(no subject)
He is speeding. He might get caught, but really, it isn’t like that matters now. He is speeding across the bridge, and he really can’t bring him self to care.
He is speeding, and he hadn’t thought he’d been going that fast, but hell, it isn’t like his head was telling him anything.
He is speeding. He is falling. He is hitting. He is sinking. He is not.
------
He awoke abruptly with the absolute feeling that he knew exactly what to do. He was going to change the world, he was going to bake it better, he was alive like he hadn’t been for weeks, months if he really wanted to think about it.
He staggered upright, disentangled himself from his sheets, hopped on one foot to free himself from entangling boxers, shimmied into the shower, nearly burned himself in his hurry.
James was down stairs eight minutes later, grinding coffee as he frantically searched for his graphite and pad. Settled down at the table, James started to sketch.
Forty-nine hours later, he had inked nineteen pages, had drunken fourteen cups of coffee, had penciled twelve pages and had written another thirty pages of draft.
He drew for twelve more hours after that, trying desprately to finish the first issue in its entirety. He was alive now, driven like he hadn’t been in so long (not since that time, but he didn’t think about that any more, not with what came after), and he was determined to finish before-
“Hey, honey, I’m back.”
James looked up abruptly, jerked his hand away from the page, knocked over his coffee and half fell onto Michael.
“Hey, love,” Michael laughed. “You miss me?”
James couldn’t come up with any words then, and didn’t say anything comprehensible for a long time later.
----
“How long has it been since you’ve slept, love?” Michael asked.
“Hmm… I, er… a while?” James shifted restlessly, pushed himself up onto his elbows, looked at Michael, looked away. “I don’t know.”
“Hm, one of those times, eh?” Michael pulled James back down, captured his twitching hands, James’s head now forcibly pillowed on Michael’s shoulder.
“Yeah, it is…. But, Jesus, Michael, you should see what I’ve done! I can pay rent for the all of next year with this stuff, I swear.” James made to get up, but Michael only tightened his grip. “I’ve just got to get up and finish the next few issues… there are only nine in the series, and I’ve got them all solid in my head, so I should finish soon, and I’ve already called Gloria and sent her over the new stuff, she’s calling Vertigo, see if they’re bite, and I just have to finish-“
“James, honey, darling-it’s okay. You can finish later.” Michael turned over, shifted closer. “For now, just sleep with me…”
James spent twenty-seven minutes and eighteen seconds staying very still, and then he got up and went back into the studio, got back to work.
He doesn’t ever actually sleep with Michael.
---
James followed Michael out the door with his lips, feet not crossing the threshold, his whole body leaning forward. Michael is still kissing him, softly, sweetly, but he is still obviously leaving. Stepping back from James, Michael whispers that his flight leaves in an hour, that he’ll be back from New York soon, that it’s just some asshole lawyer thing, nothing will come between them, he loves him, shhh, baby, it’ll be alright.
One more brief kiss and he’s gone again, and James is alone again, standing in the doorway, watching as Michael leaves again, and wondering at the way the hallway was so much brighter when Michael was in it, but now he’s gone it’s lifeless and dim again.
“He’ll be back,” he whispers as he turns back into his flat, “he will.”
James drifts back through his apartment, pauses at the bed-still warm-touches the rim of a wine glass-this had touched Michael’s lips-hovers back through to the studio, where he sinks down to a black painted canvas and gray paint. These are his medium today; tomorrow, he will finish.
---
He never answers the phone:
You have four new messages. First unheard message, sent today, at 10:32 AM.
“James! It’s Gloria. Listen, I’ve pushed back your deadlines another week, but I don’t’ know if I can do that again, sweetie. I know I’m only your publicist, but I need to get something soon, babe, or they’re going to leave off. I’ve got both Vertigo and DC biting, but I can’t keep them waiting forever with an unbaited hook, so…. I need the re-work of the centerfold for issue five, the final copy for issues one through three and that inking for the ninth issue. Sweetheart, I need that yesterday.
“Talk to you soon, though, James. Tell me whenever you finish, day or night, and I’ll swing by to pick it up.
“Uh, bubye, James. See you soon.”
Second message, sent at 12:55 PM
“James, man, I now you’re up there, man. Dude, it’s Jimmy, I’ve got your shit, and I’ll meet you wherev, but I need the money for this one and that last one I spotted you. Uh…(fuck, don’t sneak up on me like that, Stu, Jesus), yeah. Um, call me, I guess. You know the number.”
Third new message, sent at 6:37 PM
“James: Gloria again. DC just said if they don’t see the final copy for the first three issues by Friday, they won’t run it. I know you’ve worked with Vertigo before, but DC is big, sweetie. DC is your in to the big leagues… Whatever, though, I’m sure Vertigo is getting antsy too, so just finish, alright! Right.
“Tell me the second you have it, I’ll come and get everything myself.”
Fourth new message, sent at 6:41 PM.
“Mr. James Owen, this is Frank from Vertigo. We’ve tried to reach you publicist, but we can’t get through. It seems that the copy for the first three issues is still in editing, and we need that finalized. We were planning to start the run, oh, let’s say, two weeks from Tuesday, but if we don’t get something soon…
“Mr. Owen, we like this, we like it a lot, it’s… well, it’s bloody brilliant. But we need the final copy as absolutely soon as possible. Uh, thanks, I guess. Bye.”
----
He is shaking as he draws. Not his hands, his hands can’t shake, but the rest of his body is wracked with tremors. His entire being is focused on his hands as the ink flows from the tip of his pen. He’s almost got it finished, it’s almost perfect-
The phone rings and he jerks, but years of practice keep the ink from marring the page. The phone keeps ringing and his concentration is broken and he knew exactly what he was going to do, but that fucking phone went and messed up everythi- he had had it so perfect in his mind, and it was flowing onto his paper just right-
The pen skids off the table and rolls across the studio floor.
Shaking, he stands up and goes into the kitchen, finds himself a packet of concentration. All he wants to do is sleep, curl up and wait for the sun to come up, or for Michael to come back, or for-
He shakes as he finds a razor blade and a mirror, sakes more as he shifts the powder out, shakes more still has he makes lines, inhales. He is still shaking as he goes back to the drawing table and carefully continues inking.
----
“James, honey, I got your text, and I’m here to pick up the finalizations! Let me in!”
Gloria is still knocking. James lurches up from the place on the floor where had collapsed seventeen minutes and forty-seven seconds ago, moves to the door. Opening it, he gestures curtly for Gloria to come in, pointedly ignoring her cooing over his disheveled state and filthy flat.
“It’s just over here,” he says hoarsely, and realizes she’s the first person he’s talked to since Michael left three weeks ago. He drifts into the studio and picks up the portfolio folder, but now his hands are shaking, and whatever he had before that kept them still is long gone now.
The folder falls from his hands, and he slips down too, sitting, shaking, on the floor as his art shifts down about him. When he puts his head in his hands and doesn’t move, Gloria starts to collect the papers. She stacks them neatly before sinking down and taking his hand.
“James?”
“What…? Oh, I finished. I’ve got it all in there, all right, yeah, send me the check minus whatever the advance and your cut and whatever else…. I just… I’m going to go to sleep now. Just drop by and leave it, push it under the door or something… I’ll do some more work soon I guess… Just, I’m going to sleep now.”
Gloria sees herself out, shuts the door, but she pauses for a moment before going up the hallway, down the stairs, and out into the clean air.
---
He never answers the phone:
You have two unheard messages. First new message, sent 12:51 AM
“James, honey, we’re just finishing up in New York. It’s beautiful, darling, you should come out and see it… I… I’ll be back soon, love-I mean, is everything okay? Glor-I know you’ll be all right, but… just call me, okay? I just want to hear your voice again… Um, yeah, I sound like-I love you. Call me if, er, when you can…”
Second message, sent 10:34 AM
“James… It’s Gloria. Um, you okay? I suppose I should tell you I sold to Vertigo… tidy sum, and that DC stuff drove them right up… Er, I dropped it off today, and the door was open, but you didn’t answer, so I just left it on the counter. Uh, I sort of hid it, so noone would take it, I guess, it’s under the bowls there…Uh, listen, James, do you want me to, like, call anyone? I called Michael, but, like, a shrink, or something? I mean, I just want what’s best for you, sweetie, so just call me.
“Uh, right. Bye.”
----
When Michael enters this time, he finds James curled up in his bedroom, clutching one the old shirts he’d left, trembling. Shaking all over, now, his entire body is a one tremor, rebounding upon itself.
Michael pauses in the door, and the flowers he’d brought are laid to the side.
“James? Love?”
James keeps shaking, but Michael can hear faint muttering now, and as he draws closer, it becomes more distinct.
“Michael, Michael, I’m sorry, I’ll sleep, I’m sorry, come back, Michael, I never told you, I love you, I never told you, I love you love you loveyou, Michael, I’m sorry, I said I stopped, I just needed to finish, I just wanted to finish, Michael, Michael, I love you, I’m sorry, come back, I’ll sleep, I’ll do whatever you want, I love you, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again, I just wanted needed to finish, just to finish, I’m sorry, I love you, I’m sorry-“
Michael backs from the room, gropes his way to the bathroom, and violently rid himself of his transcontinental meal. He spends a moment at the sink, washing out his mouth, trying to see himself in his reflection.
Again, he stops at the doorway to the bedroom, but this time only to shrug out of his shoes and jacket, left in a pile on the floor as he slips into bed behind James.
“It’ll be okay, James, Love, I’ll make it better. I swear.”
----
Look, Mister, mmh, uh, Ferem-
Michael, just call me Michael.
Look, I understand you’re worried about your friend. But I am a psychologist, not some drug therapy-
He’s my partner. But…Look, thank you for your time.
----
He’s not using, man. I mean, not badly, fuck, man, everyone uses. But, he’s not all fucked up like-
I understand he doesn’t always-
He’s not like us. He can come back, I guess, but he’s fuckin’ up the discussion, man. Some days he’ll be perfectly fine, and then he’s all fuckin’-I don’t even know, man. Fuck. Just-
Yes, yes, I understand. …Thank you for your time, then. With him, I mean.
----
When they meet with whoever got lined up for it this time, James always slumps, and Michael always holds himself perfectly upright. James always looks away, and Michael always speaks directly to the psychiatrist/group leader/psychotherapist/fellow addict/ therapist/whatever. James is always tired, he hasn’t painted anything in ages, can’t seem to sketch anymore. Michael took a leave of absence from work, here all the time now, hovering, worrying, never leaving James alone.
James wishes that Michael would have come back later, so he wouldn’t have seen James so weak, so he wouldn’t have made James be so….
James was fine before. James does not need this. James can cope on his own.
James doesn’t tell Michael where he goes when he finds Jimmy to get the stuff he needs so he can cope. He would have stopped, but this shit-Michael and all these therapists and all these NA guys and he’s fine and would they just leave him alone-is making him a little bit stressed, thanks, so he just uses until they stop being so fucking---
Michael gets called away on something he can’t avoid, some case where he is the only option, or something. James doesn’t really listen to the explanation. He just nods, just hates himself for being happy Michael is leaving, just goes to find Jimmy so he can be… something, so he can say goodbye to Michael the way he should.
James ignores that he hasn’t bought groceries in weeks, that Michael has to remind him to eat, that the first part of his Vertigo money should have lasted longer.
---
Waking abruptly, James finds his graphite and pad and sketches for three hours before he realizes that he hasn’t written any copy, so he outlines the novel in quick strokes of a black ballpoint pen, and goes back to drawing. This time, he spends sixty hours drawing, writing, sketching, before he needs to go out for supplies. He is surprised that it’s dark, but it doesn’t bother him much as he finds his keys and shakes in the old elevator down to the ground floor, finds his car, drives to the art store. His first credit card is declined, and the second, but he finds the old debit card in his wallet and that works. He grins sheepishly at the clerk at the register, and slips back into his car, driving away a little too quickly, trying to get back home so he can finish.
It’s short this time, getting home. Seems to go too quickly…
He has called Gloria. He has told Michael. It will be ready. But only after he gets that new oil he needs, he needs to have this finished, it’s so there, so ready…
He speeds on the way to his art store. He goes a little too quickly.
A little too quickly.
He is speeding.
James Owen is remembered by close personal friend Gloria Stienbeck and partner Michael Ferem, and mourned by the comic book world, the loss of this talent sorely felt….
“James, honey, it’s Michael. I know you won’t get this, but I just like to hear you answer, hear your voice again. I just trying to breathe with out you and--“
“Gloria, how can we sell these! He never finished them, he wouldn’t have wanted them sold until he finished…”
“They’re worth so much, Michael, and neither of us can stand to look at them. It’s the right thing to do,”
“Fuck, Gloria, I--”
James Owen’s unfinished work will be revisited and published by Vertigo, and the profits go to the Center for the Understanding Duel Diagnosis…