Fic: LowLives part 2
LowLives
Word Count: 2984
these aren't well spaced - I'm just going by the time breaks I already have, so you'll have to settle for weird lengths of chapters. I just edited this chapter and the next to even it up slightly
-
I don't go back to sleep that night. When the little green numbers on my clock flash over to 6 a.m. I get up and pull on an old pair of sweatpants. I zip a hoodie up over my night shirt, putting my wallet in a pocket, and head out for a run.
Arthur's still asleep in my bed, having wrapped himself up in a burrito of blankets and sheets while I sat in my chair and watched.
I slip out the door quietly, holding my keys so they don't jangle and easing the knob up so it won't click, and jog down the stairs and east, into the rising sun. The air is cold and crisp, not cold enough to see my breath, but I feel the wind nip at my cheeks within a few minutes as the sky gets steadily lighter.
I do actually have a destination, unlike my usual routine, but even so I take the long way around, crossing Marine and heading down 10th before I get to Canyon. I jog in place, watching the cars pass and waiting for the light to change. I forgot my iPod in my attempt to remember my wallet, and had almost turned back earlier, but I'm enjoying listening to the rumble of tires and engines over the pound of blood in my ears.
It's about as peaceful as it gets in this city at this hour. The traffic trickles out and I jump at the chance, jay-walking across at an easy jog. The lights change as I hit the median strip, and I slow to a walk, stretching my arms over my head.
The automatic doors of Superfresh greet me with a puff of warm air over the threshold. I have to unzip my sweatshirt as the heat of the workout catches up with me, and I head down the aisles, snagging a little plastic basket for food stuffs. Grocery shopping is a lot more soothing than I remember it being, all my attention focused on which cereal Arthur would like most as compared to which was cheapest.
I go back for a second basket, because we need tissues too dammit, and then I have to give up on baskets and trade them all in for a cart that rattles and squeaks and pulls to the right with every third step.
I take up a whole row of seats with all the bags on the bus ride home.
Jack's car is pulled into the driveway when I get back, so I open the door as quietly as I can, because they're probably all hungover and asleep, which is pretty standard.
I edge into the kitchen, eyes on the floorboards so I don't step on any of the extra-squeaky ones, and Nate almost brains me with a spoon while I'm not looking.
I jerk back, juggling the paper bags, and can't help but shout, "What the fuck! Dude!"
He looks as fucking surprised as I am, and his pale eyes bug out like he's seen a ghost.
"You - I thought you were fuckin' asleep, man!" he half-wails, trying to keep his voice down, but there's a crack in the middle of it. "We fuckin' saw you in your fuckin' bed when we came in! Where the fuck did you even come from?"
Nate's really Irish, which makes him inclined to swear with every other breath.
I close my eyes against what I'm sure is gonna be a fantastic migraine, and put the bags of groceries on the counter next to the fridge. "That's Arthur, my brother? You've met him, I'm pretty sure." He's just staring at me still, eyes wide and weirded out. "Whatever. Anyway, he's gonna stay here for a few days, sleep in my bed. Don't worry about it, yeah? Now put the fucking groceries away. Eggs and milk and anything that looks like meat or vegetables goes in the fridge. If it's frozen, freezer, if it's in a cardboard box just put it in the cabinet."
I leave him there, because he owes me for trying to stab my eyes out, and shuffle back to my room. Jack and Elle's door is closed, so they're in for the morning and we probably won't see them again until lunch at the latest.
It's Thursday, so I don't have class until 1 p.m., so I close my door behind me, pull off the extra layers, and fold myself into the covers around my brother, holding him close in his sleep.
-
I've been up for hours again by the time Arthur drags himself out of bed and into the shower around 4 in the afternoon. He slinks, weary and tired out of the bathroom, damp hair curling around his face and his skin flush with warmth. My clothes fit him usually, but the sweatpants hang low on his skinny hips, and he keeps pulling them up with one hand, before he gives in and picks at the knot, retying it tighter. Elle and Nate are both out - Elle's in class, and Nate works the evening shifts at a coffee shop on 30th - and Jack is still asleep.
"So, how long can you stay away before they come looking?"
He's shovelling Cap'n Crunch into his mouth, and looks up, surprised.
Then his face darkens, and he's looking down at his hands, like he's counting off in his head. "There's a new stock comin' in on Monday. I gotta be back at least by then."
That gives us four days.
Okay. We can work with that.
I stand, and start washing the dishes in the sink, as Arthur retreats back into himself. Mom used to always do this when she was stressed, and I'd always help her dry, so it's become a habit over time to wash something when I'm trying to think. The house is never so clean as it is on finals week.
I'm not the world's best planner or anything, but I get creative points for trying at least, considering what a fucking mess Arthur's made of his life.
I don't tell Arthur my plan, though, when I've figured it out. For all that he's shit terrified of the people he works with - and I use work in the loosest sense possible - he's got a special kind of loyalty to them, the kind of loyalty you can't fake. He's always been loyal. It used to be sweet, before it started getting him into trouble.
Over the next three days I don't let Arthur corner me about what we're going to do. He sleeps most of the time, though in patches because the nightmares keep waking him up. I know he's still got some of the drug on him. He's not showing any signs of withdrawal, no fever, no chills, and even though I hate myself, I let him. I need to make sure he's safe from Vincent before I can make sure he's safe from himself.
My housemates tiptoe around him, never really staying in the same room for too long. They're out a lot, which I'm thankful for, because Jack at least knew Arthur before he left home, knew how he used to be, and I don't want him seeing how much Arthur's changed.
And Arthur has changed. I can tell, this is what he meant when he said Mickey had been looking at him funny. It's in the way that he's not all there all the time, staring off into the distance like he can see something happening a thousand miles away. It's in the way that he always knows where I am, even if I've been out all day, going to classes, or running spontaneous errands.
It's in the way that his eyes sometimes glow a little brighter and a little deeper, like a bottomless well filled with ghosts of the past.
-
Monday morning, I get up before dawn. I call my work, tell them I'm sick. I don't wake Arthur.
I don't wear a suit, even though I'm used to it, because I'm not exactly heading to my usual work place.
My jeans aren't as ratty as his are, because I don't physically own jeans that ratty, and I wear a button-down over my t-shirt. The leather jacket that Arthur left on the couch covers that mostly, makes it seem more likely, but I won't go in without that extra layer no matter what they're expecting from me.
Or him.
I rummage through the pockets before I leave, standing in front of my bathroom mirror. There's a little plastic baggy of silvery-blue powder in the inside breast pocket of the jacket, and I scoop the smallest amount possible onto a little slip of paper.
I breathe deep. It's not like I haven't done this before. It's been years though, and I only ever did coke, and only once or twice. I plug my right nostril and sniff with my left, feeling it burn and burn up my nasal passage and down into my lungs. If I concentrate, if I pretend, I can feel it sifting through the alveolar sacs, seeping into my blood stream.
It won't get me high like it would if I did it proper. People don't snort drugs anymore unless it's a classic, like cocaine. Classic Coke. But I don't need to get the whole high, I just need to get enough of it in my system to get the trace in my system.
I lean against the counter, and wait.
It's not even ten minutes before I have to close my eyes as the lights flare and the rush hits me, surfing up my spine and tingling down through my fingers until my body burns and I can't breathe - can't breathe in and my temperature rockets until I'm on fire, and I'm freezing all at once and my skin itches and my clothes are too tight.
It's so much stronger than I was expecting.
The euphoria hits like a baseball bat to my stomach, leaving me breathless and swooning under the lights and the pressure of my jacket on my shoulders. The world before my eyes is shining and swirling and I'm dizzy, spinning in the room while the room spins around me. I can't see, but I can feel everything and I know without a doubt that if I went outside and dug my fingers into the earth I would hear the thoughts of every worm for a thousand miles, and if I turned my face to the sky I would breathe in the lives of every person, cat, dog, bird for a hundred thousand miles, and then some.
It's like I could own the world if I wanted to.
I stand, I wobble, and then I slump against the sink as the hit mellows. It leaves me laughing under my breath like a crazy person, soft swells like the movement of the ocean moving my blood until I'm flushed in the face and half-hard in my jeans.
I pant, heavy, and turn again to the mirror. It takes a moment to focus, the world slipping away if I don't concentrate hard enough, and my eyes are glassy and bloodshot in the glass. It's fast acting but it festers in the back of your mind for hours before you come down, and that's what gets you hooked.
I did my research while Arthur wasn't looking.
It's called Potaxus. Most often called po or P, because X is still taken, but X would be so much more appropriate.
There aren't a lot of records on it. I've looked. Believe me, I've looked. And if I can't find anything, then there's not going to be much there. For one thing, the government is still reluctant to admit it exists, it's so new to the market. Then again, it's not exactly what you'd call a long-term investment.
It comes in a brick, a fine powder ground and packed. Slice a little off and it crumbles into dust, scoop it up with a finger, smear it over your gums and you fucking fly. Snorting dilutes it, softens the hit, which anyone hooked on it will never even try.
It's an artificial compound of God-knows-what, manufactured in only the most high-tech meth labs, and is known for causing psychotic breaks in new users.
Those new users, if they manage to survive their first three weeks on the drug, become regulars, and then junkies.
About two percent (2%) of the population of po users react in a special way. It combines with some certain chemical in the body along with adrenaline, to cause a mutation in the synapses of the brain, altering the way people think, move, talk, eat, and interact with others.
It's like a head injury. There are a million and one ways to smash your head, and since the brain is so fragile and complicated, none of them are exactly the same. There are similarities between them all, of course, but there's never one way. This means, whatever you get, that's your special fucking burnout - unique, you could say.
Arthur was one of those. That's why Vincent wouldn't kill him if he ran. He'd just find him and bind him and sell him off to the highest bidder.
As I leave, I pass Elle sitting in the kitchen, sipping her coffee, black and strong. Her red hair is pulled up and away from her face, and she squints at me, taking in the jacket and jeans with a critical eye.
"Couldn't sleep?" I ask, stalling in the opening, still working up the courage to actually leave the house.
"Yeah, got too hot. You going somewhere special?" she replies, voice still husky from sleep, and I'm uncomfortably aware that I should have just walked right past, avoided her gaze, and escaped while I could.
I look down at the mud-streaked trainers on my feet, just a bit too loose, and wiggle my toes. There's a hole in the side of the right one, worn away by years of wear-and-tear and idle fingers picking at it. My hands are shaking, so I clasp them together behind my back, feeling like a naughty third-grader.
"Tell Arthur I'll be back tonight," I tell my shoes, and slip out the door to Elle's call.
I feel ridiculous, like a paranoid conspiracy nut, as I duck into the alley and take side streets, winding my way back and forth in case anyone followed me. I just can't take the risk of Elle, or God forbid Arthur, finding out where I'm going.
My first stop is Arthur's apartment.
I buzz up, pretending I've lost my keys, and would the manager please let me into the building, I'm pretty sure my door's unlocked, but I need to get there first, if he doesn't mind, please and thank you, much appreciated.
He lives on the fourth floor, but the lift is broken, so I take my time on the stairs, which are dingy and smell like mould.
The lock of door 402 is old and rusty. I couldn't find a key in any of Arthur's pockets, so I turn to the side, brace myself, and ram my shoulder into the door once, twice. For all my efforts though, all I get is a bruised shoulder and some numb fingers.
I take a few steps back, judging where the lock connects the door to the frame, and kick it in, snapping the lock in half, taking advantage of the less-than-reputable neighbourhood my brother usually finds himself in.
Arthur's not homeless in the strictest sense of the world. Homelessness isn't just about not having a home - it's about being lost. Even though Arthur's always known he can come to me for anything, he's always been reluctant to come for anything less than the end of the world. Which means, whenever he shows up on my step, I know something's gone epically wrong.
It's clean inside, if a little dusty. There's barely any space, between the narrow kitchen and the futon on the floor. An old wardrobe we had picked up together a few years back at a yard sale stands next to the low window, and the varnish shines a little in the light of the streetlamp outside. There's a vague smell of old chips in the kitchen, and the tiny fridge won't budge, nevermind how hard I pull, though I wouldn't put it past it to have sealed itself off, considering how often I know Arthur cleans it out.
I feel dirty and weird digging through my brother's possessions, but the search proves fruitful when I find a little red spiral-bound notepad, blue lines on yellow paper, and on each page there's notes of stuff he needs to do, places he needs to go, and things he needs to drop off. And on one page, it says
1843 Blakley Rd
Vincent
and I know that's where I'm heading.
I spend a few minutes scrawling on the backs of envelopes, studying the slopes and curves of the lines of Arthur's handwriting, thinking about Arthur and what he's like, what he thinks is important to know for each note. My handwriting is a little looser and a little blockier than his, but they're similar enough.
When I'm done, I put the notepad in the back pocket of my jeans, and run my fingers through my hair, messing it up a bit in front of the mirror. I'll need to let it grow some, but luckily that's easily explained away, so I'm not too worried.
I keep my hair short because it makes me look older, more my age. Arthur and I both have the same baby-face. Twenty-five years old and if I let my hair grow floppy and long, I'd look as young as Arthur is, even though we're four years apart.
It's never been an advantage before.
-
previous / next
Word Count: 2984
these aren't well spaced - I'm just going by the time breaks I already have, so you'll have to settle for weird lengths of chapters. I just edited this chapter and the next to even it up slightly
-
I don't go back to sleep that night. When the little green numbers on my clock flash over to 6 a.m. I get up and pull on an old pair of sweatpants. I zip a hoodie up over my night shirt, putting my wallet in a pocket, and head out for a run.
Arthur's still asleep in my bed, having wrapped himself up in a burrito of blankets and sheets while I sat in my chair and watched.
I slip out the door quietly, holding my keys so they don't jangle and easing the knob up so it won't click, and jog down the stairs and east, into the rising sun. The air is cold and crisp, not cold enough to see my breath, but I feel the wind nip at my cheeks within a few minutes as the sky gets steadily lighter.
I do actually have a destination, unlike my usual routine, but even so I take the long way around, crossing Marine and heading down 10th before I get to Canyon. I jog in place, watching the cars pass and waiting for the light to change. I forgot my iPod in my attempt to remember my wallet, and had almost turned back earlier, but I'm enjoying listening to the rumble of tires and engines over the pound of blood in my ears.
It's about as peaceful as it gets in this city at this hour. The traffic trickles out and I jump at the chance, jay-walking across at an easy jog. The lights change as I hit the median strip, and I slow to a walk, stretching my arms over my head.
The automatic doors of Superfresh greet me with a puff of warm air over the threshold. I have to unzip my sweatshirt as the heat of the workout catches up with me, and I head down the aisles, snagging a little plastic basket for food stuffs. Grocery shopping is a lot more soothing than I remember it being, all my attention focused on which cereal Arthur would like most as compared to which was cheapest.
I go back for a second basket, because we need tissues too dammit, and then I have to give up on baskets and trade them all in for a cart that rattles and squeaks and pulls to the right with every third step.
I take up a whole row of seats with all the bags on the bus ride home.
Jack's car is pulled into the driveway when I get back, so I open the door as quietly as I can, because they're probably all hungover and asleep, which is pretty standard.
I edge into the kitchen, eyes on the floorboards so I don't step on any of the extra-squeaky ones, and Nate almost brains me with a spoon while I'm not looking.
I jerk back, juggling the paper bags, and can't help but shout, "What the fuck! Dude!"
He looks as fucking surprised as I am, and his pale eyes bug out like he's seen a ghost.
"You - I thought you were fuckin' asleep, man!" he half-wails, trying to keep his voice down, but there's a crack in the middle of it. "We fuckin' saw you in your fuckin' bed when we came in! Where the fuck did you even come from?"
Nate's really Irish, which makes him inclined to swear with every other breath.
I close my eyes against what I'm sure is gonna be a fantastic migraine, and put the bags of groceries on the counter next to the fridge. "That's Arthur, my brother? You've met him, I'm pretty sure." He's just staring at me still, eyes wide and weirded out. "Whatever. Anyway, he's gonna stay here for a few days, sleep in my bed. Don't worry about it, yeah? Now put the fucking groceries away. Eggs and milk and anything that looks like meat or vegetables goes in the fridge. If it's frozen, freezer, if it's in a cardboard box just put it in the cabinet."
I leave him there, because he owes me for trying to stab my eyes out, and shuffle back to my room. Jack and Elle's door is closed, so they're in for the morning and we probably won't see them again until lunch at the latest.
It's Thursday, so I don't have class until 1 p.m., so I close my door behind me, pull off the extra layers, and fold myself into the covers around my brother, holding him close in his sleep.
-
I've been up for hours again by the time Arthur drags himself out of bed and into the shower around 4 in the afternoon. He slinks, weary and tired out of the bathroom, damp hair curling around his face and his skin flush with warmth. My clothes fit him usually, but the sweatpants hang low on his skinny hips, and he keeps pulling them up with one hand, before he gives in and picks at the knot, retying it tighter. Elle and Nate are both out - Elle's in class, and Nate works the evening shifts at a coffee shop on 30th - and Jack is still asleep.
"So, how long can you stay away before they come looking?"
He's shovelling Cap'n Crunch into his mouth, and looks up, surprised.
Then his face darkens, and he's looking down at his hands, like he's counting off in his head. "There's a new stock comin' in on Monday. I gotta be back at least by then."
That gives us four days.
Okay. We can work with that.
I stand, and start washing the dishes in the sink, as Arthur retreats back into himself. Mom used to always do this when she was stressed, and I'd always help her dry, so it's become a habit over time to wash something when I'm trying to think. The house is never so clean as it is on finals week.
I'm not the world's best planner or anything, but I get creative points for trying at least, considering what a fucking mess Arthur's made of his life.
I don't tell Arthur my plan, though, when I've figured it out. For all that he's shit terrified of the people he works with - and I use work in the loosest sense possible - he's got a special kind of loyalty to them, the kind of loyalty you can't fake. He's always been loyal. It used to be sweet, before it started getting him into trouble.
Over the next three days I don't let Arthur corner me about what we're going to do. He sleeps most of the time, though in patches because the nightmares keep waking him up. I know he's still got some of the drug on him. He's not showing any signs of withdrawal, no fever, no chills, and even though I hate myself, I let him. I need to make sure he's safe from Vincent before I can make sure he's safe from himself.
My housemates tiptoe around him, never really staying in the same room for too long. They're out a lot, which I'm thankful for, because Jack at least knew Arthur before he left home, knew how he used to be, and I don't want him seeing how much Arthur's changed.
And Arthur has changed. I can tell, this is what he meant when he said Mickey had been looking at him funny. It's in the way that he's not all there all the time, staring off into the distance like he can see something happening a thousand miles away. It's in the way that he always knows where I am, even if I've been out all day, going to classes, or running spontaneous errands.
It's in the way that his eyes sometimes glow a little brighter and a little deeper, like a bottomless well filled with ghosts of the past.
-
Monday morning, I get up before dawn. I call my work, tell them I'm sick. I don't wake Arthur.
I don't wear a suit, even though I'm used to it, because I'm not exactly heading to my usual work place.
My jeans aren't as ratty as his are, because I don't physically own jeans that ratty, and I wear a button-down over my t-shirt. The leather jacket that Arthur left on the couch covers that mostly, makes it seem more likely, but I won't go in without that extra layer no matter what they're expecting from me.
Or him.
I rummage through the pockets before I leave, standing in front of my bathroom mirror. There's a little plastic baggy of silvery-blue powder in the inside breast pocket of the jacket, and I scoop the smallest amount possible onto a little slip of paper.
I breathe deep. It's not like I haven't done this before. It's been years though, and I only ever did coke, and only once or twice. I plug my right nostril and sniff with my left, feeling it burn and burn up my nasal passage and down into my lungs. If I concentrate, if I pretend, I can feel it sifting through the alveolar sacs, seeping into my blood stream.
It won't get me high like it would if I did it proper. People don't snort drugs anymore unless it's a classic, like cocaine. Classic Coke. But I don't need to get the whole high, I just need to get enough of it in my system to get the trace in my system.
I lean against the counter, and wait.
It's not even ten minutes before I have to close my eyes as the lights flare and the rush hits me, surfing up my spine and tingling down through my fingers until my body burns and I can't breathe - can't breathe in and my temperature rockets until I'm on fire, and I'm freezing all at once and my skin itches and my clothes are too tight.
It's so much stronger than I was expecting.
The euphoria hits like a baseball bat to my stomach, leaving me breathless and swooning under the lights and the pressure of my jacket on my shoulders. The world before my eyes is shining and swirling and I'm dizzy, spinning in the room while the room spins around me. I can't see, but I can feel everything and I know without a doubt that if I went outside and dug my fingers into the earth I would hear the thoughts of every worm for a thousand miles, and if I turned my face to the sky I would breathe in the lives of every person, cat, dog, bird for a hundred thousand miles, and then some.
It's like I could own the world if I wanted to.
I stand, I wobble, and then I slump against the sink as the hit mellows. It leaves me laughing under my breath like a crazy person, soft swells like the movement of the ocean moving my blood until I'm flushed in the face and half-hard in my jeans.
I pant, heavy, and turn again to the mirror. It takes a moment to focus, the world slipping away if I don't concentrate hard enough, and my eyes are glassy and bloodshot in the glass. It's fast acting but it festers in the back of your mind for hours before you come down, and that's what gets you hooked.
I did my research while Arthur wasn't looking.
It's called Potaxus. Most often called po or P, because X is still taken, but X would be so much more appropriate.
There aren't a lot of records on it. I've looked. Believe me, I've looked. And if I can't find anything, then there's not going to be much there. For one thing, the government is still reluctant to admit it exists, it's so new to the market. Then again, it's not exactly what you'd call a long-term investment.
It comes in a brick, a fine powder ground and packed. Slice a little off and it crumbles into dust, scoop it up with a finger, smear it over your gums and you fucking fly. Snorting dilutes it, softens the hit, which anyone hooked on it will never even try.
It's an artificial compound of God-knows-what, manufactured in only the most high-tech meth labs, and is known for causing psychotic breaks in new users.
Those new users, if they manage to survive their first three weeks on the drug, become regulars, and then junkies.
About two percent (2%) of the population of po users react in a special way. It combines with some certain chemical in the body along with adrenaline, to cause a mutation in the synapses of the brain, altering the way people think, move, talk, eat, and interact with others.
It's like a head injury. There are a million and one ways to smash your head, and since the brain is so fragile and complicated, none of them are exactly the same. There are similarities between them all, of course, but there's never one way. This means, whatever you get, that's your special fucking burnout - unique, you could say.
Arthur was one of those. That's why Vincent wouldn't kill him if he ran. He'd just find him and bind him and sell him off to the highest bidder.
As I leave, I pass Elle sitting in the kitchen, sipping her coffee, black and strong. Her red hair is pulled up and away from her face, and she squints at me, taking in the jacket and jeans with a critical eye.
"Couldn't sleep?" I ask, stalling in the opening, still working up the courage to actually leave the house.
"Yeah, got too hot. You going somewhere special?" she replies, voice still husky from sleep, and I'm uncomfortably aware that I should have just walked right past, avoided her gaze, and escaped while I could.
I look down at the mud-streaked trainers on my feet, just a bit too loose, and wiggle my toes. There's a hole in the side of the right one, worn away by years of wear-and-tear and idle fingers picking at it. My hands are shaking, so I clasp them together behind my back, feeling like a naughty third-grader.
"Tell Arthur I'll be back tonight," I tell my shoes, and slip out the door to Elle's call.
I feel ridiculous, like a paranoid conspiracy nut, as I duck into the alley and take side streets, winding my way back and forth in case anyone followed me. I just can't take the risk of Elle, or God forbid Arthur, finding out where I'm going.
My first stop is Arthur's apartment.
I buzz up, pretending I've lost my keys, and would the manager please let me into the building, I'm pretty sure my door's unlocked, but I need to get there first, if he doesn't mind, please and thank you, much appreciated.
He lives on the fourth floor, but the lift is broken, so I take my time on the stairs, which are dingy and smell like mould.
The lock of door 402 is old and rusty. I couldn't find a key in any of Arthur's pockets, so I turn to the side, brace myself, and ram my shoulder into the door once, twice. For all my efforts though, all I get is a bruised shoulder and some numb fingers.
I take a few steps back, judging where the lock connects the door to the frame, and kick it in, snapping the lock in half, taking advantage of the less-than-reputable neighbourhood my brother usually finds himself in.
Arthur's not homeless in the strictest sense of the world. Homelessness isn't just about not having a home - it's about being lost. Even though Arthur's always known he can come to me for anything, he's always been reluctant to come for anything less than the end of the world. Which means, whenever he shows up on my step, I know something's gone epically wrong.
It's clean inside, if a little dusty. There's barely any space, between the narrow kitchen and the futon on the floor. An old wardrobe we had picked up together a few years back at a yard sale stands next to the low window, and the varnish shines a little in the light of the streetlamp outside. There's a vague smell of old chips in the kitchen, and the tiny fridge won't budge, nevermind how hard I pull, though I wouldn't put it past it to have sealed itself off, considering how often I know Arthur cleans it out.
I feel dirty and weird digging through my brother's possessions, but the search proves fruitful when I find a little red spiral-bound notepad, blue lines on yellow paper, and on each page there's notes of stuff he needs to do, places he needs to go, and things he needs to drop off. And on one page, it says
1843 Blakley Rd
Vincent
and I know that's where I'm heading.
I spend a few minutes scrawling on the backs of envelopes, studying the slopes and curves of the lines of Arthur's handwriting, thinking about Arthur and what he's like, what he thinks is important to know for each note. My handwriting is a little looser and a little blockier than his, but they're similar enough.
When I'm done, I put the notepad in the back pocket of my jeans, and run my fingers through my hair, messing it up a bit in front of the mirror. I'll need to let it grow some, but luckily that's easily explained away, so I'm not too worried.
I keep my hair short because it makes me look older, more my age. Arthur and I both have the same baby-face. Twenty-five years old and if I let my hair grow floppy and long, I'd look as young as Arthur is, even though we're four years apart.
It's never been an advantage before.
-
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