A Girl in Need of a Tourniquet | R | The Hours
Title: A Girl in Need Of a Tourniquet
Prompt: P is for Pills
Challenge: A to Z Drabble Meme
Fandom: Clarissa/Richard, The Hours
Requested by: colourmebarbra
Rating: R
Word Count: 669
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: This contains some disturbing imagery; read at your own risk. The title comes from the song “Save Me” by Aimee Mann, which is amazing and should be listened to by all. Feedback is wonderful.
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Clarissa sat upon the soft, cold earth, musing on the fact that it had been over twenty years since she’d been on top of Richard. In those days, those sexual encounters were playful, never serious, always searching for the most that the other had to give. Now Clarissa sat six feet above him, tracing his name on a granite slab.
The suicide attempt that had ultimately claimed his life had not been his first. He’d tried twice before. Once, at fifteen, when he came to understand just why his mother had left, he had taken his father’s shaving razor and tried to cut his wrists. He’d been scared then, just a baby looking for the mother that had abandoned him, and he only nicked himself a few times and called them battle wounds. He would show them almost proudly to Clarissa when his mother came up in conversation; the way he spoke of her and of his fleeting desire to die because of her, you’d think Laura Brown had held the razor herself.
The second time he tried to kill himself, Clarissa had been there to stop him. She’d come to see him on a Thursday afternoon, as she always did, to bring him a meatball sub and fresh flowers. She remembered the day perfectly: she’d uncharacteristically gotten out of work early purposely to surprise him. She bought a massive bouquet of roses and stargazer lilies and daisies, hoping the bright vividness of the flowers would remind him of the life still left to be lived. He’d just been diagnosed with HIV.
She had let herself into his apartment after a brief rat-a-tap of her knuckles on the door and was surprised not to hear his familiar greeting. Much as she hated the nickname, it was strange not to hear his “Mrs. Dalloway!” resounding throughout the open space of the loft. She knew, then, that something was wrong.
Clarissa had dumped the flowers and sandwich on the counter and checked first in the living room (empty) and then the kitchen (also empty, though there was a scribbled note on the counter bearing her name). She found him in the bathroom, tipping his bottle of Xanax into his mouth. Upon seeing her horrified, angry face in the reflection of the mirror, Richard spit the pills at the sink, coughing and gagging on the few that had already skimmed their way down his esophagus. Clarissa brusquely pushed up her sleeves, nudged him over the toilet, and stuck her fingers in his throat. She left them there until his stomach had expelled all of its contents.
They had sat together on the floor by the tub. Richard cried in her lap and she soothed his hair with the hand that was not covered in vomit, listening to his apologies and marveling at having chosen that specific day to leave her beloved job early.
Clarissa had known then that he had never wanted to die that day. He had wanted her to save him. It was a terrible responsibility that he had given her, but she had taken it. She’d been responsible for him ever since.
She wondered then, as she picked off a dead leaf from the bouquet of hyacinths that she’d left upon his grave, why he had been so terrible, so selfish, as to kill himself in front of her and not give her the chance to save him. She knew he didn’t want to be saved, not that time. It hurt as much as if he had pulled her out the window with him.
Clarissa lowered her head and kissed the grass that grew above where he lay, resenting him for not taking the pain in her heart with him. He’d left her alone, still with the responsibility to care for him, still with the damned nickname, still with the open wound that would never heal, still wishing she had come to help him dress for the party a little earlier so she could have tried to save him.
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Prompt: P is for Pills
Challenge: A to Z Drabble Meme
Fandom: Clarissa/Richard, The Hours
Requested by: colourmebarbra
Rating: R
Word Count: 669
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: This contains some disturbing imagery; read at your own risk. The title comes from the song “Save Me” by Aimee Mann, which is amazing and should be listened to by all. Feedback is wonderful.
-
Clarissa sat upon the soft, cold earth, musing on the fact that it had been over twenty years since she’d been on top of Richard. In those days, those sexual encounters were playful, never serious, always searching for the most that the other had to give. Now Clarissa sat six feet above him, tracing his name on a granite slab.
The suicide attempt that had ultimately claimed his life had not been his first. He’d tried twice before. Once, at fifteen, when he came to understand just why his mother had left, he had taken his father’s shaving razor and tried to cut his wrists. He’d been scared then, just a baby looking for the mother that had abandoned him, and he only nicked himself a few times and called them battle wounds. He would show them almost proudly to Clarissa when his mother came up in conversation; the way he spoke of her and of his fleeting desire to die because of her, you’d think Laura Brown had held the razor herself.
The second time he tried to kill himself, Clarissa had been there to stop him. She’d come to see him on a Thursday afternoon, as she always did, to bring him a meatball sub and fresh flowers. She remembered the day perfectly: she’d uncharacteristically gotten out of work early purposely to surprise him. She bought a massive bouquet of roses and stargazer lilies and daisies, hoping the bright vividness of the flowers would remind him of the life still left to be lived. He’d just been diagnosed with HIV.
She had let herself into his apartment after a brief rat-a-tap of her knuckles on the door and was surprised not to hear his familiar greeting. Much as she hated the nickname, it was strange not to hear his “Mrs. Dalloway!” resounding throughout the open space of the loft. She knew, then, that something was wrong.
Clarissa had dumped the flowers and sandwich on the counter and checked first in the living room (empty) and then the kitchen (also empty, though there was a scribbled note on the counter bearing her name). She found him in the bathroom, tipping his bottle of Xanax into his mouth. Upon seeing her horrified, angry face in the reflection of the mirror, Richard spit the pills at the sink, coughing and gagging on the few that had already skimmed their way down his esophagus. Clarissa brusquely pushed up her sleeves, nudged him over the toilet, and stuck her fingers in his throat. She left them there until his stomach had expelled all of its contents.
They had sat together on the floor by the tub. Richard cried in her lap and she soothed his hair with the hand that was not covered in vomit, listening to his apologies and marveling at having chosen that specific day to leave her beloved job early.
Clarissa had known then that he had never wanted to die that day. He had wanted her to save him. It was a terrible responsibility that he had given her, but she had taken it. She’d been responsible for him ever since.
She wondered then, as she picked off a dead leaf from the bouquet of hyacinths that she’d left upon his grave, why he had been so terrible, so selfish, as to kill himself in front of her and not give her the chance to save him. She knew he didn’t want to be saved, not that time. It hurt as much as if he had pulled her out the window with him.
Clarissa lowered her head and kissed the grass that grew above where he lay, resenting him for not taking the pain in her heart with him. He’d left her alone, still with the responsibility to care for him, still with the damned nickname, still with the open wound that would never heal, still wishing she had come to help him dress for the party a little earlier so she could have tried to save him.
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