FOTD, Peanut Butter 8: Ruin
Title: Ruin
Main Story: In The Heart
Flavors, Toppings, Extras: FOTD (paralipsis: The suggestion, by deliberately brief treatment of a topic, that much of significance is being omitted.), peanut butter 8 (dark), malt (Summer Challenge 216: "And now when the telephone rings, I know there’s nothing left to say." - Seanan McGuire), pocky chain, cherry (moving backwards in time).
Word Count: 700
Rating: PG-13 for disturbing imagery.
WARNING: Death, depressive actions, possible suicidal implications.
Summary: Lars has nothing left to say.
Notes: Sooo... Lars scares me sometimes.
Lars woke up, and for a few terrifying seconds did not know where he was.
Then Christine leaned over him, looking both frightened and furious, and everything came rushing back. He was in the ER, which explained the sterile white. The headache pounding behind his eyes was a hangover.
"What the hell did you think you were doing?" Christine demanded, but he really didn't want to explain himself to her, and anyway, she should know already, shouldn't she? So he just looked down at his bandaged hands and flexed them, wincing at the sparks of pain, wishing for the dark.
--
There was blood on his knuckles and glass scattered over the floor, diamonds shaded red under the streetlight. Someone must have called someone else, because he could hear a car pulling up outside, could hear footsteps on the path. It might be the cops or it might be Chrissy, and Lars found that just now he didn't much care.
Nothing would change, whoever it was. He'd still remember everything. He'd still know what happened. It would still hurt.
He sat on the floor, heedless of the shattered glass, looked out the broken window, and tried very hard not to feel.
--
He stared out the window.
There was nothing out there. No stars-- all blocked by cloud cover. None of the ambient light he was used to in New York City-- too far upstate for that. No light at all, except for a couple of streetlights, isolated puddles of light in a vast desert of dark.
That's what life was, he thought, looking out at it. It was nothing. Oh, sure, you had a few happy moments, a few brief seconds in the light, then straight back to the dark.
Nothing but dark left anymore.
He hit at that dark, blindly.
--
He was one fucking year short of being old enough to drink. One year.
Well, fuck legality. He knew where his dad kept the booze.
No one had made it home. Chrissy was probably still trying to comfort Dad. Mort and his girlfriend must have gone off together, Teddy and his boyfriend too. Lars neither knew nor cared about Anna or the twins. As long as they weren't here.
The alcohol was in his dad's study, on the highest shelf of a locked cabinet. The key was in the top drawer.
Lars locked the study door, and went for it.
--
He didn't stay long after the ceremony was over.
Well, to be more accurate, he didn't stay at all. He walked out of the gates, head down, coat collar pulled up around his ears-- barely November, and already so fucking cold-- got in his car, and just sat for a moment.
His father had cried. He'd never seen his father cry before.
It struck him there, sitting in the car, that all this was real. Everything before had been a sort of blur, but now it was sharp-edged, a memory full of blades.
He needed, Lars decided, to get drunk.
--
Christine arrived first, chin up, her belly unbalancing her as she sat. She'd so hoped...
Well, what did that matter anymore?
The twins came in and sat hand-in-hand. Mort, clinging to his girlfriend. Teddy, sad-eyed, his boyfriend's arm around his shoulders. Anna, looking years younger and older all at once. Their father, his head in his hands.
At the front of the room...
Lars turned away sharply. He couldn't handle this. It smelled like dying flowers and formaldahyde; it made him sick.
He went outside and sat on the steps. After the darkness of the hallway, the sun was blinding.
--
He got the call while he was brushing his teeth.
"Chrissy," he said, around his toothbrush. "What's up?"
"Lars," his sister said. He froze.
He looked fairly ridiculous reflected in the mirror; shirtless, foamy toothbrush sticking out of his mouth, the scruff of last night's beard still rough on his face. Dark rings shadowed the hollows of his eyes. Flourescent lights did no one any favors, and they made him look awful.
However bad he looked, Chrissy sounded worse.
"Chrissy," he said, taking the toothbrush out of his mouth. "Chrissy. What is it?"
"It's Mom," she said, and he knew.
Main Story: In The Heart
Flavors, Toppings, Extras: FOTD (paralipsis: The suggestion, by deliberately brief treatment of a topic, that much of significance is being omitted.), peanut butter 8 (dark), malt (Summer Challenge 216: "And now when the telephone rings, I know there’s nothing left to say." - Seanan McGuire), pocky chain, cherry (moving backwards in time).
Word Count: 700
Rating: PG-13 for disturbing imagery.
WARNING: Death, depressive actions, possible suicidal implications.
Summary: Lars has nothing left to say.
Notes: Sooo... Lars scares me sometimes.
Lars woke up, and for a few terrifying seconds did not know where he was.
Then Christine leaned over him, looking both frightened and furious, and everything came rushing back. He was in the ER, which explained the sterile white. The headache pounding behind his eyes was a hangover.
"What the hell did you think you were doing?" Christine demanded, but he really didn't want to explain himself to her, and anyway, she should know already, shouldn't she? So he just looked down at his bandaged hands and flexed them, wincing at the sparks of pain, wishing for the dark.
--
There was blood on his knuckles and glass scattered over the floor, diamonds shaded red under the streetlight. Someone must have called someone else, because he could hear a car pulling up outside, could hear footsteps on the path. It might be the cops or it might be Chrissy, and Lars found that just now he didn't much care.
Nothing would change, whoever it was. He'd still remember everything. He'd still know what happened. It would still hurt.
He sat on the floor, heedless of the shattered glass, looked out the broken window, and tried very hard not to feel.
--
He stared out the window.
There was nothing out there. No stars-- all blocked by cloud cover. None of the ambient light he was used to in New York City-- too far upstate for that. No light at all, except for a couple of streetlights, isolated puddles of light in a vast desert of dark.
That's what life was, he thought, looking out at it. It was nothing. Oh, sure, you had a few happy moments, a few brief seconds in the light, then straight back to the dark.
Nothing but dark left anymore.
He hit at that dark, blindly.
--
He was one fucking year short of being old enough to drink. One year.
Well, fuck legality. He knew where his dad kept the booze.
No one had made it home. Chrissy was probably still trying to comfort Dad. Mort and his girlfriend must have gone off together, Teddy and his boyfriend too. Lars neither knew nor cared about Anna or the twins. As long as they weren't here.
The alcohol was in his dad's study, on the highest shelf of a locked cabinet. The key was in the top drawer.
Lars locked the study door, and went for it.
--
He didn't stay long after the ceremony was over.
Well, to be more accurate, he didn't stay at all. He walked out of the gates, head down, coat collar pulled up around his ears-- barely November, and already so fucking cold-- got in his car, and just sat for a moment.
His father had cried. He'd never seen his father cry before.
It struck him there, sitting in the car, that all this was real. Everything before had been a sort of blur, but now it was sharp-edged, a memory full of blades.
He needed, Lars decided, to get drunk.
--
Christine arrived first, chin up, her belly unbalancing her as she sat. She'd so hoped...
Well, what did that matter anymore?
The twins came in and sat hand-in-hand. Mort, clinging to his girlfriend. Teddy, sad-eyed, his boyfriend's arm around his shoulders. Anna, looking years younger and older all at once. Their father, his head in his hands.
At the front of the room...
Lars turned away sharply. He couldn't handle this. It smelled like dying flowers and formaldahyde; it made him sick.
He went outside and sat on the steps. After the darkness of the hallway, the sun was blinding.
--
He got the call while he was brushing his teeth.
"Chrissy," he said, around his toothbrush. "What's up?"
"Lars," his sister said. He froze.
He looked fairly ridiculous reflected in the mirror; shirtless, foamy toothbrush sticking out of his mouth, the scruff of last night's beard still rough on his face. Dark rings shadowed the hollows of his eyes. Flourescent lights did no one any favors, and they made him look awful.
However bad he looked, Chrissy sounded worse.
"Chrissy," he said, taking the toothbrush out of his mouth. "Chrissy. What is it?"
"It's Mom," she said, and he knew.