#it's been sitting in my drafts for montsh now?

[01010010-posts]

— for a night of wine i'll pay one hundred days of vinegar.

it’s more noticeable when gavin’s shaved the day before. it’s a lot smaller, now. but it was kinda of a big deal at 15, though. one is next to his cupid’s bow, on the right. rather minuscole, gavin would say, as his hand guides the chin up and down in front of the oblong mirror. the other is under his lips, on the left side, a bit bigger than the first but yes, smaller than what he’d remember nevertheless. it’s somewhat still vivid in his memory. the earliest time he tasted violence and blood (and could never get enough after that). in his gums the tinge of rust and metal. the same that teased his skin sufficiently to left cuts. it was because he ran his mouth too much, too hazardous; and they decided to let his tongue fall out, right there, on the ground, but he wasn’t about the same idea and shoved a kick in the stomach to whoever was pinning him down. returning home, shirt stained blackish-red, gavin thought his mother made a much bigger fuss regarding the whole ordeal than his ‘opponents’. his dad, raising glasses off the newspaper for a moment, concluded with a joke that, if they’d really got his tongue he’d never drown and it ain’t all bad.

the car ride to work is not so terrible. at 6AM there aren’t many people yet. it’s quiet. just him, the toxic smokes in the sky inhaling from the rolled down window and ‘heaven knows i’m miserable now’ by the smiths on the radio. too bad the DPD is what actually makes gavin irritable. those stupid androids receptionists, nothing more than expensive assembled people-pleasers, always full of forged smiles and phony lines. he immediately goes straight to the break room to grab a coffee. good morning my ass. he’s much more at ease with rotten bodies on a freezing afternoon. they don’t speak, don’t ask and, above everything, don’t bother him. unlike that thing he’s been assigned a crime scene with, which has been talking reed’s ear off for minutes at this point. of course, as that thing explains the case’s details he probably rolls his eyes a hundred times. for fuck’s sake, he knows how to do his job, don’t need the opinions of a machine ‘are your eyes okay, detective?’ it inquires. the question is laced with bare curiosity and a dash of innocence. but gavin resents it. and interprets the phrase as a joke. about him. not with him. and that’s not okay “they rolled away down the interstate” he scoffs and takes a cig out of his breast pocket, putting it between his head and his right ear.

it’s 2024. gavin’s 22 now. and his father is dead. cancer. he didn’t know. his parents keeping it a secret so he could continue living a year more without worry. and while that was probably the best decision for everyone.... he can’t help but think about how much he took for granted, thinking this would last forever. about all the time he wasted away from him, not talking to him, not travelling with him, all the birthdays and the holidays. he regrets. and he’ll regret much more as he continues to grow. as his stubble continues itching. as his scars keep forming. he knows he’ll regret for the rest of his life. he hopes his mum can forgive him. but he can’t cry today. he won’t. the tears at the end of his throat creating a painful knot. one he’s not able to force out of his mouth by pinching with his indexes the end of the thread. they’ll stay there for a long time. he’s (not) ok. tomorrow’s the funeral and gavin has been staring at the ceiling for a whole day. back on his bed, hands on top of each other over his chest. fixating on spiders making their webs, waiting for bugs to fly towards them and getting entangled in sticky wires, only to end up bite-poisoned. just that. just waiting. how he envies them. because god’s not going to throw a bone at this lonely dog.

he comes home at an unreasonable hour. opens his door and tosses the few things on his persona to the cluttered couch. gavin doesn’t have a table, nor a dining room. he never has guests, and doesn’t plan to. because of this (and his inflated pay) the tiny apartment consist of only a cozy living space, a bathroom and a bedroom. his fridge is rather empty and his dinner will most likely consist of an ashtray, leftover pizza and the last canned beer.  while comfortably supine the detective can review the cases’ files. he doesn’t mind working more. he never minds work. it’s what kept him sane and busy for years. and he loves it. maybe not the part in which he should visit the deceased victim’s family, not the part about writing reports, not the part where he has to socialize, sure, but the idea, the idea of doing something he’s exceptionally good at, something that will give him the chance to rise above this heap of trash who only want to be a simple gear in a mechanism. he loves it. absentmindedly chewing, ochre and white paper scattered on every crevice available, he touches the middle of his nose. a habit he doesn’t realize he got. developed after the biggest gash on his face healed. from there to the lobe of his left ear.

it was in his first years as an officer, or maybe it was before that? nobody except gavin ever knew the truth to that story. one day he just woke up in a hospital bed, face half covered in bandages, body barely fitting a washed green gown. cursing everything in himself, in the world, cursing whatever left him in an alley, alive, bloody, alone. he could have died and everyone would have remembered him fondly. instead, as that day, he was back on the cold ground, looking up at the cerulean sky. instead, as that other day, his shirt was dirty and red; his mother will probably make a fuss this time too. in those moments he thought were the last of his life, he was strangely happy; selfish until the last moment, selfish as a necessity, necessity of living he never asked for. instead, like a cat, he got another life up his sleeve. and if he survived he owed almost all of it to the people he hated. androids, after all. in what he thought was the rest of his life, he wanted to scream that he didn’t need anybody’s permission to set himself on fire.

in the future, there’s a tauntingly soft ‘here’ before RK900 hands gavin a cloth cold pack. the detective refuses it with an indolent movement of his bruised knuckles and the androids can’t help but uncomfortably sit on the police car hood next to him, pack of shiny ice in his palm; since there’s no blood in him, it won’t melt, since he’s not warm, he’s not living “what doesn’t kill you....” a pause of few seconds, as if the android is actually searching for the perfect words. no need to say, they both know he already has them and is only mocking him “makes you ugly?” a grin showing his handmade speckless teeth. gavin still resents it. so absurdly flawless, it almost resembles the grimace of a nocturnal animal about to devour a carcass more than a simple smile. it hurts to look at it. reed can’t stand it. and his gaze returns to the ground “eh, jealous because bar chicks go crazy for a wounded cop?” the tone is ironic, as a couple drops of blood flow from his features and become pulp onto the tarmac “i thought these so-called ‘bar chicks’ loved cops with their nose still on.” a muffled fist of cough. maybe, starting to smoke while still dizzy, is not his best thought “so if i break my face and i don’t look so great? my face is just my face.” another impeccable faint chuckle, it seems unreal, ethereal, from above “i see.” silence, longer this time “mhh, how does that saying go? life gives you lemons....” gavin unceremoniously props his head on RK900’s shoulder, staining his white jacket a weak burgundy “shut up. at least it gave you something.” and like this, in the future, gavin reed has a new scar.