I'm gonna help you, but you have to tell me what you need," I say, brushing his hair back away from his forehead. He's only a few years younger than me. But he just seems to fragile in my arms, in ways that I haven't seen in years - I almost feel like I'll break him if I move wrong. "Why can't you just disappear? I can do that, I can make you invisible, take you off the grid, you know I can." I've done it before.
"No," he moans, and goes a little more dead weight. He's likely to pass out at any moment, finally coming to grips with the fact that he's in a safe place. "There's a thing - in the po - it leaves a trail. Vincent can always find me, till it's out."
"How long will that be?"
He shudders. "I can't go off. I can't - I didn't know. But I can't go off. It's too deep now..."
The door jam is digging right under my shoulder blade.
"I've seen it. I wanted off, but I saw it happen - girl came in, needed a fix but didn't have the money. She just - broke. Right there. In front of me. Went off the deep end, you know? God. She almost ripped Ty's eyes out 'fore Rigger put 'er down."
My feet are getting cold on the tile floor.
"But she was lucky. She's dead now, 'course. But I seen what Vincent'll do with the ones who don't break, but aren't just regular junkies. He takes 'em. Sometimes he keeps them, in the basement, but sometimes he takes 'em out and puts 'em in a truck, and they just scream 'cause they're not fucking human anymore."
He lifts his head, and looks me in the eye. We've both got our mom's eyes, dark honeyed hazel.
"I don't want to be taken - please, don't let him take me?"
And then his eyes roll back and he's out. I almost lose my grip, almost drop him on the floor, which wouldn't help the concussion I probably already gave him, but I keep him up, just barely, flopping like a rag doll.
He looks dead.
I'm stronger than I look, thank God, so I get my shoulder under his and drag him into my room and heave him on the bed. It's low, so he falls a bit farther than is healthy, but he snuggles into my pillow, so he's gonna be okay. I wrestle his t-shirt off, and then sit at the foot of the bed to pull his feet into my lap. The laces of his sneakers are felted together, moulded into one solid mass like he hasn't untied them since he got them. He probably hasn't. They slip off easily enough though, and I tug his socks off too. He's got blisters on his heels, broken and raw, so I throw a blanket over him, still in his jeans, and pad into the bathroom for my first-aid kit. Neosporin and band-aids, just like I used to, and he looks so small and skinny that I think I might cry.
He snuffles a little, falling into a more natural sleep, breathing evening out, and burrows a little deeper into the covers.
I back away to the chair in front of my drafting table, and sink down slowly. It feels a bit like I'm moving through water, every motion takes so much effort and I can't seem to get my thoughts together for form a coherent thought. My mind is spinning, all this new information rushing about my brain.
If Vincent takes the ones who aren't human any more - what does that make Arthur?
-
next
ANYWAY. NANOWRIMO. YEEAAAAAH.
LowLives
Word Count: 2642
i made a masterpost! it's exciting.
-
"I can't do this, I just - I just can't," he mutters, almost tripping over his feet as he paces back and forth across the carpet.
Arthur had been something of a runt as a kid, small for his age and always a little awkward. He got picked on through out middle school, running and hiding and not letting on until he turned seventeen, finally hitting the growth spurt that allowed him the satisfaction of beating his bullies down. We had some discussions regarding that.
At twenty-one, he's six feet tall, long-limbed with whipcord muscles and razor sharp bones flexing under his skin. His hair is dark, like mine, and curls over his forehead, not like mine, because I cut my hair like a normal person.
And he is terrified.
His breathing heaves out of his chest, eyes twitching from door, to window, to the computer screen - the webcam on top, watching - to the floor beneath his feet, and back. Always in the same order, always moving. His hands twist over each other, wringing the blood from his fingers, until his knuckles look like they are about to slice through his skin.
Clods of dirt fleck off his trainers with each pass, trailing all along the hallway and out the kitchen window where he had forced his way into the house. I wondered briefly about the state of my petunias, probably trampled to death in his attempts to sneak beneath the radar of my neighbours.
I'd woke up that morning - I say morning, though the sun is hours from breaking the horizon, three, maybe four AM at the latest - to the crack thump of wood breaking, and the muffled shuffle of feet down the hall. My housemates were out for a night on the town, it being Wednesday, and them not having enough to do, so I pulled the hockey stick from under my bed and slipped from beneath the covers.
Arthur's fingers flit over the reddened skin at his hairline, already swelling into a nice goose-egg of a bruise.
But he's still talking. Mumbling. Whatever.
"What can't you do, Arthur?" I feel like I'm humouring him, slumped in my desk chair, wearing my glasses - they're square and black, and I look like I just stepped out of a Weezer tribute band, but they were the cheapest ones at Target, and it's too fucking early for contacts.
Arthur stops in his trek across my carpet, and stands there. It looks for a second like the outlines around him are blurring, ever so slightly, like he's just a bit out of focus. He's trembling.
"You know I always come to you, right? Since - since we were j-just kids, yeah? You've always been there - been there for me, yeah?" He won't look at me.
"I'm always gonna be there for you."
It almost seems like the wrong thing to say. He whines, high in his throat, and brings his hands up to cover his face. In one fluid movement, he sinks to the floor in the centre of the room, legs folding up like a grasshoppers, until he's as small as he can possibly be.
I can see his spine through his t-shirt. He's so skinny, I can see where the scoliosis twists an soft S shape into his back.
"Arthur?"
His back expands with a deep breath almost like a sob, and then he's spinning around on his ass, eyes wild and fixed on me over his knees, spread akimbo.
"This is the last time, okay? I promise, I promise I won't ever - I won't ever ask for anything else, just please, please - "
I'm out of my chair before I can even think about it, on my knees in front of my little brother, and holding him close like I haven't since he was thirteen. "Yeah, yeah, shh, don't worry, I'm always gonna be there for you, come on man, shh - "
And then he's sobbing, wailing like he's four again and fallen off his bike. Even as I crush his bony-ass body against mine, his knees punching me in the gut and his arms crushing the breath out of my lungs, he still seems like that little brat with skinned knees and too much attitude.
He's getting tears and snot all over the shoulder of my shirt, seeping through the fabric, and all right, I'm a little bit grossed out by the noises coming out of his nose, but I've reverted to big-brother-mode, and there's fucking nothing getting between me and my brother.
By the time he can finally breathe without wheezing, I don't even know how long we've been there. He pulls away first, giving a self-deprecating laugh, just a short bark of noise with an awkward smile.
We haven't gone grocery shopping for non-essentials (and by that, yes, I do mean ramen and beer) in about a month, so we don't have any tissues in the house, and I can't give him anything better than his sleeve to wipe his red eyes and drippy nose on.
When he's done, he still won't meet my eyes, even when he starts speaking, low and monotonous, like he had rehearsed it.
"You ever heard of po?"
Only vaguely.
"It's this drug - Vincent got a new stock last week. He made us all take a hit, test the quality, y'know? I didn't want to, I didn't want to, you know that, I don't do that shit any more, but he made us and I had to." He shivers, violently, and repeats "I had to. It wasn't so bad at first, you know - Rigger got chills, and Jameson couldn't breathe for a sec, but there wasn't much to it. But then - but then. Oh, fuck - "
And he's up and out of my arms and bolting to the kitchen. I can hear him being sick in the sink and I have to close my eyes because it's too much like before, like he used to be, when he'd come over with a bad high, or when he'd do too much, and all he could do was migrate where he felt safe and then curl up to sleep it off and hope desperately that he'd wake up again.
I get up off my knees when I hear Arthur gag and spit, and run the tap to rinse the basin.
Leaning against the door frame, I watch him, head bowed and bangs dangling down to shield his face, sopping wet. He must have splashed water on his face, because his shirt is damp at the collar, and his hands are shivering where they clutch the countertop.
I cross my legs and settle in to wait, because I know better than to touch him when he's like this. At this point he's just as likely to go into a stupor as pull a knife on me.
He's done both before. I still have the scar in the back of my left knee where he tried to hamstring me. I never wear shorts around Arthur any more, because he gets so pale and quiet when he sees that scar.
"So it was a bad cut?" I need to know.
But he shakes his head, whipping his wet hair about and spraying water all over. He doesn't turn around, but he glances over his shoulder and I can just barely see the glint of his eyes through his hair.
"Wasn't bad. Best hit I've ever taken," he whispers, ashamed almost, so quiet I'm surprised I can hear him over the sound of my own breathing. "It was so fast and bright. Like I was flying, and I'd never have to come down again." He looks down to where his knuckles are white and trembling, digging short fingernails into the marble. "But it didn't stop. It was too good. I couldn't help it - I just - I just took more. Every day, Vincent'd offer some more and I-I'd take it, 'cause I just couldn't help myself. Every time I came down it was like the world ended, and my skin burned, and my head - was like my head was gonna explode from the inside out - and then - then - "
His face crumples and he whirls around to face me, eyes sparking with delirium. "They're not gonna kill me if they find out, you know. They'd never kill me."
"Why not? What do you think they'll do to you instead?"
"They want me. They'd keep me. Sell me off, maybe."
"What? What the fuck are you talking about, sell you? Who are these people?"
"Vincent!" his voice throbs with undercut emotion. "Vincent and his boss, the guy who supplies him with po, it's what they're looking for! None of the others reacted, but, but oh fuck! I did! And they'll see, they can't not, they know what to look for! Mickey's already been looking at me funny, just in the last few days, and I just, I had to get out before they noticed! Please, I need your help."
I pull one of the chairs out from the kitchen table, and snag Arthur by the shoulder, throwing him down into it.
"Okay, here's what we're gonna do," I say, peering into the fridge. The light is blue and flickers for a second before going steady. "You're gonna calm down, and then eat something. And then you're gonna tell me exactly what you've got yourself into, and we'll fix it. Okay?"
He looks blankly at the table, then gives a whimpery moan and lets his head fall to the tabletop with a loud thwack. I wince. He's gonna have the worst shiner in the morning, and not even have had the dignity to get in a real fight, the little bitch.
There's an opened can of beans in the fridge, a chunk of cheddar cheese, and a half loaf of bread. I take the opportunity to smack my head against the door, and scramble for an old receipt and a pencil, jotting down groceries that are becoming things of myths and legends for how often we actually go out and buy them. The cheese and bread, combined with a swab of crisco we've had for probably way too long and a little bit of fire, and the room starts to smell like grease and cheese and toast. Arthur's stomach growls over the sound of spitting oil and melting cheese.
Once he's eaten, I sit across from him in the folding chair that Jack had found on the side of the highway a month ago, to replace the one he'd broken the seat of. Elbows on the table and a cup of coffee in a chipped mug, and Arthur's finally looking a little more human than he had when he'd first arrived.
"So. What do you need?"
"I need out."
"Why don't you just quit? Tell them you had enough?"
"I can't just disappear though - I owe Vincent. And he can always find you." He's not even talking to me, just speaking out loud. He pulls his hands through his hair, scrubbing his palms over his eyes.
"When's the last time you slept, dude?"
"I dunno." He blinks at me. "Three days, maybe?"
"Come on, man." I stand, and try to pull him to my room, but he fights, sudden and vicious like a cornered animal, knocking over his chair with a clatter. "Arthur! Come on, Arthur, you need to sleep!"
"No! No, I can't, I can't, I can't sleep, they'll find me, and I have to get away! I can't sleep until I know you'll help me," he wails, slapping my hands away, and then he shoves and I go slamming back into the doorframe.
It hurts like a mother fucker, but he's on me in an instant, wrestling for control, and pinning my shoulders back, until I'm arched around the corner with him leaning into my face.
"Okay! Okay! Arthur, I'll help! I'll help you!"
He sags against me, burying his face in my shoulder. "Thank you."
"Of course I'm gonna help you, but you have to tell me what you need," I say, brushing his hair back away from his forehead. He's only a few years younger than me. But he just seems to fragile in my arms, in ways that I haven't seen in years - I almost feel like I'll break him if I move wrong. "Why can't you just disappear? I can do that, I can make you invisible, take you off the grid, you know I can." I've done it before.
"No," he moans, and goes a little more dead weight. He's likely to pass out at any moment, finally coming to grips with the fact that he's in a safe place. "There's a thing - in the po - it leaves a trail. Vincent can always find me, till it's out."
"How long will that be?"
He shudders. "I can't go off. I can't - I didn't know. But I can't go off. It's too deep now..."
The door jam is digging right under my shoulder blade.
"I've seen it. I wanted off, but I saw it happen - girl came in, needed a fix but didn't have the money. She just - broke. Right there. In front of me. Went off the deep end, you know? God. She almost ripped Ty's eyes out 'fore Rigger put 'er down."
My feet are getting cold on the tile floor.
"But she was lucky. She's dead now, 'course. But I seen what Vincent'll do with the ones who don't break, but aren't just regular junkies. He takes 'em. Sometimes he keeps them, in the basement, but sometimes he takes 'em out and puts 'em in a truck, and they just scream 'cause they're not fucking human anymore."
He lifts his head, and looks me in the eye. We've both got our mom's eyes, dark honeyed hazel.
"I don't want to be taken - please, don't let him take me?"
And then his eyes roll back and he's out. I almost lose my grip, almost drop him on the floor, which wouldn't help the concussion I probably already gave him, but I keep him up, just barely, flopping like a rag doll.
He looks dead.
I'm stronger than I look, thank God, so I get my shoulder under his and drag him into my room and heave him on the bed. It's low, so he falls a bit farther than is healthy, but he snuggles into my pillow, so he's gonna be okay. I wrestle his t-shirt off, and then sit at the foot of the bed to pull his feet into my lap. The laces of his sneakers are felted together, moulded into one solid mass like he hasn't untied them since he got them. He probably hasn't. They slip off easily enough though, and I tug his socks off too. He's got blisters on his heels, broken and raw, so I throw a blanket over him, still in his jeans, and pad into the bathroom for my first-aid kit. Neosporin and band-aids, just like I used to, and he looks so small and skinny that I think I might cry.
He snuffles a little, falling into a more natural sleep, breathing evening out, and burrows a little deeper into the covers.
I back away to the chair in front of my drafting table, and sink down slowly. It feels a bit like I'm moving through water, every motion takes so much effort and I can't seem to get my thoughts together for form a coherent thought. My mind is spinning, all this new information rushing about my brain.
If Vincent takes the ones who aren't human any more - what does that make Arthur?
-
next