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waltwest · 4 years ago

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The Freelancer

The following is the first thirteen pages of a short story I am writing titled “The Freelancer”. I hope you enjoy. I apologize for the unappealing formatting, this site does not have the most comprehensive text editor.

Studying the Keurig machine, I wondered how many complacent people it took to ware the word “brew” off the button, leaving behind nothing more than a “b” and an “e”, which looked curiously like an “s”. I imagined this instant coffee machine as the alter in which lost souls came to pay tribute to each morning before assuming their monotonously drudging tasks; lips drawn, eyes downcast. These people were never happy, not even content. It certainly wasn’t a wish of theirs to be here. Men who dreamt of becoming accomplished composers became pencil pushers. Women who yearned to be animators had landed at secretary. The office is where you come to lay your ambition to rest. Maybe it is a lack of assertiveness in demeanor which lands one here, maybe it is the fate of mere circumstance.

But I, Maxwell Goodman, knew what my job meant; I knew I worked among the dead. Luckily, there was a spark of life that incessantly flickered within me. With my ten ounce mug full before me, I reluctantly took my communion once again.

Safely back within the confines of my particle board cubicle, the manila folders and stacks of paper demanding this or that seemed to never be satisfied.

God, who knew lightbulbs could generate so much paperwork, I thought to myself.

I sat in silence and regarded the congregation of slain trees covering my desk. My collar was sticking to my neck… Trying to strangle me, for God’s sake. My mouth was dry and coated with the thick taste of cheap coffee. My desktop stared into my eyes expectantly, patiently waiting for me to pound away on the keyboard like a good boy… Like I was supposed to. The bulbs may be bright, but they can’t sell themselves! That’s what my boss Lonny loved to say. Lonny… God, how can someone be balding so terribly at thirty years old? Is it just bad genetics, or too much cortisol?

I felt a hand clap on my shoulder. “Max-o! Lovely morning, isn’t it? Hey, in case you weren’t aware, Sweet Charade is having a bogo on donuts until the end of the week…”

Speak of the devil.

I swiveled my squeaky and unbalanced office chair to face my boss. “Gee, thanks for filling me in, Lonny. You know how much I love that maple-iced.” I responded, attempting to sound enthusiastic. Lonny was a nice guy, he really was. It’s really difficult to be rude to a guy like Lonny, with his premature baldness and all. You kind of had to feel sorry for him in a way, it was impossible to predict whether or not he was just one snide comment away from completely breaking down. He’s kind of unstable, emotionally. Also, his wife died last year. She fell off a cliff. No really, she did. Her and Lonny took a vacation to the Grand Canyon last August. Kept complaining about how bright the sun was and how she “couldn’t see a damn thing.” Next thing you know, she was trying to take a picture of a bird flying above and somehow managed to fall right off the edge of a cliff. Worst part is, she was eight months pregnant with their son, they were going to name him Clint... So yeah, all in all it’s pretty tough being rude to Lonny.

“I know they’re your favorite, it’s why I told you. Oh, hey-“Lonny pulled his other hand from behind his back, revealing a bloated manila envelope”-think you could handle this for me? Just a little bit of inventory mumbo-jumbo. Nothing too serious!” He was really trying to exude a devastating level of charm, though the effort was ineffective.

One side of the envelope was sagging down in the air under its own mind-numbing weight. I never thought an envelope could actually look depressed, it almost made me giggle. Grudgingly, I acquiesced and accepted the package with the lift of the eyebrows and a nod. I didn’t want to be mean, but I also didn’t want him to think I was thrilled about all the extra nonsense. Hell, he might’ve even pulled another folder out of his waistband or something if he got the idea I was happy about it. “Here, how about closing this deal for a thousand LED’s to the grocery store down the street as well…” No, I had enough paper, truly.

Lonny gave me another hearty clap on the shoulder, his bulbous belly jiggling a bit from the force. Again, I had to prevent myself from giggling… I find myself doing that more frequently than I would care to admit. I get the urge to laugh at the worst times, always. “Thanks, Max. I know I can always count on you.” He confided with a smile of endearment. It was difficult to tell whether that was a positive thing or if this was going to come back and bite me in the ass. Probably the latter.

Ole’ Lonny then gave a sly wink and swaggered off with the air of one who just successfully pawned off his work to an underling, because he could. What a bastard, I thought. He was an alright guy though, I suppose.

After a formalized second trip to the alter, I submerged myself in the humming of the fluorescents above me and the ocean of paper before me. Seven more hours…

At precisely 4:59pm, I slapped all of the folders shut and jabbed the power button on my computer with vehemence. My eyes burned like hell, my head was pounding from all of the caffeine, and my hands were all clammy. Very uncomfortable. God, I couldn’t help but to feel that it wasn’t worth it at the end of each day. I was constantly attacked by the bigger picture. What purpose was I serving? What kind of impact was I having on the world? I dwelled upon these questions often, but couldn’t stand beginning to think about the answers.

After I ended my quick demoralizing contemplation, the sodden procession of rejects began to file out of the glass door. And with the exchanging of “goodbyes” and “see you tomorrows,” my co-workers fell into their hybrid sedans and putted on down the road. Usually I am pulling into my apartment complex before anyone has even started their cars, but I felt like watching today. Sometimes I like to detach myself from situations and just observe.

Like this one time, I was sitting on one of those couches that are situated in the walkway at the mall. You know, those areas where they have four couches are situated in a square all cozy and whatnot, just in case the going gets too rough. Anyway, I was sitting on one of those couches, just watching. I peered into a shoe store and beheld a child throwing a royal fit, really overdoing it. He was around tromping everywhere, steam spilling out of his ears and all. He was screeching about a pair of shoes he wanted but couldn’t have. They were these real hip joints, green canvas with blue laces. They were disgustingly ugly, if you want to know the truth. Knowing how these retail stores are, I bet they were like a billion bucks. “I want the shoes! I want the shoes!” He was yelling.

“I can’t get you those… I can’t. I’m sorry, you know I would...” His father replied weakly, trying his damnedest to not contribute to the mayhem. He looked sad as hell, embarrassed even. I couldn’t tell whether he was embarrassed because he couldn’t afford the shoes, or because his son was being such an ass about it; I suppose it could’ve been a mixture of both.

“Mommy would get them for me! Call Mommy! I want Mommy!” The kid was belligerent. Stompin’ his snow boots all around the store, trying to leave imprints in the god damn carpet. It was winter by the way, Christmas time.

“Oh, you know I can’t do that… I’m sorry, I can’t afford the shoes son. Daddy can’t afford them right now.” He was really trying to be quiet and take control of his bratty offspring. Gosh, he looked so ashamed. I cannot stand ungrateful kids. The father ended up buying his son a cheaper pair of sneakers, to the stomping child’s dismay. I say he shouldn’t have bought him any shoes at all, the way he was acting.

There was something disturbing and insightful about that encounter, though. If I had just been walking by and heard the kid hollering I would have thought he was acting like a bastard, and that would’ve been it. And he was acting like a bastard, don’t get me wrong. But it is intriguing how the layers of the family dynamic unravels, the more you just watch and listen. The divorced parents, the mother always outdoing the father in order to gain their son’s favor… I was able to see a man who didn’t really know what he was doing with his life, or how he’d even gotten there in the first place… He wasn’t in control, maybe he never was. Maybe he never will be. So yeah, I enjoy sitting back and observing sometimes, beats the hell out of boring conversation.

Anyway, it was time for me to leave work. I grabbed my pointless little leather satchel and walked out the door. Outside, the air felt nice and fresh… I love the revitalizing effects of fresh air. It was especially neat that evening because there was also one of those breezes that whips really good every so often. It made me hungry. So, I decided I would grab some Chinese food on the way to my apartment. It’s on the way, and I have a huge thing for oriental food… especially lo mein noodles.

II.

Pint of greasy noodles clutched in hand, I stepped into the elevator of my building and pressed the button for the thirteenth floor, the top floor. I have a fear of heights, so initially I was not too keen on the idea of living so high up. But the thing was, I was pretty down on my luck, I suppose you could even say I was vulnerable. I needed a place quickly and this building was convenient for me… As I said, once I realized the only space for rent was on the top floor, I became a little nervous. But, the woman whom I talked to about the whole thing convinced me that rent was actually cheaper on the top floor. So, despite my uneasiness with heights of any kind, I took the place thinking I was scoring some sort of exclusive insider deal. But, after a few months of residing there and conversing with my neighbors, I learned I was paying around $96 more a month than most people in the whole god damn building. Even the other tenants on my floor were paying less than me. Something about my apartment being a “colonial” this that and the other. I don’t know. I swear to God I’m too gullible sometimes. I still had a year left on my lease.

Up, up, up the elevator went. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, ding! Thirteen. The doors opened and I made my way down the hall. I will admit, the building itself was not too impressive. The ceilings had a few leaks, the walls were painted an awful yellow. Sometimes the air conditioner shut off randomly. But all in all, it could have been a lot worse. Everything could always be worse, don’t ever forget that.

Of course, my special “colonial” apartment was way at the end of the hallway, number 327. As I approached my rickety door, my eyes locked onto a lone piece of mail sticking out of the little metal mailbox. A quick pulse of endorphins spread throughout my brain. I love getting mail. I pulled the envelope out. It was from the Print Box publishing company! Panic, fear, and excitement rose within my chest all at once.

I guess I forgot to tell you. I have longed to be an author for as long as I can remember. It is my dream, I guess you could say. Unfortunately, I haven’t had any luck getting published, or even acknowledged for that matter. I have written many different stories and have sent them to every publishing house imaginable. I’ve even sent short clips to shitty magazines hoping to get a bite, to no avail. The only responses I have gotten have been rejections. Most often they don’t even take the time to respond… Trust me, it’s not like I wanted to sell lightbulbs as a career, you should realize that by now.

And while I had never received positive criticism or encouragement in the past, it was impossible to not feel hopeful when I got a letter back from a publisher. I believed that one day my luck would shift. It had to… Right?

I hurried and shoved the key into the door, then shot straight to the couch to read what Print Box had to say. My noodles sat on the coffee table, untouched and getting slightly cold.

I ended up sitting frozen for a couple of minutes, staring at the front of the envelope… As if the address lines were going to tell me that it was going to be okay, this time was different. Really, I was savoring the moment. I had a certain amount of measured confidence when it came to this letter. In my opinion, the story I sent to Print Box was amazing, one of my best yet. It was a story about an inter-galactic space traveler who ends up meeting God and finding out He’s not how everyone thinks He is. I promise it’s not as crumby as it sounds. It was good. You would just have to read it.

Life seemed to be still around me; a foreboding, ominous stillness. Blood was rushing to my ears. My hands shaking ever so slightly, I ran my finger underneath the seal, and took out the prophecy within. Please, let this be it. Please.

It read as follows:

“Dear Mr. Goodman,

We received your manuscript for ‘Creator’s Paradox’. After review, we are terribly sorry to inform you that we have decided not to publish your work. It is simply not a fit for us.

Best Wishes,

Print Box Publications”

A cold knife sank deep into my chest. What? That’s it? The letter trembled in my hands. The excitement and hope fled my body entirely, and had been replaced by sorrow and confusion, even anger. How could this be? I should have known. I shouldn’t have expected anything more. Why would this time be any different? It was then that I thought maybe I should just give up. I am no good at this, I absolutely suck. That must be it… They say to chase your dreams, but what if you are just terrible? I had never felt such dread. Maybe I was meant to sell lightbulbs for a living…

Unceremoniously I ripped the bad news in half and let it fall onto the table. Sinking back into the frayed cloth couch, I would have been completely okay with just disappearing in that moment, I felt deflated.

After a shameful amount of sulking, I forced down the then limp noodles, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and slid out onto the balcony.

The night was warm, but not unreasonably so. It was that time of year when you keep a jacket in the backseat of your car, because you can never be certain which way the thermometer will flow. But even though the night was cozy, I had a rain cloud hovering over my head. I was already beginning to accept my future. The cardboard cutout life I was going to surrender to. 401k’s, strategies to improve my credit score… That sort of thing.

I sipped my beer and looked out upon the terrain before me, in the most reflective of moods. I had to admit, the view was pleasurable from up here. I lived in the boot heel of Indiana, by the way. An area of the world where it is commonplace for urban and rural landscapes to collide, battling for a prominent grip over the territory. Upon my perch, I could see and feel the city below me: the streetlamps, stoplights, cars honking at nothing in particular, the smell of gas and concrete which invaded the nostrils. But when I looked beyond the ring of cityscape, seemingly endless fields and small hillocks rolled into the horizon, with a strip of highway interceding here and there. The occasional semi would be finding its way through the night, like a worm over soil. It was comforting in a way, made you feel like you could always just escape if you wanted to or needed to.

I found and traced one semi making his way across the fields. He was at such a distance, I could only distinguish him by the studded lights that adorned his truck. He looked so lonely, plodding along out there, all by himself. I wondered, was he happy? Did he choose his life for himself? Or did he just throw in the towel, like I was having thoughts of doing… I suppose I would never find out. Not like I could pluck him off the road and ask him. Or her. I shouldn’t just assume they are a man. I wonder how much truck drivers make? I heard they bring in quite a bit of dough, actually… I pictured myself taking the reigns of my own eighteen-wheeler; soaking in the sights, getting into a bit of trouble at the various truck stops. It didn’t feel right, though. For a moment I felt my skin squirm.

The fight of two alley cats below suddenly tore me out of my trance. I noticed I was rubbing my fingers together really hard, and all of a sudden the stench of garbage filled the air. It was all discomforting. I realized that this was the moment that was going to lay the foundation for the rest of my time on Earth. Will I push onward, and become who I want to be? Or do I choose the easy, less turbulent path, and adjust. We all stumble upon this fork in the road at some point throughout our lives. Although, unfortunately, most are blind to the path tucked behind the brush, the path we were each destined to take. We only see the wider, more trodden path of conformity.

As I stood at the helm of my splitting path, I knew within my heart which route I was going to take. There was no question… I was going to part the foliage and venture into the canopied forest.

III.

The time was getting close to ten, but I had struck a vein of determination and inspiration. I was not going to simply shrug it off and go to sleep.

Back and forth I paced around the cramped living room. Couch. Coffee table. Television, resting upon an empty entertainment center. Plastic lamp situated in the corner. Generic cream carpeting. Bland, unextraordinary.

I paced and paced, contemplatively gripping my chin.

I knew I had to write something. But what should I write a story about? Gosh, I began to get nervous. In the early twentieth century, here was this Italian novelist named Cesare Pavese. There is a quote of his wherein he states, “the only joy in the world is to begin.” The only feeling I get when I begin something is anxiety and confusion… I can see where he is coming from though, I suppose. There is bound to be intrigue when diving into something new. And anxiety. Shit, where the hell did those Valium go?

My pacing shifted its course to the bathroom. On the way I passed the boring ass photos that were framed in the four-foot-wide hallway, standing guard. A vase of flowers sitting on a patio table. A tire swing. It felt like the first time I had ever seen these pictures. So generic… So dumb. God, they made me want to puke. Why didn’t I take them down whenever I moved in? My blood pressure was rising. Fucking stock photos.

I crashed into the bathroom and swung the mirror open. The ole’ medicine cabinet, baby. Where everyone goes when in need of a little chemical therapy. We’re all guilty…

Sifting through prescriptions old and new, some in my name, others not, I eventually found what I was searching for. Also, upon studying the array of medications in front of me, I realized I may have a slight drug problem. Oh well, it’s not as bad as it once was.

I recall one incident in particular from the past. I must have taken twelve Xanax bars, maybe more. I went to the park (I love the park) and was feeding some pigeons; leftover Doritos I had found in my car, they were at least four months past the expiration date. Anyway, after just tossing chips around all over the sidewalk for about half an hour, I took a particularly special interest in one of the pigeons. He was a bit smaller than the rest, and one of his eyes was circled in black. Incredibly unique, at least in comparison the others. He was really taking control of the situation too, despite his size. Really getting in there, hardly sharing any of the precious chips. Greedy bastard… I think that’s why I liked him so well.

Anyway, I decided that I needed him. You know, with his attitude, maybe he could protect my pad or something. I don’t know, I was pretty high. So, after wrestling with him for a bit (if you can picture that), it became clear I could not just pick the rowdy fucker up. Had a lot of fight in him. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had pulled out a cigar from beneath his wing and started puffin’ at me, head all cockeyed and whatnot. “C’maaaaaaaaaan, that all ya got?” I had to regroup, construct a more inventive method of capture.

Bingo. Easy. He may have been all brawn, but he still had an observable weakness… Doritos.

With an inward smirk, I strategically (and sloppily) began making a trail of chip crumbs that led to the opened passenger-side door of my car. Worked like a charm, perhaps too well. The whole damn flock began tottering and flapping over to my car. At this point I realized my coveted plan may have had a detrimental absence of foresight, I thought I was surely doomed. But as always, there was a solution. When the horde got within a few feet of my vehicle, I started kickin’ and screamin’ at all of them. They all flew away quick as can be, except for my new friend of course, the bravest of them all. Victory. I finally managed to coerce the prize fighter into my car with one last huge Dorito, and off to the races we went.

He shit all over my seats, my dashboard, everything. God, it was terrible. Stunk like hell, too. To make a long story short, we were never meant to be friends. He continued to mercilessly defecate all over the apartment, pecked the hell out of my ankles, he was extremely aggressive… Not house trained in the slightest.

Needless to say, I was positively sick of this bastard by this point… I decided the best course of action would be turning him into profit. I took him down to the gas station and tried to peddle him off to the cashier for three dollars… He declined. But to be fair, I believe if he wasn’t at work and whatnot, trying to look good for his boss, he would have gone for it. He truly looked like he wanted that pigeon something fierce… Got all wide-eyed, sweat gathering at the brow. Either he wanted that pigeon, or he was deathly afraid of it. It was almost weird, his intensity.

Yeah, I used to be kind of awful about it. That happened right after high school. I wasn’t too productive back then, sometimes I wish I could go back and change those years.

Anyway, I quickly swallowed forty-five milligrams of Valium in the bathroom, on account of my soaring blood pressure and all. The stock photos didn’t help. Plus, I really needed to buckle down and figure out what I was going to write and how I was going to blow the socks off of the publishers and leave their feet steaming. This had to be the big one.

IV.

I set up shop in the kitchen, the only place in my apartment that has a table and chair. I had my tools for creation all laid out. A trio of freshly sharpened pencils, a pad of paper, and one of those noise machines that produces rainforest sounds and whatnot. Yes, I like those, and yes, I still believe in pencil & paper. Staring at a computer screen for extended periods of time isn’t quite healthy for you. It’s terrible on the eyes, you know. Additionally, there is something therapeutic about manually writing out each letter of a word, your hand carefully forming every one of those curves… The act feels intimate, and poking at a keyboard just isn’t the same. But I digress.

Let’s see… Romance novels are too cheesy, you almost always know how they are going to end. I had already recently tried my hand at space exploration. Though space is endless, making the potential for stories based in space limitless as well. Still, I wasn’t really in the mood at that moment. Ugh, brainstorming is too much work, truly. This is why I like it best when the ideas come to me naturally.

Just as I was delving deeper into thought, or trying to, my phone rang from the counter behind me. It gave me a shock, partly because it was getting so late and partly because hardly anyone ever called me.

Casually I looked to see who my caller was. “Silas,” the screen read. Of course. Silas is an old pal from school that I kept in touch with for some reason. He’s a morally decent guy I suppose, has a good heart. He just never quite grew up.

“Hello?”

“Maximillian! What’s up?” He was totally stoned. In the background I could hear the bubbling of a bong along with feminine laughter. I heard something else too, faintly… Was that… Street Fighter?

“Hey, Silas. It’s almost one in the morning, what’s going on?” I tried my darndest not to sound rude, sometimes I have a problem with that.

“Oh, nothin’ much man…” More laughter, it caused me to wonder what the hell was so funny. “Hey, Max, do you have any molly? Need some molly… Ecstasy.”

Initially I figured he was stoned, but he was progressively sounding more drunk than anything. Probably both. “Silas, I haven’t done molly in over three years. What the hell are you thinkin’, do I got any molly? No, I do not… Are you fuckin’ drunk?” This guy blew my mind sometimes.

Awkward silence. More bubbling. And yes, that was certainly Street Fighter. “Damn dude, my bad… For some reason I thought you might.” More silence. Generally, it’s difficult for this man to process more than a couple of sentences at a time… Got a hell of a heart though. “Well, okay. Hey, do you know anybody who does?” He sounded wistful, maybe even a bit desperate. All the sudden I had the feeling I was not the first person he called about this. It made me sad in a way.

I sat crisscross on the tile. Why there instead of the chair? I don’t know, it’s what I felt like doing then, okay? I liked the fresh perspective. “No, ‘fraid not. Haven’t touched the stuff in a long time.” Pause. “What the hell ya been up to anyway, Silas?” I was genuinely interested. I began picking at the tile with my fingernail.

“Uhhh, nothing really. I-…” He really had to think about what he had been up to. “Went to a Cannibal Corpse concert last week. Yeah, concert and stuff.” He sounded like he was about to fall asleep, or become a corpse himself. God, look at all that dust beneath the fridge…

Just then, I got a wonderful idea. “Gee, that sounds like loads of fun. Hey, Silas. If you were going to write a story, what would it be about? You know, if you were just going to write a story or something… About anything.” I was curious. I wanted to squeeze his mushy brain and see what came out. Plus, the Valium had me feeling a bit conversative.

The line was quiet for awhile. I could’ve sworn he had fallen asleep, phone pinned between his shoulder and cheek, slobber dripping from his chin. “-A story? Story… Probably about a barbarian or something. Barbarian who has a club and nails chicks in his cave. Like Conan, I guess.” Silence… “Hey, Conan nailed chicks in caves, right?” He was asking someone next to him.

Boom, inspiration flooded the inside of my head, almost making me dizzy. How didn’t I think of this before?

Obviously, his idea was stupid. But the barbarian aspect intrigued me. How fun would that be? A barbarian who finds himself in a world of magic. Brings it back to Earth for the betterment of humanity. I don’t know, something silly like that. Something people will read, something that will keep them entertained.

Silas focused his attention back to me. I had almost forgotten I was on the phone with him. “Max, buddy. Hey, Max. Do you have any molly, by chance?”

I didn’t have the time for this anymore. I needed to get to work. “Sorry, gotta go. Goodbye, Silas.” I hung up the phone. Krosmere… That’s what his name will be.

I bounced up from the floor and positioned myself back at the table.

I took a deep breath, turned on the trusty rainfall machine, and poised my pencil. It was time to craft the legacy of Krosmere, rogue barbarian. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been so excited to start something. I was now beginning to feel the meaning of Cesare Pavese’s words.

A ray of early morning sun dove into the kitchen from the window above the sink, casting the table before me in an orange-red glow. There I was, hunched over my papers, clad only in an old white tee-shirt and a pair of pinstripe boxers. Every hallow in my body had filled with salty perspiration.

Truly, I had not realized how late it was getting. Or, rather, how early… I risked a glance at the clock on the oven. “5:41am” it read in its obnoxious neon green radiance. Somewhere down the hallway I could hear the maddening wail of my alarm clock trying to be a voice of reason or something, I suppose. How did I not hear that until now? BAH, BAH, BAH, BAH, BAH. God, I just wanted to throw the damn thing against the wall. I have done that quite a few times already. Like after Cinco De Mayo last year. Threw that motherfucker so good it flew out of my room and smacked the wall in the hallway. Or after the Colts lost the Super Bowl. Hell, it wasn’t even morning time, and I’m not into sports! I just went into my room and punted the sumbitch right into the ceiling. I can be childish sometimes. There was also that one time when my ex-girlfriend threw the alarm clock at me… Does that even count? I don’t know. My alarm clock is actually quite beaten up, I should probably buy a new one.

“5:47am”. As I sat there a couple more moments, I felt intruded upon. As if the sun was invading my privacy, putting me on a stage for all the world to laugh at. Don’t you hate that?

I strutted to my bedroom, sticky boxers and all, and silenced the howling beast. On my way out, after tripping over an extension cord gone awry, I stood face-to-face with the blasphemous stock photos. Those motherfuckers were taunting me, I know they were. The flowers! The fucking tire swing! Are you kidding me? Rage flared within me. I seriously could not begin to tell you why or how I allowed these abominations to remain for so long. They really made me want to puke.

Instinctively I tore the frames from the wall and stomped back to the kitchen with them tucked under my arm. I could’ve sworn to God they were burning me with their wickedness, their phoniness.

I found myself in front of the window, the same window the damn sun broke in through. I disengaged the lock and threw it open. A blast of chill air sucked inward, air you could tell was leftover from the night. It had a nice smell. It was then that I realized how muggy it had been in the kitchen. Like two (or more) people were in here having sex all night or something. If only.

I peered outside into the shifting sky. You know, there isn’t a lot to brag about in Indiana, but the sunrises are absolutely beautiful. Picturesque, you could say. Deep reds that bleed over the entire Earth, splashes of orange, streaks of lavender. They are serene.

I felt a searing on my side. Pulling the photos out from my arm, I flung them out into the open air without so much as a last glance. I suppose I could have thrown them in the trash, but then they would still be inside the apartment. They had to be eradicated, and immediately. With pleasure I envisioned gravity pulling them down, down, down, all thirteen floors, where they would meet their well-deserved demise on the sidewalk below. Gosh, I hope they don’t hit anything… An afterthought.

It took only a grain of sand in the hourglass of our universe for the photos to collide with the pavement, marked by a satisfying crash. Later some would testify that a dog’s yelp followed just after the commotion, but I heard no such thing.

Smug and triumphant with a menace destroyed, I turned on my heel, only to be blasted with more joy as my gaze fell upon my papers on the table. Oh, my work! My lovely work!

The lack of sleep, the now sweat stained boxers… It had all been worth it. I had spent all night crafting the structure for what I know, without a doubt, will be my best story ever. The big one.

I had finished the outline, was already on the second chapter of the story. Hell, I even sketched out a picture of ole’ Krosmere. A muscle-bound barbarian. Thick, long brown hair (like mine). I made him only have one nipple, though. You know, to add character and all that. Really, I am a terrible artist. I couldn’t draw my way out of a two-dimensional square if I had to.

I still had about three hours until I needed to start selling lightbulbs, which was fine with me. You can do a lot in three hours, if you really try. I figured I could make some breakfast, get cleaned up, maybe even go for a walk. Working through the day without a wink of sleep was not something I really looked forward to, but it wasn’t that big of a deal. Adderall. I’m fairly sure I had someone’s script in my cabinet still. You know, for emergencies and the like.

With a newfound pep in my step, I threw the pan onto the rusted stove and began cracking some eggs, whistling along with the birds perched among the rooftops outside.

#writing #fiction

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littleoldrachel · 7 years ago

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Fifth chapter is up! Read it here on ao3, or here on ff.net, or under the cut.

***Shoutout to a real life angel @mysticalightwood for sending me the loveliest message about this lil thing and making a rubbish day so much better <3***

100 Ways to Say I Love You

Summary: In which actions speak louder than words, Sirius and Remus sort of fall in to a relationship, and even though neither of them have said those three all-important words, they both know it anyway.Or: 100 Ways to Say I Love You by Sirius Black and Remus Lupin.

Previous | chapter 5/100 - “I’ll walk you home.” | Next

Based on this post by p0ck3tf0x

Tw for mentions of anxiety, mentions of depression, some real intense self-hate, a blink and you'll miss it reference to past self harm, ANGST.

Remus plops himself down in to an armchair, hissing slightly as his muscles shriek in protest. Alice grimaces sympathetically from where she’s curled in her own squishy chair, and Lily drops in to the final seat with a sigh.

She raises her mug of almond-milk hot chocolate, and clinks it against the others’. “The three spoonies ride again!” Alice lets out a little whoop, jingling her silver ‘I’m epileptic!’ bracelet, and Remus smiles behind his cup, unable to match their enthusiasm, because his stomach is killing him. (His whole body is tender and fiery just beneath his skin, but the cramps are fierce and relentless. He surreptitiously cradles his hot mug against his belly; the heat that seeps through his shirt helps a little, but not enough. The chatter and buzz of the café are doing nothing to help his headache either, and he wants nothing more than to crawl in to his bed with a hot water bottle and stay there for the foreseeable future).

“How are y’all?” Lily asks, taking a huge bite of her Danish, and groaning around the mouthful. “This is fucking delicious.”

Alice shrugs a little. “Not terrible, الحمد الله. Haven’t tranced in like, a month?”

“That’s great,” murmurs Remus. “Did you get your meds adjusted?”

“Yeah, they’re better now, I’m less sleepy all the time. The weight gain’s a pain, but,” she pulls a face. “Every time I complain about it in front of my parents, I’m told that I should be grateful that they can even treat it, blah blah blah.”

Lily scoffs. “Spoken like a true Able.”

Alice makes a noise of agreement in her throat. “Anyway. How about you, Lils?”

Lily pulls a face, cramming the last of the pastry in to her mouth. “Had a bit of a flare last week. Also, J made his own ice cream – what a nerd, can you believe he makes his own? – and obviously, I couldn’t resist, and my UC did not appreciate that at all. But this week: so far, so good.”

“It’s only Monday,” Remus points out.

“And I am trying very hard to be positive. What’s gotten in to you, Mr Grumpy Guts?” Lily retorts.

Remus flushes a little guiltily (selfish, selfish, selfish). “Sorry… I’ve had this stomach ache for like four days, and everything hurts. I just – sorry.”

“Oh no, habibi, don’t do that,” Alice shakes her head, and Remus is momentarily distracted by the way her pink, glittery hijab sparkles under the warm, café lighting. “You’re absolutely allowed to be grumpy. Anyone would be.”

Lily nods in agreement. “We don’t have to apologise for our illnesses making us moody here, remember?” She stretches out a hand to Remus, and he smiles back at her, squeezing his fingers. “There’s something else the matter though,” she says, and her eyes narrow as she scrutinises him. “You look awful. And not in an I-can’t-stand-up-straight-and-shower-because-everything-hurts sort of way.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“She’s right,” chimes in Alice, and somewhere, beneath the pain in his gut, Remus feels the stirrings of panic, and even further below that, the churning shame-rejection-disappointment-sadness that he’s been suppressing for the last few days. “Uh oh, what’s that face?” She shuffles a little closer to him, laying a protective hand on his forearm. Remus takes a deep breath, staring down at his hot chocolate, and it trembles a little in his hands.

“I did something really fucking stupid.”

There’s a silence, and then Lily says – her voice low and urgent – “Remus, are we talking I’m hurting myself again kind of stupid, or I’m not taking my meds or – “

“No!” Remus says quickly, hating himself that these are even things that they have to worry about. “Nothing like that.” He feels Lily relax, and Alice lets out a barely-audible sigh, and the ball of self-loathing that wraps around his heart tightens a little more. “I… uh...” he runs a hand down his face, and whispers through his fingers, “I sort of kissed Sirius?”

“What?” Alice yelps, and Lily jolts, going rigid once more. “I have so many questions. When? Where? Sort of? What??”

Remus can’t meet their eyes, as he lowers his shaky hands, and begins twisting them anxiously, pinching at the skin on his wrist. “At the party thing. Last week.”

There’s another pause as they digest this. “Sort of?” Alice repeats. “What does that even mean?”

He lets out a sigh, feeling the guilt-shame-self-hatred writhing low in his belly, and a sharp pain twists through his stomach. (He deserved that, he deserves that and worse for fucking everything up. Sirius hasn’t texted or called in five days since it happened, and the thought of seeing him again makes him feel dizzy and nauseous with nerves… though there’s a smaller part of him that isn’t sure why he’s making this such a Big Deal – it’s not like he hasn’t kissed Sirius before; Sirius is affectionate, and they’ve been friends for long enough that this shouldn’t be causing such turmoil).

“We were kind of just… sitting next to each other, and then he squeezed my hand, and just… didn’t let go? And then I kissed his hand?” He goes to hide his face once more, but Alice catches his arm and holds it fast.

“You kissed his hand? What is this, the 1600s?”

Remus is burning – the pain in his stomach is a boiling, bubbling mess, the pain throughout his body sets his skin on fire, and now, the flush rises over his cheeks – hot, hot, hot with embarrassment.

“Lils, you’re being weirdly quiet,” Alice continues. “Any input?”

Lily has sat back in her chair, and is studying Remus, though not harshly. “This explains a lot,” she says eventually, and Remus’ already roiling stomach lurches.

“What do you mean?” he asks, a little too desperate and raw. “Has he said anything?”

“No,” Lily says carefully. “But he doesn’t have to. He’s been in a kind of… daze? J and I thought it was because of the new job – anxiety, you know? But this explains it.”

“Shit,” Remus murmurs. “Shit, shit, shit.” He draws his legs to his chest, curling up as small as his aching body will allow. (He wants to drop off the face of the planet, or sink in to a deep, dark hole, or fade entirely from existence-)

“Stop spiralling,” Lily says sharply. “It’s not a bad sort of daze. That’s why it didn’t add up. He’s… happy, I think?”

Remus looks at her disbelievingly. “Please don’t lie to me to make me feel better. Not about this-“

“Look,” Alice cuts in. “What did he say when you did it?”

Remus swallows and looks down. “Nothing… it was just silence and then I ran and I’ve ruined everything.” He buries his face in his knees, because he doesn’t have the courage to face either of them right now, and he especially doesn’t deserve their kindness.

“How have you ruined everything?” asks Lily calmly, and Remus snaps his head up incredulously.

“Are you kidding? Now he knows that I – that I – “

“Yes?” Alice says gently, when he tapers off.

“That I – hngh, never mind,” Remus can feel a lump in his throat, and the words are trapped beneath it, unable to escape. The burning sensations throughout his body have reached the backs of his eyes, but he refuses to cry – he will not cry. (This is why this is a Big Deal – this is what makes it different to any other time that Sirius has kissed him).

“Noooo, don’t do that.” Lily grabs his hand back, and strokes the back of it with her thumb reassuringly. “Go on.”

Remus wrenches his gaze to her face, and then feels an icy bucket of dread-horror-panic tip over him because she knew. The tears spill over his cheeks before he can stop them. “You knew,” he mumbles, “shit, shit, shit, is it that obvious?”

“Is what obvious?” persists Alice, taking his other hand.

“That I like Sirius!” Remus bursts out, and then shrinks in his seat as a couple of heads turn in his direction.

“Oh, praise the Lord!” Lily whispers, a smile splitting across her face.

“You finally admitted it!” Alice says, radiant with how wide she’s beaming.

Remus feels – overwhelmed. He’s horrified that this secret that he’s kept so close to his heart for so long was apparently blindingly obvious, he’s terrified by the implications of everyone knowing, he’s still a mess of guilt, shame, and embarrassment. The odd sense of relief at sharing this burden juxtaposes painfully with his utter panic that he’s shared this burden. It’s been his secret (or apparently not a secret, but still), and only his, for as long as he can remember – for weeks, months, years even, and a secret that’s outlasted every other crush he’s had on men, women, people just as kind, brave, smart, funny, gorgeous as Sirius.

(Except that there’s nobody quite like Sirius – not many people are capable of making Remus feel so good about himself just by being around them, not many people give him the confidence to feel like he can accomplish anything he puts his mind to – not many people make him feel like enough, just as he is. But Sirius does).

He doesn’t know what to do with this tidal wave of conflicting emotions, and he tries to suck in a shaky breath, to combat the tears that are trickling down his cheeks, but it’s like he’s lost all control.

“Shh shh shh, you’re alright,” Lily’s gentle voice cuts through his meltdown, and he’s startled to find that she’s moved directly in front of him, and is pulling him in to an embrace. He buries his face in to her shoulder – disoriented, but agonisingly aware that he needs to get a grip – and forces in a few calming breaths like his therapist has taught him. As Lily releases him, her face tense with concern, Alice presses a tissue in to fists that he didn’t realise were clenched.

“S-sorry,” he whispers, wiping his eyes on his sleeve, whilst still struggling with the whole even-breathing thing.

“We didn’t mean to push you,” Alice says, and Remus shakes his head a little too violently; it twinges sharply at the movement.

“It’s just been – a shitty week, and I’m loopy with the pain and – everything – I – argh,” Remus scrubs at his eyes, smearing the tears on his cheeks, and presses until he’s seeing stars. (Sirius is a star, his mind supplies unhelpfully, and he snaps his eyes open again). “I’m a fucking mess.”

“Yes,” says Lily, easing herself back in to her chair. “But we love you more than life itself. Now, we need to talk about this.”

“Whyyy?” Remus whines, hiding his face again, “I’m fine just burying my head in the sand and pretending it never happened.”

“I think we just saw that’s not true,” Alice says quietly.

“Agreed,” says Lily, “so. What’s so bad about Sirius knowing that you have Feelings for him?”

“Because nothing can ever happen and so it will make our friendship super weird – it’s already making our friendship weird, and-“

“Why can nothing ever happen?”

“Because he’s – everything,” Remus waves his hand, unable to explain quite what Sirius is – but knowing that Lily and Alice will understand anyway, because they adore Sirius just as much as he does. “And I’m-“ he gestures vaguely at himself, “this.”

Alice slaps his arm – gently, obviously, because she’s thoughtful and good and Remus loves her so much – and says sharply, “careful now. It sounded a lot like you were about to be down on yourself.”

Remus sighs, “I just mean that compared to him –“ Lily raises her eyebrows and Remus changes track sharply. “My life’s not going anywhere, and sometimes it feels like I have nothing going for me, and I know that’s not true, and I’m working on it, but I can’t help it, and – I just – Sirius deserves everything.”

When he finally looks up, he’s not entirely unsurprised to see Alice and Lily staring at him. What is surprising is the near unbearable sadness in their eyes.

Lily’s voice is heavy and a little tired, “one day, Remus, I swear to God, you will see yourself the way we all see you.”

“You deserve everything too,” Alice adds, the corners of her mouth tugging down uncharacteristically.

“Can we not?” Remus loves his friends – unquestionably, unshakeably; they are the best part of him, and he is frequently overwhelmed by the thought that these incredible, wonderful beings love him too. But sometimes it’s not a good overwhelming, and right now, he’s uncomfortable enough as it is, and any more of their unbounding affection, and he’s going to start crying again.

Lily makes a slightly frustrated noise, but lets it go, and Alice purses her lips a little. “Okay. So, ‘worst case scenario:’ Sirius knows that you have a crazy big crush on him. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Remus frowns, because Alice and Lily are two of the smartest, fiercest women he knows, but they’re asking the most inane questions. “He gets weirded out, our friendship is ruined, it splits the group and everyone sides with Sirius.”

“Habibi, never.” Alice looks aghast. “If you really think that we would all abandon you over something like this, then we’re failing you as friends.”

“You are just as important to us as Sirius,” Lily says firmly, and Remus screws his eyes shut. (He’s screwing this up, just like he’s screwed up his friendship with Sirius. He doesn’t want to talk about his shitty self-worth, he doesn’t want to have to explain to them all the reasons why Sirius will absolutely never reciprocate his feelings; all he wants is to curl up in bed with a hot-water bottle and feel sorry for himself).

He’s vaguely aware that Lily and Alice are silently communicating whilst his eyes are shut – probably in BSL, James paid for everybody to have classes the moment Peter joined their group – and he’s resigning himself to yet another pep talk about how loved he is, but –

“Okay, what if this is a classic example of your anxiety working everything up, and he doesn’t actually know, and everything stays the same?”

Remus opens his eyes in surprise. “That’d be the best solution,” he says, like it’s obvious, because that would be ideal, right? That’s what he wants, isn’t it?

There’s a pause, and Alice and Lily exchange another Look, and Remus realises he’s missing something significant. He sort of wants to ask what it is, but his stomach is hurting worse and worse by the second, this conversation is draining more and more of his energy – not a good sign considering he has work later.

“I promise we’ll drop this if you promise us that you’ll talk to him,” Lily says finally.

“Soon,” adds Alice.

The thought of hashing all this out with Sirius makes Remus’ anxiety spike, and his head spins a little even as he finds himself nodding in agreement. It seems to satisfy his friends for the time being though, because the conversation shifts to their jobs – Lily and Alice take lead of the conversation, whilst Remus leans back in the armchair, focusing on breathing through his nerves and massaging his stomach through the pain. (Neither do much to ease his suffering).

He loses track of time – it’s only Alice nudging him and reminding him that he needs to get going for work that forces him to his feet.

“Thank you for putting up with me,” he says, pulling his arms around himself, and his heart warm a little as the two of them scoff.

“We love you so much, sweetheart,” Lily murmurs before he leaves, and he nods, pecking her cheek, before turning to Alice.

“Don’t lose hope. Things will work out, إن شاء الله,” she presses a kiss to his other cheek, holds him tight in her embrace for a moment longer than necessary.

(His friends are the best things in his life; he will never stop being grateful to them, and he can only pray that this thing with Sirius isn’t about to fuck it all up, because it will tear him apart if it does).

It’s not a long shift – only four or so hours, but Tom tries to convince him twice to go home in that time – and every time he catches sight of his reflection in the pint glasses, he has to resist a shudder, because he’s all blotchy and clammy and a fucking mess. He has a minor moment of panic when his brain is too foggy to comprehend a customer’s order, but Tom rescues him (“if you won’t go home, lad, then you’re gonna at least take a fuckin’ break,” and Remus spends the entire fifteen minutes in the breakroom curled in a ball on the floor).

Closing finally – finally – arrives, the last of the regulars slope off, and Remus begins wiping down the tables and bar top, moving slowly to accommodate his aching everything. The soft music – usually obscured by the noise and bustle of the pub – drifts over the empty room, and he’s so fucking tired.

“Can I get a drink?”

“We’re closed,” says Remus automatically, before he tenses as he recognises the voice. Sirius is leaning across the bar with his playful smirk, and he looks – fantastic, of course he does. (And Remus is pale and sweating with how much pain he’s in, and the bags under his eyes are now taking up most of his face, he looks – dreadful, of course he does).

“Hey,” says Sirius, his smirk fading in to something a little more cautious, and his gaze flickers over Remus concernedly.

“Hi,” Remus says, because, in spite of Alice and Lily’s best efforts to prepare him for this moment, he doesn’t have a fucking clue what to do now that he’s actually face-to-face with Sirius.

Sirius clears his throat, clearly just as aware of the awkwardness as Remus. “How’ve you been? S’been a while.”

Remus grips the underside of the bar for support, feeling a little weak with panic. He knows Sirius is anxious too – he’s picking at his cuff with one hand, and he keeps adjusting his stance from one leg to another, and Remus doesn’t know what to say.

“Oh… uh, I mean, you know, busy…” he winces at his own excuses, looks down at the glasses he’s wiping dry, desperate for some sort of distraction. “How have you been?” He chances a glance back up at Sirius.

He’s frowning, studying Remus – taking in the way his hands are shaking slightly with the effort of putting the glasses away, at the way he’s cradling his stomach with his arm. He takes a breath, and meets Remus’ eyes squarely. “Not that great. Anxious as heck. Missed you,” he chuckles self-consciously.

Remus’ throat is dry and his stomach is churning, but if Sirius can be brave enough to be honest, then fuck it, so can he. He swallows, “I missed you too.”

“Then why didn’t you text? Or call, or something?” Sirius blurts, and the way his eyes widen shows that he didn’t mean to say that out loud. Remus sees Sirius’ fingers clench around his thigh – a sure-fire sign that he is Anxious - and his fingers itch with the urge to reach out and take it, to help in some way. But he can’t. He doesn’t have that right.

He can’t hold Sirius’ gaze any longer. He looks away, breathing through his own anxiety, and forces himself to be honest. “I think – I – uh, I made things weird between us, didn’t I?” His chest tightens painfully as he admits it out loud, hate-guilt-shame tearing through him.

“What makes you say that?” Sirius’ voice is careful and measured, and Remus wants to scream, because Sirius is actually going to make him say it – he can’t he can’t he can’t –

He can’t do it. Lying to Sirius makes him feel like the scum of the Earth – he is the scum of the Earth for even considering it, but what choice does he have? Lily and Alice were wrong – he doesn’t deserve Sirius, nobody deserves Sirius; Sirius is too good and amazing and wonderful, and Remus could never give him the life he deserves.

(This is for the best).

(Right?)

He keeps his voice as light as possible, forces a smile to his lips, which probably looks a little too-brittle, but he can always blame it on his fibro. What’s one more lie between them? “Not sure really… it’s not like we haven’t kissed before – I just, on the hand, it’s a bit weird, right?”

(His heart is doing something wrong and painful – a different kind of pain to the pain shooting up and down his body, but no less real. This pain is buried deep, a sort of tearing in his chest, like someone is actually trying to rip his heart out and squeeze the bloody tatters out through his ribcage).

(This is how his heart breaks).

There’s a pause. It’s tense and wrong and overwhelmingly bad. And then –

Sirius laughs, only it’s wrong, there’s something wrong – Sirius’ laugh should be delighted and joyful and loud and this, this is none of those things; it’s forced and uncomfortable and a little awkward, and Remus’ heart aches a little, because he doesn’t know how to fix this. He’s fucked up, he’s ruined everything, he’s in so much fucking pain and he’s fucking exhausted and he can’t – he just can’t.

The sob rises in his throat, even as Sirius is choosing his reply. “A little, I guess. But that’s no reason to go all AWOL on me, okay?”

Remus ducks his head to hide the tears forming on his lashes, and nods. “Sorry – I won’t do it again.”

“Please don’t.” Sirius’ voice is too soft and tender and full of something that Remus can’t place – the sincerity though nearly breaks his resolve to not tell Sirius everything, and he bites down his lip hard enough to taste copper to stop himself from spilling it all.

He nods again, not trusting his voice, and takes a few deep breaths, licking at his lips where they’re oozing blood.

“Are you nearly done here?” Sirius asks, and the change of subject is both relieving and distressing.

“Gotta finish with the sweeping,” Remus mumbles to the floor, and the thought of that much movement makes him want to give in to the tears completely and just sob on the floor.

Sirius claps his hands. “Go sit. I’ll sweep.”

He’s already marching towards the cleaning cupboard by the time Remus is stumbling for a reply. “No – I can – you shouldn’t-“

Sirius is back, broom and dustpan in hand, and he presses his spare palm against Remus cheek gently. “Remus. You look like shit. You’re obviously in pain. Please, for the love of God, humour me and go sit down.”

Remus wants to argue. He really intends to, except he finds himself wandering in a zombie-like state towards the soft sofa seats, and watching through half-open eyes as Sirius makes short work of the sweeping. (Another reason he doesn’t deserve Sirius).

A shadow falls in front of his face, and then there are warm hands in his, helping him to his feet. He staggers a little, and an arm slides around his waist, supporting him until he’s steadier. “I’ll walk you home,” Sirius says quietly, and it’s not a question, but Remus still nods his assent, too tired to argue with him.

The walk back (and Remus insists on a walk, because he absolutely cannot spare the cash for a taxi, and Sirius had already done too much for him this evening) is a sign of how strong their friendship is – it’s quietly pleasant, comfortable, in spite of the recent tension, everything is exactly as it should be. And yet, something has changed between them, Remus is sure of it – there’s something different behind Sirius’ eyes, something more in his smile, and Remus desperately wishes he could place exactly what it is, if only he weren’t so bloody tired. Sirius keeps up a stream of only-slightly-nervous-chatter, and Remus lets it wash over him, too focused on his own pain and self-loathing and guilt to really focus on what he’s saying. (Ironically, the thought of his self-absorption only adds to his self-loathing and guilt, and he knows vaguely that this is going to spiral, that he is Not Okay).

(He misses the way Sirius’ smile is a little sad, his eyes a little disappointed, as they say their good nights in front of Remus’ apartment block. He has no way of knowing that the second he disappears through the door, Sirius is on the phone to James – “Prongs, I thought you said he felt the same, I don’t understand, I thought – I hoped –“. He’s busy crashing fully-clothed in to bed, the guilt and the pain and the shame digging their claws tightly in to his body, and pulling him away from a restful sleep).

#will edit later #littleoldrachel writes #writing #fic #wolfstar #remus lupin #sirius black #lily evans #alice longbottom #chronic illness #100 ways to say i love you

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