fic: peeled oranges (life)
peeled oranges
life. at one point or another, it's got to get easier, the load's got to get lighter. dani. rated pg. 885 words.
notes: for goldenmelisande!
we’ve been building up steam, ignited by the fight
so do this thing with me instead of tying on a tight one tonight
(next exit, interpol)
The sirens were still blaring.
“Girl you got your demons chasing ‘bout your head don’t you now?”
Dani had stood there, mouth parted and had not said a word.
The woman had laughed.
“Little thing, we all go there, we all be there.”
The woman had leaned forward and in the corner of her eye Dani could see the brightness of Charlie’s approach.
“I think they call it hell,” she had said.
Dani said, “cuff her,” and that was that.
There are mornings, sometimes, still, where waking up is only the first chore on that long, long list of things to be done.
Once upon a time, she woke up to the radio, but she doesn’t do that anymore. Instead, it’s that incessant beeping - beep beep; beep beep; beep beep. It’s better than the traffic report, waking to a canned commercial for car insurance, or worse, the high-point of a morning talk show.
Later, there will be a sip of orange juice that will stain like acid, heavy and thick on her tongue, and maybe she burnt her toast, maybe her toe caught the painful end of a corner, maybe that clock on the microwave is wrong, an hour fast, perhaps too slow. Anyway, it doesn’t matter the scenario - it all ends the same. It starts low, that deep pull there; her fingers might start that little tremble and she’ll want it, she’ll want it, and it wouldn’t take long, straight shot, she still remembers the way, a network of roads imprinted in her mind the same way all those little things you can’t ever come to forget stick and stay around, filed away, the Pledge of Allegiance, the wallpaper of her old, old bedroom, the theme songs for your favorite television shows.
Two lefts and a right, then another left.
She remembers.
She used to wake up to the taste of vomit.
Anything is a mild improvement over that.
They get a call.
Domestic disturbance, middle-aged woman, intersection of La Brea and San Vicente.
“Fuck,” she mutters.
She ties her shoes.
Her legs still kick, sometimes, in her sleep. Her knee might pop, her foot flexed straight, and her legs, they kick, and it’s all too familiar, all too reminiscent, and she’ll wake. Sweat might stick to the back of her neck, dark hair damp and pressed - the outline of her pillowcase stretched across her cheek. And if she tries hard enough she can hear the creak of a shower, the pipes protesting in a heavy whine; the water started beating heavy, once.
She might hold herself. A little.
The shakes have lasted far too long.
They all kept saying, wait wait they’ll go away.
She quit talking about it. She kept shaking.
Charlie calls shotgun and they drive; it’s tricky.
It’s tricky, this whole starting over thing. It’s a kind of constant dance of trying to regain lost footing, or maybe learn to take new steps. Either way, it’s a weird medley of self-help books and episodes of Dr. Phil in syndication, AA, NA should be on speed dial, but she’s trying, you know. She’s really trying here.
That’s got to count for something.
Oh god she still remembers. She remembers, she remembers, try as you might you don’t forget this shit:
Needles are sharp and they go prick prick prick and dust tastes like ash tastes like candy she swears it he swears it and together they make her eyes bright they make them dark they make her her and that's okay it's okay they're all okay they're just trying to find okay.
And after, and after Dani you need help you need to help yourself you need to get some help -
It's like a hydra. Yes, a hydra, she remembers learning about them in school. Greek mythology, Roman mythology, made-up shit but it's sticking around in her head like something real. You cut off one head and two more pop up. You drop the needles and you need the bottle, you need a man's hips underneath your own.
You cut one of those and she can’t even try and imagine what would pop up in their stead.
Maybe God, maybe religion. Maybe a book on Buddhist philosophy.
“Thinking of slowing down there?” he asks.
Dani stares straight ahead.
Charlie doesn’t understand these things. Charlie has fruit and cassette tapes and old prison tattoos that will never go away, and she is almost a little jealous of that.
His history has left a mark. His history is going to stick. Try as he might, clean suits and pomegranate seeds and a new badge, a new gun, he’s still got the skin underneath, he’s still got the black ink. He’s still got that weight to carry and it’s kind of nice, she thinks.
It’s kind of nice he’s got that visual representation.
It’s kind of nice that he can point and say, yes I’ve been there. I think they call it hell.
You don’t argue with that.
They arrive.
The sirens are blaring.
fin.
life. at one point or another, it's got to get easier, the load's got to get lighter. dani. rated pg. 885 words.
notes: for goldenmelisande!
we’ve been building up steam, ignited by the fight
so do this thing with me instead of tying on a tight one tonight
(next exit, interpol)
The sirens were still blaring.
“Girl you got your demons chasing ‘bout your head don’t you now?”
Dani had stood there, mouth parted and had not said a word.
The woman had laughed.
“Little thing, we all go there, we all be there.”
The woman had leaned forward and in the corner of her eye Dani could see the brightness of Charlie’s approach.
“I think they call it hell,” she had said.
Dani said, “cuff her,” and that was that.
There are mornings, sometimes, still, where waking up is only the first chore on that long, long list of things to be done.
Once upon a time, she woke up to the radio, but she doesn’t do that anymore. Instead, it’s that incessant beeping - beep beep; beep beep; beep beep. It’s better than the traffic report, waking to a canned commercial for car insurance, or worse, the high-point of a morning talk show.
Later, there will be a sip of orange juice that will stain like acid, heavy and thick on her tongue, and maybe she burnt her toast, maybe her toe caught the painful end of a corner, maybe that clock on the microwave is wrong, an hour fast, perhaps too slow. Anyway, it doesn’t matter the scenario - it all ends the same. It starts low, that deep pull there; her fingers might start that little tremble and she’ll want it, she’ll want it, and it wouldn’t take long, straight shot, she still remembers the way, a network of roads imprinted in her mind the same way all those little things you can’t ever come to forget stick and stay around, filed away, the Pledge of Allegiance, the wallpaper of her old, old bedroom, the theme songs for your favorite television shows.
Two lefts and a right, then another left.
She remembers.
She used to wake up to the taste of vomit.
Anything is a mild improvement over that.
They get a call.
Domestic disturbance, middle-aged woman, intersection of La Brea and San Vicente.
“Fuck,” she mutters.
She ties her shoes.
Her legs still kick, sometimes, in her sleep. Her knee might pop, her foot flexed straight, and her legs, they kick, and it’s all too familiar, all too reminiscent, and she’ll wake. Sweat might stick to the back of her neck, dark hair damp and pressed - the outline of her pillowcase stretched across her cheek. And if she tries hard enough she can hear the creak of a shower, the pipes protesting in a heavy whine; the water started beating heavy, once.
She might hold herself. A little.
The shakes have lasted far too long.
They all kept saying, wait wait they’ll go away.
She quit talking about it. She kept shaking.
Charlie calls shotgun and they drive; it’s tricky.
It’s tricky, this whole starting over thing. It’s a kind of constant dance of trying to regain lost footing, or maybe learn to take new steps. Either way, it’s a weird medley of self-help books and episodes of Dr. Phil in syndication, AA, NA should be on speed dial, but she’s trying, you know. She’s really trying here.
That’s got to count for something.
Oh god she still remembers. She remembers, she remembers, try as you might you don’t forget this shit:
Needles are sharp and they go prick prick prick and dust tastes like ash tastes like candy she swears it he swears it and together they make her eyes bright they make them dark they make her her and that's okay it's okay they're all okay they're just trying to find okay.
And after, and after Dani you need help you need to help yourself you need to get some help -
It's like a hydra. Yes, a hydra, she remembers learning about them in school. Greek mythology, Roman mythology, made-up shit but it's sticking around in her head like something real. You cut off one head and two more pop up. You drop the needles and you need the bottle, you need a man's hips underneath your own.
You cut one of those and she can’t even try and imagine what would pop up in their stead.
Maybe God, maybe religion. Maybe a book on Buddhist philosophy.
“Thinking of slowing down there?” he asks.
Dani stares straight ahead.
Charlie doesn’t understand these things. Charlie has fruit and cassette tapes and old prison tattoos that will never go away, and she is almost a little jealous of that.
His history has left a mark. His history is going to stick. Try as he might, clean suits and pomegranate seeds and a new badge, a new gun, he’s still got the skin underneath, he’s still got the black ink. He’s still got that weight to carry and it’s kind of nice, she thinks.
It’s kind of nice he’s got that visual representation.
It’s kind of nice that he can point and say, yes I’ve been there. I think they call it hell.
You don’t argue with that.
They arrive.
The sirens are blaring.
fin.