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platypanthewriter · 4 years ago

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Hook Possum 3/4

Art by @monsdasarah for Harringrove Big Bang!

PART ONE | TWO

The next morning, Steve did the First Aid class. “Hook Possum here has offered to help��” he began.

“What?!” Hook Possum hissed, as the kids shoved him forward, laughing, and Steve paced around like a drill sergeant.

He’d always liked teaching first aid. “Attention up here, everybody!” he shouted, grinning. “Who knows when to yell for help? You?” he pointed to a wide-eyed kid who shook his head. “We call ‘em the Big Bs,” Steve told the kids, crossing his arms. “Bleeding, breathing, barf, burns, bones, and bites.”

“Barf,” giggled a little girl.

“If anything is happening like that—bleeding, anything wrong with someone’s breathing, you see barf—” Steve paused, gratified to see Hook Possum miming a gouting wound, gasping for air, and puking his guts up. “—if anybody gets burned—” Hook Possum grasped his hooked paw, frowned at it, and yelled “My paw got burned off!”, and everybody laughed uproariously.

“If anything happens to anyone’s bones—” Steve went on, and got to see Hook Possum clutching at his leg, “—or if anyone or anything’s teeth breath somebody's skin—” he ignored Hook Possum yelling about vampires, trying to keep a straight face. “If any of the Big Bs happen, you need an adult, okay? We’re gonna need to take a look at it, and maybe take that kid to the doctor.”

“Okaaaaay,” the kids chorused, most of them looking faintly rebellious.

“A lot of it we can handle here, though,” Steve told them, and several brightened. “Lemme show you all your way around a first aid kit.”

Steve demonstrated how to bandage a possum, diagnose a possum with heatstroke, splint a possum’s tail, and he pretended to give him a shot with the new epi-pen, in case of bee allergies. At the end, he let all the kids play with the gauze bandages he’d used, and a box of band-aids.

Hook Possum didn’t look any less uncanny with his face covered in Scooby Doo and Sesame Street band-aids. It almost made him worse, somehow, because your eyes caught on the cartoony band-aids first, and then processed the mangy, vacant-eyed, toothy head.

The possum did look hilarious all trussed up in bandages, and one little girl tried so hard to make a sling, she wrapped the bandage around his neck and pulled, and Hook Possum gagged, twitched, and slumped onto the picnic table Steve had been using for demonstrations.

“If you can’t help them, you gotta at least hide the body,” Steve told everyone, his cheeks hurting with how wide he was grinning. “What’s the campsite rule?”

“Leave it cleaner than you found it,” they chorused, watching Hook Possum’s twitching legs in the air.

“We could tie some rocks to him and dump him in the lake,” a very small girl in pink ruffled overalls suggested, and the kids around her edged away.

“Now, hang on,” Steve told them. “Remember a possum is actually unconscious if it’s ‘playing dead’. It makes an awful smell, but if you leave it alone, sometimes they’ll wake up and wander off. We should probably leave Hook Possum alone for a while.”

Around then, Robin called for lunch, and the kids started to wander off.

“Don’t you dare leave me tied up,” Hook Possum hissed, and Steve patted his shoulder, and told him to stay there. While the kids were straggling into the mess tent, Steve ran and got the old camp camera, and took about five pictures of Hook Possum trussed like a turkey. “You utter asshole,” he hissed flatly, but he was laughing, Steve could tell.

After lunch, there was a mud flats exploration party, and the kids all ran off with buckets. Steve got Hook Possum some cool water, and closed his eyes politely as the mask was removed.

“When you gonna let me look?” he asked, laughing. “It’s not like I’m gonna tell anybody. You gonna keep this up for weeks?”

“...I need the bonus,” Hook Possum muttered.

“Yeah, I know,” Steve told him, “—but you’ve got the mask off already, what difference does it make if I see you? There’s nobody else around!”

“Leave it alone, Harrington,” Hook Possum growled, and Steve felt the picnic bench shift. When he called out, and then dared open his eyes, several minutes later, Hook Possum was gone.

After that, Steve didn’t ask. He encountered Hook Possum a few times in the showers—late in the Indiana night, when it felt like every breath was clingingly hot, and only the shower stalls were cool.

“Don’t turn the light on,” Hook Possum always hissed, and Steve snorted a laugh, shaking his head.

“I won’t, dude,” he always said, and they’d talk, some, in neighboring stalls, just letting the water wash away the sweaty heat of the night.

Hook Possum was moving to the west coast, he said, and Steve felt a pang at that, the same as he’d seen in Max. “It cools off at night there,” he said dryly, and Steve just bit his lips together, nodding.

“Hard to argue with,” he admitted. “Uh, when...when are you leaving?”

“As soon as I pack after camp,” Hook Possum said, a little muffled, like he was washing his face. “Why stick around Hawkins.”

“Oh,” Steve said, nodding again. He couldn’t really think of anything to say, so he focused on scrubbing the sap off his toes from the conifer right by their cabin.

Every night, the Hook Possum stories got more in-depth. “One full moon, a girl and her boyfriend drove out to this very campground and parked,” Robin began, as some of the kids said ‘why?’ and others said ‘ew!’. “He was driving,” she said, leaning in, so the light of the campfire lit her face from underneath, “—and even though it was past midnight, and she asked and asked to go home, he wouldn’t start the car.”

Some of the kids looked unimpressed, but some of them were listening avidly.

“He looked at her,” Robin said, “—and he smiled, and he said ‘Nobody knows I brought you here.’”

“He’s gonna sink her in the lake, with rocks,” said the tiny girl in the ruffled pink overalls.

Robin high-fived her, and then leaned in again. “The boyfriend grabbed her arm and twisted it around, and whispered, ‘Nobody knows where you are’, and the girl screamed, because her arm felt like it would break. ‘You know what I want,’ he said.”

Steve knew his cue, and he reached down behind the log he was sitting on to scrape the fire poker along the hatchet they’d used to cut kindling, making a long, metallic scrape. A couple of kids shrieked, looking around.

“Just then!” Robin shouted, standing up, and more kids yelled, “—the two heard a ripping, metallic noise on the roof of the car. The boyfriend was so angry he shook the girl, and then yelled ‘What the hell is that?!’, but she didn’t know.”

Steve scraped the poker on the hatchet again, angling it for a sharper, higher-pitched noise.

“Something scraped along the door, and the girl screamed again, because she was already so afraid. She’d been thinking of opening the door and running into the woods, but as something scraped the door again—”

Steve scraped them together as loud as he could, having practiced with Robin beforehand, and everyone yelped and winced. Even Robin’s eye twitched at the awful noise.

“—the girl begged her boyfriend not to get out of the car.”

“But he did,” whispered one of the kids, eyes wide.

“He did. He left her there. Once he got out, though, the noise didn’t come again, and she sat, listening, and crying. She heard him scream, the way she had, when the bones of her arm creaked in his grip.”

The kids were rapt, and El met her cue with a branch-shuddering wind, making the whole clearing full of campers shriek.

“Did she get out of the car?!” Pink Overalls asked, urgently, and Robin shook her head.

“She heard branches break, and then, crashing through the underbrush. It might have been more screams, or it might have been the wind. The girl curled in her coat, staring at the blackness through the windows, and when she felt another thud against the car, and—” Steve scraped the hatchet with the poker again, long and grating, and a kid moaned. Robin lowered her voice, and the kids leaned closer to hear. “Heard another noise, like something scratching to get in, the girl locked the doors.”

Robin waited several beats, her face darker and more red as the fire burned down to coals. “In the morning, the girl woke to find her boyfriend pinned to the driver’s side door with a massive hook through his hand. He was whimpering, staring into the forest, and he didn’t respond to her voice. His hair was white.”

“Hook Possum,” gasped Pink Overalls, and everyone turned to stare.

“Hey, he got what was coming,” Hook Possum said.

That night, predictably, a bunch of kids came looking for Hook Possum. “There are floating lights,” one squeaked, pointing, and Steve bit back a laugh, remembering seeing the marsh gas and fireflies as a kid. “It’s Hook Possum,” he whispered, but the kid shook his head, pointing.

“No, he’s right here.”

Steve considered. “It’s weird telling stories about you when you’re around,” he told the furry bulk at his elbow, glaring.

“Well, sorry,” Hook Possum shot back. “There aren’t a lot of jobs a possum can get, Harrington.”

“We always said the lights were Hook Possum,” Steve said, shrugging. “Searching for the one who wronged him. The reason he can’t move on. He never sleeps.”

“Euuugh,” said one of the kids, shuddering. “He does sleep, though! I’ve seen his bunk.”

“Yeah, we know he’s really a...person,” said a small voice in the dark, shakily. “In-in a costume.”

“Mostly a person,” said another little voice.

“Yeah, we know you’re mostly a person,” said another one. “E-except at night.”

“Hang on, now,” Hook Possum hissed, but Steve elbowed him.

“Hook Possum won’t let anything happen to you,” he told them.

One evening when the sunset was particularly fine, and Steve was for once off dish duty, Hook Possum was down sitting on the dock, his legs splashing in the lake. The back of the costume was untied—except for the neck, since it hadn’t fallen off—and through the long slit in the back, Steve could see skin. In the golden light of sunset, Hook Possum didn’t even look too terrifying, from the back, his plastic fur shining

Steve pressed down a nearly-overwhelming urge to slide his fingers between the folds of polyester fur and let his fingertips brush over Hook Possum’s shoulder blades.

“You’re getting all wet,” Steve said, dropping to sit on his hands, and Hook Possum snorted.

“Possums dry,” he said, kicking his feet in the water, and Steve realized, seeing a pale flash, that he didn’t have shoes on, and stared down, his heart thumping at every flash of ankle.

“...hey,” Steve said, like a genius, leaning to thump their shoulders together, and Hook Possum laughed. Off in the woods, there was another grinding noise, a mechanical roar, and a horrible high-pitched whinny that made Steve’s teeth clench.

“...sounds like somebody needs a new fan belt,” Hook Possum said, leaning against his side, and Steve stretched, yawning, and reached an arm around his shoulders, feeling Hook Possum laugh. “...what’s over that way?” Hook Possum asked, letting himself slump a little into Steve’s side.

“What?” Steve breathed, thinking about the little line of Hook Possum’s back showing through the back, and how it would feel to slide his thumb in there, up and down, feeling the bumps along Hook Possum’s spine.

Hook Possum laughed. He sounded a little breathless. “Uh, I just—what—what’s over there, where the um, where the engine noises? Are coming from?”

“Oh,” Steve said, blinking. “Uh, nothing.” He frowned, thinking about it. “Nothing’s supposed to be that direction, there’s no road. It’s prairie, y’know, park lands.”

“How come I keep hearing shit from over there, then,” Hook Possum mumbled, without lifting his masked head from Steve’s shoulder.

“...dunno,” Steve sighed, giving in to temptation, and sliding his thumb inside the gap at the back of the Hook Possum costume. Hook Possum shivered, tensing, and Steve just rubbed a slow circle with his thumb until Hook Possum relaxed with a sigh. They sat, splashing their feet, until Steve sighed. “...I should probably go check it out, huh.”

“...mmmn,” Hook Possum said. “...probably. Since you kinda...own the damn park.” He pulled away, sitting up straight, and Steve let his arm fall away. “Keep forgetting your dad owns the damn place,” Hook Possum muttered.

“I mean, it doesn’t really matter,” Steve told him, hoping it didn’t.

“Yeah, like you couldn’t talk to him and get us all fired,” Hook Possum laughed, touching his mask, and Steve grimaced.

“I wouldn’t get you fired,” he groaned. “Why in the hell would I get you fired?”

“How the hell should I know,” Hook Possum growled, clambering back up onto the dock.

The next day, Steve led friendship bracelet making. He always did, because he’d been going to camp so long he was really, really good at friendship bracelets.

“What color you want yours?” he called over to Hook Possum, as a matter of course, and Hook Possum stared at him, smoke swirling from his eyeholes. “...you’re gonna set yourself on fire,” Steve told him, laying out the embroidery thread. “Pick out some colors.”

“...you’re making me a friendship bracelet?” Hook Possum asked, warily.

“Well, yeah,” Steve told him, shrugging. “What colors you want?”

“...uh,” Hook Possum said. “Possum colors?”

“The hell are those,” Steve asked, snorting a laugh. “I’m not stomping it in the dirt.”

Hook Possum swung a leg over the bench opposite Steve, and leaned his horrible mask in his hands to pore over the color selection. “...how many should I pick?” he muttered, his voice deeper than his usual fake squeaky hiss, and Steve bit back a smile.

“Probably, uh, three to like...five,” he said, shrugging. He’d started a pink, green, and orange candy-striped one for Pink Overalls, and he pinned it to the knee of his jeans to work on while Hook Possum considered.

Finally, he reached his plastic-clawed paw and pushed a grayish blue forward towards Steve, and then a darker blue, and then hesitated between the other colors, and pulled back.

“...white?” Steve suggested. “It’d still be a blue bracelet, but it’d show up.”

“White,” Hook Possum said, nodding. “Possum colors,” he announced.

Steve found himself grinning, again, the way he always was lately. His cheeks were tired and it was only eleven in the morning.

He got distracted helping the kids with theirs—Pink Overalls wanted to make one for Bell Witch Mirror kid, and so on—so it wasn’t until after dinner, when he snuck back to their cabin with a tray of spaghetti, that he managed to work on it. He slid the tray onto Hook Possum’s bunk, hitching up the flag curtain so the guy wouldn’t sit on it by accident, and then dropped into his bunk. He looped the cut embroidery thread around his toe, frowning up intently at the ceiling of his bunk as he wove the strands.

Hook Possum wandered in shortly after. “Where’d you go?” he asked, leaning in. “You okay?” He stared for a long second, and then asked, “...is that my bracelet?”

“Yep,” Steve told him, his fingers dextrous after the long day of reminding himself of the patterns.

“...it’s almost dark in here,” Hook Possum said, nearly a whisper, and Steve laughed.

“I been making these so long I could do it in the dark,” he said. “You better eat, if you’re gonna go sit around the fire.”

“I think I can miss a night of Hook Possum stories,” Hook Possum said. “I’m gonna grab a shower first.”

Steve nodded, only half paying attention, because it was getting dark, and he had to keep up the rhythm or turn on the light to find it again.

When Hook Possum returned, Steve was half done, carefully not looking over as the human who wore the possum suit sat just out of sight, leaning against Steve’s bunk, and ate the spaghetti Steve had brought him. The dim battery lantern Steve had set behind his bunk lit them both yellowy from the back, so even if he’d looked over, he couldn’t have seen much of Hook Possum’s face.

“How are you even doing that,” Hook Possum asked, and the bunk creaked as he sat next to Steve, warm and damp from the shower, smelling of soap and the pine trail back to the cabin. His curls—he had curls, Steve thought dazedly—tickled Steve’s shoulder, as he reached up to run his fingers over the dimly-lit, smooth-woven thread in Steve’s fingers.

“...practice,” Steve said, his throat weirdly tight.

The head against his nodded, and Steve could feel stubble against his cheek. Hook Possum’s body was heavy against his, his hairy legs a little itchy, and Steve wanted to roll over and explore, slide his fingers all over Hook Possum’s body.

“What do I do with it,” Hook Possum said, and Steve’s fingers paused. “I just mean, uh,” the guy said quickly, “—there are rules, right? Like I’m not supposed to...take it off?”

“...what, you’ve never had a friendship bracelet?” Steve asked, laughing, and felt the head against his shake.

“Nah,” he said, dryly. “Never been to a summer camp before, either. I was the kinda kid that’d get in trouble.”

“There’s always one every year and you think ‘I’m gonna have to pull that kid out of a toilet or something’,” Steve told him, sighing. “We figure it out. Haven’t lost a camper yet.”

“I wear it until it falls off?” Hook Possum asked, his voice rumbling against Steve’s shoulder. Steve could barely move his right arm, but he didn’t ask Hook Possum to move.

“Yeah. It’ll just wash with you in the shower,” Steve told him, grinning. “Some kids take theirs off to make them last longer, though.”

“What about when it does fall off?” Hook Possum breathed in his ear. “You gonna make me another one?”

Steve felt his face heat, because Hook Possum was being weird and intense about a friendship bracelet, of all things. “...you saying I make a faulty product?”

“I’m asking if you’ll...work here next year,” Hook Possum muttered, sighing into Steve’s shoulder. “If it falls off.”

“The hell do you care,” Steve laughed, his stomach twisting. “You’re moving to Oregon or somewhere.”

“...California,” Hook Possum sighed.

“You saying you’ll give me your address?” Steve asked, nearly forgetting himself and sitting up to look over. He shut his eyes tightly, his heart pounding. “So—so I can mail you a friendship bracelet?” Hook Possum was quiet, his fingers tight on Steve’s wrist. “...you saying you’d...come back to see me?” Steve ventured, and Hook Possum snorted a laugh, so Steve tried to backtrack. “Yeah, no, not for a friendship bracelet,” Steve laughed. It felt forced. “That’d be pretty dumb.”

Hook Possum’s hand ran slowly up Steve’s arm to his face, and Steve waited, his blood thudding through his veins, his eyes clenched so tight shut he saw lights, feeling Hook Possum’s fingers touch his cheek.

Hook Possum’s thumb stroked over his jaw, and Steve trembled with the effort of holding still. He wanted to yank Hook Possum closer, or—or roll on top of him, or something, and the gentle sensation of Hook Possum’s hesitant breath on his lips made him want to scream.

After endless seconds, Hook Possum shoved away, thudding to the floor of the cabin and stomping over to prop the little shuttered window open and lean out. He gasped for air, taking ragged breaths, and Steve felt just the same, like he’d been running.

He opened his eyes and stared up at his foot on the roof of the bunk, and the inches of bracelet dangling between his toes. “You can tell Max when it falls to pieces,” he said, with a weird rasp in his voice. “If you want another one. I can—I can get you another one.”

“You’re gonna keep making me friendship bracelets,” Hook Possum said, half a groan, and Steve could just see the dark shapes of him leaning his head into his arms.

“Well, you seemed worried about it,” Steve told him, grinning. “Don’t want my possum getting lonely.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Hook Possum muttered.

Hook Possum actually tried not to smoke too much around the kids, but every night, he’d wander out and have a cigarette on the steps of the cabin when the air inside was hot and close. Steve awakened vaguely to the sound of his voice talking to one of the kids, and then fell back asleep.

When the pounding at the door started, he jerked awake with the other counselors, mumbling and smacking their heads on the wooden bunk frames. The cabin door opened, and Steve recognized the voice of Pink Overalls. “Hook Possum went off in the woods to see what the lights were,” she sobbed. “He hasn’t come back. It’s been four hours!”

She thrust a glow-in-the-dark watch face into Steve’s face, and he blinked blearily at it. It was a quarter after five in the morning.

“Shit,” he muttered, rubbing his face.

“He could be in the lake,” she sobbed. “With rocks.”

“I’ll go get him,” Steve told her, stumbling out of bed.

“We’ll all go get him,” Robin said, clicking something in the dark, then smacking it. Her flashlight lit up the cabin. “Wake up the other counselors, tell them they’re on breakfast duty.”

“Oh-okay,” Pink Overalls sniffled, and slammed out.

Steve found another flashlight, and he and the other counselors tromped through the grasslands, squinting through the occasional tree cover until Steve was pretty sure they were in the right area. His foot caught on a low patch of smooth mud and then grass, and he frowned down at what looked like tire tracks.

“Holy fuck,” Robin whispered, grabbing him, and waving her flashlight around. “Jesus.”

“Wait,” Steve said, holding his own flashlight still on the plants they’d been tromping through. “Is—is that—”

“Marijuana,” Robin snickered. “Somebody’s got a good crop back here. I need to find some really big trash bags, stat.”

“Hook Possum first,” Steve reminded her, shuddering at the thought that he’d stumbled into drug dealers out here. The thought of their faces as Hook Possum lurched out of the darkness was hilarious, but they could have hit him with anything, Steve thought, walking along the tire tracks, and then jogging. They might have had guns, even.

There was a loud crash and yelling ahead, and he ran.

“He’s in the shed!” yelled one of the other counselors, brandishing her heavy flashlight at an unfamiliar guy in a t-shirt who looked stoned as hell, and Steve ran by, looking for a shed. His flashlight slid over it, and he stumbled to a stop, trying to remember the place. An old fire season ranger hut, he thought, yanking on the locked door, and then pressing his face to the glass.

“Hook Possum!” he yelled, and got back an “I’m fine, jesus.” Steve threw his shoulder against the door and it gave instantly, dropping him on his hands and knees inside.

“My hero,” Hook Possum said, as Steve scrambled to his feet, swinging the flashlight around until it caught on the furry shape. His hands and feet were tied, then handcuffed to a rolling office chair.

Steve yanked at the cuffs, tugging at the ropes around Hook Possum’s ankles, and being generally ineffective, when Robin stormed in. “There’s a phone,” she panted. “I’m calling the police. Get him out of here, they’re trying to fight us, or something. I had to brain one with my flashlight.”

The sound of a sputtering engine came up the road, and Robin yelled “Fuck, more of them?!” before running to the phone.

Steve gave up on the cuffs and ropes, and rolled Billy out of the shed and along the muddy tire tracks in the office chair. They trundled quickly away from the noise, and then the chair nearly overbalanced, and Steve nearly tripped over Hook Possum’s tail and took them both down, so he slowed. His heart was pounding. “Are you okay,” he panted.

“I’m fine,” Hook Possum grunted, squirming in the cuffs.

“Lemme get your mask off,” Steve said, stopping. “Did they hit you?”

“I’m okay!” Hook Possum yelped, nearly overbalancing as he tried to duck away. “Leave it on!”

“Look, if you need money that much, I can give you some, lemme check your head—” Steve offered, checking the mask for cracks. “Did they—”

“They threw a goddamn tarp over me and I couldn’t find my way out in this thing,” Hook Possum said bitterly. “I’m fine.”

“O-okay,” Steve said. “...okay, okay, okay…” He took a slow, shuddery breath, squeezing Hook Possum’s shoulders as he pushed him along in the chair. It rattled across the uneven ground. “What were you even doing?! Wandering off alone in that thing?!”

“Had to see who was trespassing on your grounds, lord and master.”

“Fuck you,” Steve hissed.

“This might be the most undignified thing I’ve ever done,” Hook Possum growled. “Trussed up in a rolling office chair.”

“It’s handy,” Steve told him, catching the guy’s weight again as the ground tilted the chair.

“We’re never talking about this again,” Hook Possum said. “Ever.”

“I’m rescuing you,” Steve told him, grinning, as his heart rate started to slow. “Like a princess.”

“Shut up,” Hook Possum growled.

“Princess Possum,” Steve sighed happily.

“So you’re my Prince Charming?” Hook Possum snarled. “You gonna kiss me and uncurse me, or what?!”

Steve opened his mouth, and then closed it. “...uh,” he said.

“A real Prince Charming doesn’t just grab random possums,” said Hook Possum, his voice entertainingly uneven from the bouncing of the chair. “Help! Help! I’m being oppressed!”

“Shut up,” Steve laughed, giggly with relief that his...his Hook Possum wasn’t bleeding out from a head wound, or tied to rocks, sinking in the lake. “Just a little longer. I’ll get you back safe.”

Pink Overalls threw her arms around Hook Possum when Steve pushed him back into camp, muddier even than usual. She sobbed about ropes and murder victims, and Steve sawed at the ropes with the bread knife, until they frayed, and cut, and Hook Possum was free to stand—one paw still handcuffed to the office chair.

When Robin got back, exhausted but elated, and carrying three mysterious trash bags, she got the hatchet. Steve held the chair across from Hook Possum’s wrist over the wood chopping stump, and Robin smashed the chain between the two cuffs until one came loose, and the chair fell away. “The police will have to talk to you,” Steve told him, sliding his finger inside the cuff, and along Hook Possum’s human wrist. “They can take it off.”

“...yeah,” Hook Possum whispered, holding very still.

“I knew he’d save you,” said Pink Overalls, crying with relief.

PART ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR

#harringrove big bang #harringrove #monsdasarah #Is amazing every time I see her art #YAY YAY YAY #A joy to work with!

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concussed-to-pieces · 4 years ago

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Whether It Works Out Or Not: Winter’s Cold, Part Two

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2

Pairing: High Honor!Arthur Morgan/Named OFC

Rating: Holy shit T.

AN: Thank you all so much for being here! Enjoy!

[Spoiler warning for the epilogue!]

Tag List: @huliabitch @cookiethewriter @pedrosbigdorkenergy @thirstworldproblemss @anonymouscosmos @culturalrebel @karmezii @teaofpeach @crookedmoonsaultpunk @wrestlingfae @zombiexbody @nelba @scribblenotes76 @toxiicpop @mstgsmy @misty-possum @gallowsjoker @midnightbeauty35 @lackofhonor @renegademustelid @missfronkensteen @newplanetshine

Part One: Strangers

Part Two: Friends

Part Three: More

Bonus One: A Brief Diversion

Bonus Two: Back In The Cage

Winter’s Cold, Part One

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains emotional distress and self-loathing. Stay safe!]

The first time Arthur really felt...aware, like he was actually inhabiting his body instead of floating above and slightly to the right of it, he realized that he could hear chirping birds. A breeze stirred his hair; there must be a window open nearby.

It dawned on him after several moments that he could breathe. It still hurt, it pained him, but he wasn't hacking and wheezing every second. Dread flooded his soul then; either he was dead, or the law was in the process of meting out the rope for his noose. Bit of a raw deal for all those hellfire preachers if eternal damnation was only some downright mild discomfort (at least after everything else) and a lazy little breeze.

His whole body still felt like it weighed too much to move. The idea of opening his eyes was a distant, faint notion; barely a fledgling consideration in the back of his mind. Arthur was more than content to lay just wherever it was that he had fallen, sunshine wavering in dappled patches across the insides of his eyelids.

He dimly noticed that fabric was covering his mouth and nose. A bandanna, or some kind of mask? To keep him from spreading the infection, he surmised pragmatically. Through the material wafted a scent from his childhood, the alive smell of freshly-cured hay. Beneath it was the ever-present odor of manure, the crisp tingle of pine. So he must be in the mountains somewhere.

Odd. Last he knew, he was being shipped off to the city to be read his last rites. Had they decided to let him convalesce in the wilderness, drag him back from the clutches of death and then set his backside afore the law?

Very odd indeed. But then again, justice had always been more of a performance than a true enforcement of moral integrity.

I sound like Dutch.

He drifted off again. Just thinking was exhausting, like wading through swamp mud.

More medicine. Balm for his chest. A stew, lip of the bowl pressed to his mouth so he could slowly slurp it up. Rich, meaty broth, soothing his throat. How many days had it been?

He couldn't even bring himself to move when he felt the familiar press of a flat blade against his neck. Hot water soaking into his skin, a warm cloth moving in circles to scrub away whatever grime was around his nose and mouth. The person was meticulous, sure strokes carefully ridding the man of the stubble he harbored on his face. How long had it been since he shaved?

Christ alive, Arthur was tired. He couldn't decide whether he wanted to live or not. This caretaker, whoever they were, clearly wasn't letting him go without a fight. But he was so tired.

He wavered for what felt like a lifetime, hovering at the edge of eternity in the green fragrance of curing hay. It was safe here, at any rate. Nothing would harm him in this peaceful tomb. He could rest until he began to feel like he was in control of his body again, and one fateful day, Arthur Morgan finally realized that he wanted to see how much worse living could manage to be.

His eyes opened slowly, squinting against the near-blinding illumination of sunset that played pink against the unfinished beams over his head. Lord, just doing that much had taken the wind out of his sails. Maybe he was already dead.

His eyes rolled shut wearily, blinking open again what felt like moments later to find the place dark. Night had fallen. Time was slipping past him, it would seem. There was a faint taste in his mouth: venison stew with wild carrots, if he had to guess. He didn't even remember eating.

He squinted in the blackness, trying to force his eyes to adjust so he could at least take in his surroundings before he lost consciousness again.

Hay. Everywhere. He appeared to be in a loft of some kind, bales stacked neatly all around the tick he laid on. Night sounds filtered in through the open window, bats squeaking and the booming call of an owl telling him that the hour must indeed be late.

Arthur lapsed back into senselessness once more. He dreamed of hearing violin music and catching sight of a massive, pale buck through the window. It watched him from a far-off hillside, ears flicking back and forth to catch every sound.

He dreamed of Irene. Her smile, her eyes, the kisses in the tent that they had shared...

Maybe, maybe sat like a block of lead in his gut. 'Maybe' was all he had ever had. A chance, a mirage. Pretty words from men and women who had made him feel useful, needed.

So he had poured from himself until he was empty and it still hadn't been enough.

He was a fool. What was it that Irene had said to Jamie? "I'm not letting anyone else dig my grave and usher me into it."

Arthur, in contrast, had practically handed Dutch the shovel on a silver platter.

I gave you all I had.

…

He was aware that someone was nearby, and he managed to open his eyes again for a brief moment. Long enough for him to hallucinate that it was Irene tending to him, Irene giving him whatever horrendous medicine it was and washing away the bitter taste with hot soup and small sips of tea. He must truly be long gone, mad with delirium or fever or the consumption that had wracked his chest until he felt paper-thin.

How would she even be here? How would that have even happened? There was no way.

Arthur almost loathed himself for choosing to live at that moment, because he was clearly missing a few more screws. He knew that some agues raged so strong they could burn the brain right out of a man and he feared that was the case with him.

Not that he'd had much brain to lose in the first place.

Christ, he did wish she was here. He wished he could take her hand and never let her go again.

Allowing her leave that final time was a regret that had haunted him even more prominently than his bitter failure with Mary, for all that he knew there was nothing he could have done to make her stay with him. Irene had been on her own too long, flown too far and high to ever be tied down to some old, miserable bastard again.

Mary had come to know him under false pretenses, and she had never truly reconciled herself with it. In a way, Arthur hadn't either. He had known she wasn't his from the very beginning, had known that he was playing a part or living a lie whenever he was with her. It never would have worked out, and it never did.

But Irene, despite their deceptive start, came to him with a certain honesty. The haphazard performance of masculinity had done little to hide her true nature, the kindness that she claimed to see in him so freely displayed in her as well. It also didn't hide the burdens she carried, though he hadn't understood the sadness in 'Frank's' eyes when they had spoken.

The trials she had gone through...he at least had the gang, but she was wholly alone. She had endured, like a pine tree rooted on a crumbling and wind-whipped bluff. Storms of life howling all around and yet…

And yet, when he had last seen her, she had held herself proudly in Lemieux's mansion, unshaken. The guts and wherewithal that had seen her thus far would continue, and Arthur had wished her nothing but the finest of luck even as he had sent her on her way.

…

There were folded clothes on the floor beside him when next he stirred, and on top of them was a note. Arthur had no idea how long it took him to sit up, never mind move his arm, manipulate his fingers into picking the note up, unfold the note to read it…

Lord, living certainly seemed to require a lot of steps.

Arthur,

Not sure if you'll really be awake today, but I've noticed you moving around a bit of your own volition. Left the clothes in case you feel up to getting dressed. I am uncertain if you'll recall, so I'll remind you that the waste bucket is in the far corner.

The note was unsigned.

Arthur huffed out a breath, clearing his throat experimentally. He reached for the union suit on the top of the pile, planting his face in the article of clothing with a groan as his head suddenly felt too heavy to support. "C'mon Morgan." He encouraged himself, the words thick in his mouth. Shit, how long had he been out for? It was like he had forgotten how to speak.

Just pulling the suit up and over his legs was a task of Herculean proportions. Arthur doggedly kept fighting the urge to pass out, the desire to lay back down and let time zip by again. He had made the choice to live and by God, he would follow through with it even if it killed him.

The longer he worked at getting dressed, the easier it became to keep his eyes open. Socks on over the suit, shirt, pants. His suspenders hung limp at his sides, but he did tuck in his shirt as best as he could after he relieved himself.

Boots. Boots, one tipped over on the space beside the ladder, the other within reach of the bed.

Next, climbing down the ladder. Mercifully the loft was not particularly high. The whole barn seemed rather small as far as barns went, obviously originally built with one stall. A second one appeared to have been hastily grafted onto the building at a later time.

Arthur had to take a breather at the base of the ladder, clinging to it just to keep his balance. His knees felt like they were made out of jelly. Had his boots always been this damn heavy?!

He floundered onward after a moment, grateful for his hat as he emerged into the blinding sunlight of the outside world.

Arthur rubbed his eyes, nearly losing his footing as he did so. He had already been uncertain of the reality of his current situation, and this idyllic scene in front of him wasn't helping matters!

A small paddock stretched out on the left, and a cozy-looking cabin was nestled into the green, flower-dappled glen alongside the barn he had just emerged from. Arthur staggered to the paddock fence for support, draping himself over it. From the shadow by the barn, a shape stirred. He forced himself to focus on it, his eyes widening when the horse meandered lazily out into the sunlight to graze.

"Chase!" Arthur rasped, his voice rough and cracking from disuse. The mare's head jerked up and she looked around. His heart leaped in his chest when she whinnied excitedly at him, trotting across the paddock and bumping her nose against his chest. Arthur held her tightly, cupping her muzzle and scratching beneath her jaw. "That's my sweet girl, my good girl." He murmured, feeling foolish for getting choked up.

There was an explosive snort to his right and a familiar pink nose snuffled over his shoulder. Arthur squinted, turning his head to the side and realizing that it was Bluster. The horse whickered, mouthing at the sleeve of his shirt.

Arthur Morgan was speechless. He must be dead. How else could he have his horse, and Irene's horse besides? He sat there mutely for God only knew how long, just petting Chase with his eyes closed to luxuriate in the sensation of sun on his skin.

Behind him, the wind carried faint sounds to his ears, and he flinched when he caught a child's high-pitched squeal of laughter. Just where the hell was he, if he was indeed alive? What buffoon would nurse someone like him back to health, yet leave him unbound and unguarded? Something was very odd about this whole scenario.

Arthur turned and leaned back on the fence, narrowing his eyes against the glare of the sun as he looked up at the ridge of the glen. There was an abrupt flash of motion to the left on the edge of the gully, and he watched a woman that he desperately wanted to recognize chase after a child. The little one was fairly shrieking with mirth, scurrying away from their pursuer until they flopped down dramatically and allowed themselves to be caught.

It felt like his heart had left his body, the damn thing soaring and shattering all at once. A girl, it was a little girl, her hair the color of a pale buck. Irene scooped the child up, laughing breathlessly and tossing her into the air before spinning the two of them in a dizzying circle.

Irene.

Arthur swallowed hard. Fate was indeed a cruel mistress if this was the vision he was greeted with upon making his decision to live! He continued to just slouch against the fence, silently observing the duo as they frolicked at the top of the ridge. Irene had flowers in her hair just like she had at the Mayor's little soiree, and he realized dimly that her dark brown curls were much longer. Just how much time had he lost?

He finally mustered up the strength to wave at them and he liked to think that Irene went still out of happiness. In a moment she caught the child up and fairly bolted down the hillside, her skirt hiked around her knees as she ran.

"Arthur!"

Christ, Christ he wasn't ready for this. He wasn't ready for the sight of her with a babe on her hip, the agony of maybe, maybe that ripped at his insides. In another life, it might have been his child that she had been playing with. In another life, this might have been the home that they had built together.

But instead, she had gone on and made a fruitful existence without him. He couldn't, wouldn't blame her for it. He had cut her loose, after all.

Irene came to a halt inches away, her chest rising and falling from the effort of her sprint. "Y-You--you're up!" She panted, her smile burying itself in his ribs like a blade. Christ, his heart was too weak for this.

The child in Irene's arms gawked up at him with crystal blue eyes and he tried to muster up a smile, startled when Irene embraced him tightly. He felt her fingers dig into his back, and then her shoulders quivered while she buried her face in his chest. "Oh no, c'mon now Miss Irene." Arthur said hoarsely. "I ain't worth all that fuss, it's okay."

...

"Mama?" Anna asked tentatively. "Mama okay?"

"Mama's fine, love." Irene managed to say, kissing her child's forehead. "Just very happy is all. You remember my friend Mister Arthur, right?"

"Sick." Anna replied, her attempt at a fake cough making Arthur chuckle. "Better now?"

"I'd reckon so, little miss." The man drawled hoarsely. God, that voice. Irene hadn't realized just how much she had missed him. She had seen him every day, of course, nursing him back to health, but he hadn't been conscious for most of it. "S'pose I have your mama to thank for that."

Irene noticed him glancing over her shoulder, like he was expecting someone else to show up. "Your friend, Mister Trelawny--"

Arthur chuffed out a breath through his nose, making Anna giggle. "Friend? Man's a cockroach in a waistcoat." He groused.

"Yes, he mentioned that the two of you may not be as close as he posited. Nonetheless, it's thanks to him that you're here now, alive."

"Really. Huh. So I am alive, then. I wasn't shoah. This place is…" Arthur gestured vaguely around. "S'beautiful, Miss Irene." His tone was melancholy. "Like a dream."

"I'd like to think I chose well, Mister Arthur. It hasn't been easy, but the two of us have made it work." Irene said proudly, nuzzling her nose against Anna's. "My tough little frontierwoman."

"Just...what, you an' the baby?" Arthur asked, his confusion evident.

"Yes. Who else would there be?" Irene replied with her own question, brow furrowed. Arthur blinked down at her. His eyes darted momentarily to Anna, and Irene bit her lip, wondering whether he would put it together immediately.

"I-I jus'...I figured there might be a third person, is all." Arthur stammered.

Irene couldn't help her sad smile, shaking her head at him and extending an arm. "Come inside, Arthur. It's nearly suppertime anyways."

It was so strange, finally having him in the main room of her little house. She had thought about this scenario more times than she could count. Just the walk across the front yard thoroughly tired him out, and the man seemed more than content to doze in one of the kitchen chairs while she put the finishing touches on the evening meal. Obviously it would take time and care for him to regain even a fraction of his former strength. He had been bedridden, or something close to it, for nearly five months!

Anna played noisily on the floor with a few carved horses that Irene had made for her when she was teething, their forms scored with scrapes and marks from the event. The child didn't seem apprehensive about the large man currently nodding off in the chair by the table, which had Irene feeling hopeful. Maybe, just maybe…

"Dinnertime." She said softly, "put away your toys, love."

Anna pouted, holding up a finger. "One?" She bargained, clutching her 'favorite' horse to her chest. "One for Art'ur."

"Oh it's for Arthur now, is it?" Irene teased, wiping her hands off on her apron. "Go on then, you scallywag."

The little girl fairly beamed, placing the horse with a laughable amount of care alongside Arthur's arm. Then, she impatiently bounced in place as Irene fetched the riser for her chair so she would be level with the table when she sat.

"Ah ah, go wash up! You know the rules." Irene instructed the eager child, sending her on her way to the porch.

"She is just the cutest damn thing." Arthur mumbled, almost like he was talking to himself. His fingers idly played along the curves of the little horse by his fork. "How old is she?"

"A touch over two. She was born during the winter." Irene watched Arthur nod absently, and what she was about to say got caught in her throat as Anna toddled back inside.

Arthur accepted the coffee Irene poured him with all the gratitude in the world, his eyes closing in enjoyment as he took his first sip. "Ah, that's good," he sighed. "Ain't nothin' like a decent cup of coffee. Feel like life is comin' back to me."

"Well, don't forget to save room for dinner." Irene buttered Anna a little piece of bread and scooted it across the table to keep her occupied while she loaded two plates with corn, mashed potatoes and a spoonful of precious pork gravy from tomorrow's slow-cooking dinner. "Corn is Anna's favorite, right love?"

Anna nodded, blue eyes wide as she munched on her bread. "Mine!" She announced sharply, scrunching up her nose when Arthur chuckled at her.

"Sweeting, be polite. There's more than enough for all of us, you know that!" Irene chided her daughter, rumpling the little girl's hair fondly after she placed Arthur's plate in front of him. "Always enough here."

Anna's plate, as usual, required a bit more preparing, so she brought it along with her own to her chair beside the child. Anna immediately started digging into the mashed potatoes as her mother carefully shucked the kernels off the cob in neat rows. "Th'nk y'Mama." Anna said through a mouthful of food.

"You're welcome Anna, but slow down. No one will take it from you." With a touch of amusement Irene noticed Arthur visibly slow his pace in response, the man obviously used to wolfing his food. "Drink your water, Anna."

Arthur ate mainly in silence, aside from a few appreciative grunts. He couldn't contain his laughter when Anna started to imitate his sounds, the man apologizing for his poor table manners. "Forgive me, Miss Irene, I've always been awful at eatin' in the presence of polite company."

"Mama says I'm a little piggy." Anna informed Arthur, seeming confused when he burst out laughing again.

"If you're a li'l piggy, Miss Anna, then I must be the biggest boar alive." He said once he managed to rein himself in.

…

Arthur lingered on the front steps, the lantern in his hand ready to light his way back across the yard. He felt exhausted, stuffed with good food and more than ready to get a full night's rest.

So what was he waiting for?

Many thoughts had gone through his head during dinner. How beautiful Irene still looked, how good of a mother she clearly was. Anna was a precocious little thing, those blue eyes bright with the possibility of mischief.

Her eyes…

Arthur didn't dare to hope that one of he and Irene's little diversions had borne fruit, if only because it would throw into question his oh-so-noble attempts at prevention. Had he truly tried as hard as he could to be safe, or was there always that selfish desire in the back of his mind waiting to be acted upon?

He jumped guiltily when the door opened and Irene stepped out, half-turning to face her with a brittle grin. "Howdy ma'am. Little one safely abed, I take it?"

"After a bit of deliberation, yes." Irene sighed, her posture weary. "She's very opinionated for someone who cannot manage eating a carrot unless it has been sliced into wheels. I do fear for the future, Arthur."

The future.

Arthur cleared his throat. "Irene, is...did we…?"

She put a hand on his shoulder, silencing his stammering with a sad little smile. "Later, Arthur. Right now, rest is what you need."

He wanted to deny that, but it was fairly impossible to do so. He was nearly asleep standing up as it was. "Tomorrow?" He bargained through a yawn.

"Tomorrow. I promise."

Summer’s Warmth, Part One

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x original female character #high honor arthur #arthur morgan imagine #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption 2 epilogue #rdr2 fandom #rdr2 spoilers #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 epilogue #rdr2

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shadyufo · 5 years ago

Note

Hellu, you might have talked about this already in many post but I just heard of you and have a dead crow I want put on display. It have been outside for few month so its moslty just feathers and bones left but its still pretty intact at the joints and dont know how to best seperate them. I dont dare boiling it because I have heard bird bones are bit fragile. Also dont know what killed it. Its from a time where many birds where dropping dead so its possible it died from a disease.

Are you wanting to just save the bones then? If that’s the case then you are correct—definitely don’t want to boil bird bones or bones from any animal for that matter. Boiling is far too harsh and can cause damage to bone such as flaking and even cooking grease into the bone which causes discoloration that’s practically impossible to get rid of down the line.

Just collect the bones, remove the feathers, then let all of the bones sit in a covered bucket of warm water (around 85 degrees Fahrenheit is ideal and can be achieved with a fish tank heater or bucket heater) until the remaining tissue rots off. That’ll take care of those remaining tendons and ligaments of the joints. If after a week or so you don’t notice any progression then you’ll have to add something a little “fresher” to kickstart the bacteria responsible for decomp. This often happens with specimens that are particularly dried out and desiccated. Just toss in a few small scraps of meat, a cup or two of scuzzy pond water if you have one nearby, or even pour in a cheap beer. Then give it a couple of weeks and see how it’s looking. Once all of the meat has rotted off and it’s down to just bones then you can degrease in hot, soapy water and whiten with hydrogen peroxide.

As for the potential for disease—most diseases animals carry die off within 24-48 hours of the host animal’s death. A few like rabies can go dormant for a while if the weather is cold but most don’t last long. Still, it’s always important to be cautious when handling dead animals. Wear gloves, wear protective goggles if there is a chance of any gunk splashing in your eyes, and wear a respirator if there’s a chance of inhaling any fur or bone dust. Wash your hands thoroughly in hot, soapy water when you are done handling the animal and make sure to not touch your face or any open cuts you may have before doing so. And be extra cautious when handling knives, scalpels, etc. If you do this long enough then it’s not if, it’s when you accidentally cut yourself. I’ve sliced off part of my knuckle while gutting a nasty old roadkill possum, stabbed myself in the palm while defleshing a wolf skull, cut my hand on a sharp piece of plastic inside a maceration bucket, splashed maceration soup in my eyes and mouth on several unfortunate occasions, and on and on and on over the last twenty years and lived to tell the tale thankfully, haha. I know of many taxidermists who have ended up in the ER after accidentally cutting themselves and immediately required stitches or had to go a little further down the line after developing a bad infection though. So always be extra, extra cautious when using sharp, pointy things around dead things. And if you do sustain an injury, clean it well and keep a close eye out for signs of infection.

And also be sure that it is in fact legal for you to keep those crow bones! If you are in the US there are some places where you can’t possess native crow parts, others where you can but you can’t sell them, others where you can’t possess them unless someone who had permits to shoot them gifts you one, and so on. Confusing stuff but important for bone collections to know those laws—they are in place for the animals’ benefit and protection after all and it’s our job as responsible collectors to be aware of them and respect them.

Hope that helps give you an idea of how to proceed, Anon! Best of luck with your project!

#asks #words #vulture culture #bone cleaning #anonymous #long post

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lpdwillwrite4coffee · 5 years ago

Text

BLOODY SUNRISE CHAPTER EIGHT

The next day was a floor of eggshells spread over unknown landmines.

Caitlin spent most of her time outside, insisting she help Constance with the household chores. Breakfast, followed by dishes, then laundry while Jeremiah taught his version of Sunday school to their children. He’d extended the offer to Booker, but he politely declined, saying instead he would happily go around the property to check their perimeter lines and security.

Jeremiah thanked him, and as Booker started off, he cast Caitlin a glance.

He was checking the perimeter alright… Looking for the best place to sneak through if and when the time came.

Caitlin made cheerful small talk with Constance as they hung laundry to dry, all the while thankful for the gift Booker had given her tucked into her sock—a folding pocket knife he’d sharpened before dawn.

Lunchtime came and the children all milled around, some playing, some checking the small garden along the side of the house or discussing if they should make a trip to a fishing hole soon.

Caitlin declined eating, saying she wasn’t very hungry. The truth was, she didn’t want to sit alone in their dining room with the heavy watch of Jeremiah on her.

Ever since their marriage story, he’d never fully taken his gaze off her when she was around. And like a rabbit in a pen with dogs, she was hyper aware of his attention.

He didn’t trust her. Didn’t like her. Probably disapproved of everything about her, from her hair, to her jeans, to the cut of her V-neck tee-shirt.

Just like her stepdad once upon a time.

She saw the same hard glint in Jeremiah’s eyes. The look of a man who was attracted and repulsed simultaneously.

She wondered how he’d react if she quoted Jesus’ pronouncement to pluck thine own eyes out if the sight of something created such dangerous lust in a man.

Probably not well.

Booker returned before dinner, carrying a possum he caught.

“I’m not eating that,” she said firmly.

He chuckled, holding up the lifeless animal. “What? It’s good meat.”

“Nope.” She swiftly turned and started for the house.

“Don’t tell me you’re on a diet now.”

Caitlin gasped, offended, and glared at him. “Jackass,” she muttered as he laughed behind her.

Entering the kitchen, she found herself alone with Jeremiah and any lightheartedness she felt crumbled.

“Afternoon,” Jeremiah said, voice a little too deep to be friendly.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Nonsense. I was just havin’ a glass of tea,” he said, swirling the drink around. “Have some.”

The eggshell floor under her feet started to feel like a landmine. This was the trick, wasn’t it? Giving the right response, the pleasing response, the submissive response. Which would make him happier—to have her refuse and get to add another thing to his list that made her ‘unsuitable and wrong’ or for her to accept and force her to spend time with him, around him, pinned by his dominance and open for inquisitions?

Caitlin smiled tightly. “If you’re sure.”

“Wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.”

Landmine momentarily avoided.

She took a tentative step closer and picked up the glass pitcher. “Thank you.”

Silently, he watched her pour a small amount into a glass and bring it to her lips.

“Haven’t seen ya in the house much,” Jeremiah commented.

Caitlin sipped her tea. “I like being outside.”

“Seems t’me y’all’ve been outside plenty.”

She couldn’t come up with a reply fast enough—Not one that danced the line he was rapidly moving.

“I hope my Bible teachin’s weren’t offendin’ your modern woman sensibilities.”

First direct jab. It wouldn’t be his last, she knew.

Caitlin offered a polite smile. “No, not at all. What you teach your family isn’t any of my business.”

His eyes darkened for a moment and she knew. She knew she’d tripped on that line.

Her stomach swooped, as if the floor fell out from under her.

“I’d think the wife of a godly man such as your husband would be interested in the word of the Lord.”

Her mind froze. She was panicking. She needed to keep calm, regain her footing, he wasn’t her stepfather, he didn’t have power—

“You’d prob’ly learn a thing or two about bein’ an obedient wife.”

Caitlin set her glass down on the table. “Thank you for the tea. I’m gonna see if Booker needs help.”

“’M sure my sons have helped him. They’re good like that.”

Another trap.

“Still. I’m just going to go check on him.”

She didn’t hesitate. Turning on her heel, she strode out of the kitchen with even steps but she felt like she was fleeing.

Booker was in the yard, squatting down by a tree with a metal bucket next to him.

She nearly jogged over, refusing to look back. She knew Jeremiah was watching.

“Y’might not wanna come over here,” Booker said, still looking down at the possum he was cleaning. “Don’t wanna upset your delicate sensibilities.”

He’d said it as a joke, unaware of how the word had been used against her just moments earlier.

“To hell with my sensibilities, Booker,” she snapped.

That got him to look up, and as soon as he did, he made a move to stand.

She motioned for him to stay.

“Don’t. I think he’s watching.”

“Who?”

“Who the fuck do you think?” she whispered.

Despite the fury etching into her face, she slipped into playing the wife part, running her hand over Booker’s shoulder in a display of affection she knew would be visible from the porch.

“Cae?” He stared up at her, knife still lodged in the possum’s gut.

Before she could answer, the screen door swung open and the heavy steps of Jeremiah announced his presence.

“Y’catch us somethin’ for supper?”

Caitlin’s eyes squeezed shut. The trembling started in her hands, and she had to fight not to grip the plaid shirt under her fingers.

Booker glanced around her but didn’t move. He knew he was the only thing keeping her grounded.

“Yessir,” he called. “I hope y’all don’t mind possum.”

Jeremiah laughed, and Caitlin struggled not to jerk.

“Not at all, son. Constance’ll fix that up nice for us.”

Booker smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. She waited for the sounds of Jeremiah retreating into the house, but they never came. Instead he groaned as he sat in one of the porch rockers.

“Easy,” Booker whispered to her. “It’s alright.”

It was then she realized she was shaking down to her ankles.

“Did he do somethin’?”

Caitlin shook her head. “No, he… It’s fine.”

“Cae…”

“Teach me,” she said suddenly, lowering onto her knees by the metal bucket. “I gotta… Just give me something else to think about.”

Booker eyed her. “Y’wanna learn to clean possum?”

“Yes. Very much so.”

She hoped he understood why.

I can’t trust my own mind.

I can’t go back inside.

Please just help me forget.

Booker didn’t argue. Instead he started talking—walking her through it all, step by gory step.

She clung to the timbre of his voice like a life raft.

The past is the past. It’s all in your head. He can’t hurt you.

“We’ll leave,” Booker said quietly, scooping innards into the bucket. “First thing tomorrow.”

Relief washed over her, ripping a broken laugh out of her tightened throat. It was a jagged sound, like a broken wind chime.

“Okay.”

He nodded and held her gaze for a beat longer than usual.

You’re safe.

***

They were in the middle of supper when the first thunder clap tore through the sky.

The storm rolled in swiftly, rain first and then splintering winds. More thunder shook the house to the foundation.

“That’s a nasty storm,” Jeremiah said, going to the window.

Constance sent the eldest boys to check all the shutters upstairs, and then sent the younger children to fetch candles and matches.

“I sure hope that’s not a tornado,” she said, clearing plates from the table.

Caitlin grabbed Booker’s arm under the table, genuine fear causing her vision to blur at the edges.

“Good thing y’all are in here with us, huh?” Jeremiah said, coming back to the table. “Hate to think what’d happen if y’all were out in it.”

She saw his gaze shift, from her to Booker and then back to her. But he wasn’t making eye contact, he was checking if Booker was paying attention.

When his stare dropped to the inch of cleavage visible from her neckline, she felt it like a hot ember.

Caitlin immediately looked to his youngest daughter—Mary, with the pigtails and pink dress. She was so innocent, so fragile… and in constant danger.

The storm only got worse as the night went on. The children played board games to pass the time. Jeremiah took it upon himself to read aloud from the Old Testament.

He had her trapped inside now. He’d be sure to rattle her ‘modern woman sensibilities’ with scripture.

Booker smiled as he agreed to play with the children when they asked if he’d be their fourth player. It was a momentary bright spot, watching him making the younger boy and girl giggle as they moved their pieces around the board.

Constance got up to finish cleaning and Caitlin followed her, insisting on helping.

Anything to relieve the clawing panic inside her mind.

If the storm didn’t let up, they couldn’t leave. If they couldn’t leave, they were trapped inside. If they were trapped, she didn’t have anywhere to hide. Jeremiah’s contempt was showing more frequently. It was only a matter of time before...

Caitlin shoved her hand into the scalding hot water to rinse the dish she held and didn’t flinch.

“Oh, careful sweetheart,” Constance said, tapping her wrist. “That’s hot, you’ll hurt yourself.”

She blinked. “Oh, I…”

She’d talked about dissociation in therapy. Hadn’t thought much about any of her past traumas since zombies had started walking the earth.

But as the raging storm made clear, she was stuck in a house of her own nightmares.

I need to get a grip, she thought as she scrubbed the plates of possum-pot-pie.

“I know it can be hard,” Constance murmured. “Bein’ away from family. Unsure if they’re alright.”

Caitlin looked to the woman and nodded.

“My sister is in Mobile,” Constance said. “I pray for her safety every day.”

“Mobile isn’t too far, is it?”

Constance shook her head.

“Did you think about going to get her, or…” Caitlin trailed off, realizing she sounded accusatory. “I mean. Were you able?”

“We thought it best to come straight here,” Constance said. “Better for the children. Go ‘head and set up camp, protect ourselves from those… things.”

On one level, Caitlin understood the reasons. Didn’t blame them.

But on another, she heard ‘isolation, removal, destruction of family bonds’ and it made her skin crawl.

She replied with the only honest thing she could. “I’m glad you and your children are okay.”

They were alive, for now.

They were still human, for now.

There was still hope.

***

The storm shook more than the house. Caitlin’s nerves were shot, and she knew she’d need her strength for the next day.

Excusing herself, she trudged upstairs and headed straight for bed.

She’d just sat on the mattress when the door opened, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Hey, it’s me,” Booker said, shutting the door behind him.

“Shit, you scared me.”

“Sorry.” In the dark she could still see him move towards her. “Y’alright?”

“No,” she answered honestly. “I can’t wait to get out of here.”

The mattress sunk as he sat on his side, twisted to look at her. “Never seen somebody itchin’ to leave safe shelter and a warm bed…”

“This is not safe shelter, Jack,” she snapped. “This is a fucking time bomb.”

“Alright, just…”

She could barely make out his shape as he reached for her, calloused hand on her bicep.

“Don’t treat me like I’m crazy. I’m not crazy,” she said, pulling out of his hold.

“Darlin’ I don’t think you’re crazy—”

“Don’t call me that.”

He huffed. “Back to that now, huh.”

If he could have seen her face, he would have dropped dead.

“I know exactly what kind of man Jeremiah is. I don’t need your fucking validation.”

With that, she laid down and immediately rolled onto her side, away from Booker.

“Cae…”

She ignored him, too furious to speak.

Quietly, Booker slid into bed next to her, keeping as much distance between them as possible.

“As soon as the storm lifts, we’ll leave.”

She didn’t hold her breath.

#Bloody Sunrise #free novels for pandemic times #free fiction #my writing #ZA romance #zombie apocalypse romance

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taylorduffyadvancedstudio-blog · 8 years ago

Text

Creative writing

this past year writing has become a passion of mine as i have started to do some English units. throughout this process, i have realized that my art practice and writing practice coincide with the same patterns and ideas. That being the life and death of my late mother. Her Life and her death i have discovered through my writing and art practice are not things of my past, but rather things that influence me throughout my life and more recently in my twenties as i start to think back and reflect of her influence, legacy and death In the story below, it follows Lisa as she deals with her mothers sickness and her impending death. While i was not so cold hearted as LIsa was in this story, my mother really did have to go on a dialysis machine, and she did die on a Monday, or at least that is what my memories tell me. Lisa indifference towards her mothers illness is my own indifference towards my mother and her death. despite my instance that her death doesn't matter, i still cling to the ideas of her life. .

Sodium 0.0.1%

Since the day Lisa was born, her mother was dying. With each pressing year her mother was slipping away from this world and into the next. Lisa wasn’t sure what the ‘next’ world was, but thought perhaps her mother would have a good idea by now, seeing as she had been clinically dead twice as a result of heart failure. But unfortunately, Lisa’s mother had been dying all fourteen years of her life, and still was. Slowly, her mother was becoming less of a person and more of a sick relative that stuck around as you waited for them to bump off. It was within Lisa’s fourteenth year of life when her mother entered her last one. Her father and mother had decided that rather than tell their daughter of her mother’s impending death, they would keep her safe and young and impressionable.

At this particular moment, Lisa’s thoughts were taking regular trips into the inner realms of her imagination. In this exact daydream she pictured the long distant, decrepit relative that would leave her a small fortune. She was interrupted by her father calling out for help from the lounge room, signalling the end of her daydream and back to her reality. As her father wheeled the snivelling and crumpled form of Lisa’s mother towards the bathroom, the powerful scent of disinfectant was soon overcome by the reason her mother needed help. Her mother in her weakened state and also due to the backlog of medication she ingested as her three daily meals had taken its toll on Lisa’s mother, mainly her bowels. Yes, her mother has soiled herself again, and it was Lisa’s duty as sole daughter to provide her birth mother with the support to clean herself up from her accident. This was often the way Lisa thought of her mother. Not as a warm and supportive woman who breathed womanly instinct and compassion onto her daughter, but rather as a patient that shit herself twice daily.

As Lisa wiped her mother clean, she read over her sagging shoulder the back of the shampoo bottle. Sodium 0.01%, sulphate 0.02 %. The list went on and on of various ingredients combined to make the chemical cocktail designed to clean hair, supposedly. As she applied baby powder between her mother’s thin, bony and sagging thighs, Lisa pondered the way her mother’s skin looked as she rubbed the iridescent white dust onto its surface. Smooth when she pulled it this way, creased and concaved when released. Due to Lisa’s fixation on her mother’s skin sag, she hadn’t heard the words her mother had been whispering into her ear. Turning to face her yellow eyes, Lisa heard the mumbled and fragmented words of a Thank-you.

“It’s my job”

“Thankyou” she replied again.

This isn’t my job, Lisa thought. Soon it wouldn’t be.

Dead. That’s what her mother would shortly be. Despite the tragic and morbidity of those thoughts, Lisa couldn’t help but wonder if her mother’s skin would sag even further in death.

It was true. Lisa’s only worry was that her mother’s funeral cost would result in a cut back on some of her favourite expendables, such as ice-cream. She loved ice-cream, like she loved her father. He was a colourful and expressive person that showed Lisa despite the bleakness of her mother’s condition, there was still light and love within their world.

Just not today. Today was her mother’s kidney dialysis day. Her mother needed twice weekly to be flushed out of the ‘toxins’ that built up in her system. The dialysis machine was like a pump. It was attached to a tube hanging from her mother’s gut, to a strange machine. It made a noise like a savage possum, scuttling along a roof late at night and Lisa thought it suited her mother. She hated being in the room when the machine was on. Her mother was strange company at the best of time, but like a child who was sick she didn’t want to take her medicine.

As her father wheeled the machine to the chair, legs and arms flailed and the glass of water Lisa had brought in for her mother was knocked to the ground. The sound of her father grinding his teeth was a pleasant background noise to the moans and whimpers that erupt the silence of the otherwise quiet house. Except if the day happened to be Monday or Friday, Or D- Day as her mother probably called it. Today was a Friday. As Lisa sat through her mother’s soft whimpers and the whirring of the machine, something different happened. It happened quickly. Suddenly the bag of clear fluid attached to her mother’s stomach turned a murky brown, like the colour of an upset mud puddle. Then it turned red.

“Dad” Lisa called.

“What’s wrong?”

“Mums dying”

As the words left her mouth her mother collapsed onto the bed, her legs and arm thrashing. Lisa’s father was there so quickly it occurred to her that he probably just outside the door. He grabbed the emergency phone and dialled a number. As her father talked and arranged an ambulance, her mother continued to spasm about. Maybe, thought Lisa, I should help her. But her father was already holding down the fort, strapping her mother down onto the bed with cords attached to the underside of the mattress. I didn’t know we had those, Lisa thoughts continued while she stood in the corner, watching her father bustled about. Throughout all the commotion her mother had started to scream. Lisa thought her mother’s scream sounded like she had glass in her throat. Torturous. It continued until the paramedics arrived.

It took several people to restrain her mother, and Lisa found herself pushed out of the room. Making her way to the kitchen, Lisa poured herself a bowl of coco- pops and continued for the next 10 minutes to munch away at her cereal, reading the back of the box as she did. Sodium 0.01%, sugar 0.02%, and on and on the list went. Lisa found the content of her cereal to have similar ingredients as her shampoo. Feeling concerned, she pushed her cereal away and waited for her father to find her. Half an hour past, then an hour. As Lisa made her way back down the hall, she found her mother’s room it to be empty. No screaming mother. No hovering father. No green clad men and women assisting them. Banging the bed frame with her foot, Lisa began to put her mother’s machine away. The bag of now red fluid had been left on the bed carelessly, leaking its way onto the sheets and dripping down the mattress to pool at her feet. It created a reflective puddle that showed Lisa’s blurred face. To Lisa it looked like a crime scene, blankets awry, white sheets ruined, slippers carelessly scattered at the end of the bed. The sight of blood did not affect Lisa and she began to slowly potter around the room, cleaning as she went. First she drained the contents of the machine into the sink in the adjacent bathroom. To Lisa, the murky substance smelt like burnt hair. She then went about picking up the things that had fallen on the ground in preparation to mop. Reading the back of the floor cleaner’s bottle, Lisa noted the ingredients. Sodium 0.01%, sulphur 0.02%. She stripped the ruined sheets and placed them in a bucket of diluted bleach and hot water. She remade the bed, tucking the sheets in the way she had been shown at the hospital.

Walking down the hallway she noticed the photographs that lined the wall. Her mother and she were frequent throughout. In one photo, her mother was laughing as she lifted the then toddler over her head. The sun was setting behind them, casting a warm glow on their faces, and her mother’s red hair streamed out the back of her hat in curls. Lisa felt very particular looking at this photo. She took it down for a closer inspection and noticed the dust that lined the pale gold frame. Wondered briefly if that much dust was healthy to have lying around, she placed the frame in the linen cupboard underneath the crisp white hospital sheets and closed the door with a quiet snap.

At 3.30 am, her father came home. Lisa, who had fallen asleep on the couch, woke with a start and went to the door to help him bring in her mother. Only her mother was not with him. Seeing his ashen and tear stained face, she wondered if he had eaten that day, as he seemed paler than usual. Gathering up Lisa into his arms, her father apologised for leaving her and gave the recount of the day’s events. Slow but peaceful, he kept repeating again and again. Lisa found that her eyes were quite dry as she looked at the back of the air-conditioning unit. Sodium 0.01%, sulphur 0.02% she repeated in her head. Lisa reminded her father they were out of milk before helping his almost lifeless form to bed.

The mourners gathered on a Monday, one of Lisa’s least favourite days. As she helped her large, great aunt out of the car, she briefly wondered if the old lady knew her shirt was see-through. Surely she had looked into a mirror before leaving the house. The day blurred past, with Lisa and her father in the thick of it. She even received chocolates and flowers by some unknown who woman cried onto her shoulder for five minutes, spreading watery mascara onto her shirt’s collar. She reminded her father they needed washing powder. They left together, laden with gifts and cards, walking through dense number of black clad people.

“You ok?” her dad turned to her.

“I’m ok” Lisa replied.

Smiling, she turned back to the box of the chocolates and started counting the grams of sugar and salt. Sodium 0.01 %, sulphate 0.02%, the list went on and on and so did life.

vA1<¯

#week8

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