#sorry ive been so dead to the world. incredibly busy lately

[fakakta-art]

SO excited for the tiny little remarque of Jason I got from Dan Mora at NYCC!

[fromthedeskofelizabeththird]

Habanero

You're a good girl, well behaved.

Absolutely not the type to rail random guys in nightclubs.

Until you are.

Fandom: BNHA

Pairing: Aizawa x Reader, eventual polyamorous Erasermic x Reader

Rating: Gen

Trigger Warnings: Referenced child abuse, blood

AO3: Here | Want to support me? I have a Kofi

Chapter: 4/16 (all chapters)

You were scared of a lot of things: bugs, dark places, ghosts, drowning and more. Your friends often joked that you were a wimp and you’d bever been inclined to disagree.

There was one thing, however, that scared you above all others. It sent shivers down your spine and left your legs wobbling from under you.

It was the door to your father’s home office.

Your father was a prosecutor and a pretty notorious one at that, famous for the number of guilty verdicts he had achieved over the years. He had an incredible advantage, of course- the same lie detection quirk that he had passed onto you. He spent most of his evenings alternating between his work and home offices, going over the details of cases and preparing for a never ending stream of plaintiffs.

His home office was a near perfect replica of the one in the city, complete with a golden name plaque on the door. You passed it every day, multiple times a day, and each time broke out in goosebumps as if the door watched you in turn.

It wasn’t only the plaintiffs your father needed to find guilty.

Your father was not in the least bit conservative with his quirk. You spent many an afternoon there, jaw clenched and skin crawling at his line of questioning.

Tell me… why were you late?

Tell me… how long did you study?

Tell me… who were you with?

You hated being left so exposed and, in retrospect, you weren’t in the least bit surprised that you ended up vanilla instead of habanero, desperately seeking a simple married life.

The anxiety of standing outside of your father’s home office stayed with you into adulthood, even now that you had your own home. You had started to believe it no longer had an effect on you; that you no longer remembered how it felt.

As you stood outside of the hospital door, though, you remembered clearly.

Hand trembling, you reached up to knock.

━

SEVERAL HOURS EARLIER

“Maybe if I move it that way…”

You scrolled through your calendar and let out a sigh at the appointments already there.

“No good, no good.”

You sat back in your chair and stretched, popping your shoulders and wiggling your toes.

“Maybe…”

You had a moment of inspiration, only to groan and click out of the window.

With the sports festival around the corner, your schedule was on the verge of taking a beating. Between modifying your office hours to make appointments with students to discuss their offers, to making room for counselling for those suffering disappointment, to keeping your usual appointments and open office hours, you were starting to consider bringing a futon and moving into your office for the foreseeable future. You’d known it was going to be a tight squeeze, but hadn’t counted on it being this bad.

You logged out of your computer and climbed out of your chair, giving your back a quick rub before leaving your office. You needed an IV of coffee, but a cup would have to do.

You were still thinking about your itinerary as you passed the 1-A classroom. Normally, between Kirishima, Bakugo and Iida, you heard the classroom long before you passed it. Today, though, it was silent and you peered through the window.

You’d heard that they were going on a trip with Thirteen to the USJ for specialist training and, if their empty desks were anything to go by, had already left. You had taken a tour of the facility during your initial induction and it had taken everything you had to keep your jaw from hitting the ground. You knew that UA was well funded, but it didn’t really sink in until then.

You wondered how they were getting on. Had Bakugou destroyed anything yet? Had Midoriya broken any of his bones?

You were still considering it as you passed the faculty lounge, dragged out of your thoughts by the sound of voices within. It sounded like the principal, though you weren’t sure who he was speaking to. You wondered if it was a private conversation and you should come back another time.

You knocked a couple of times before peeping around the door.

“Sorry,” you said, “am I interrupting?”

You really had heard the principal and he appeared to be sharing tea with All Might.

You weren’t sure you would ever be prepared for the sight of All Might in his skinnier form. Like most youngsters of your generation, you had watched his heroic acts in awe. You hadn’t known he was going to join the faculty at the time of your own job application and still found your heart racing whenever you passed him in the corridors.

You had signed eighteen different nondisclosure agreements after successfully taking on the job at UA, of which well over half related to the Symbol of Peace. You knew that he had been injured very badly and was losing his strength at an alarming rate. Even so, it was difficult to adjust to the reality.

“Ah, (Name), come in, come in,” said Principal Nezu, “we were just sharing a cup of tea, would you like some?”

You wanted coffee, but Nezu had already started to pour.

“Of course,” you said, closing the door behind you and taking a seat.

“You got here just in time,” said Nezu, pushing your cup across the coffee table. “We were discussing the fundamentals of teaching.”

“That sounds interesting,” you said, taking a sip of tea. “You must have a lot of insight.”

All Might twitched beside you, visibly restless. You wondered how long Nezu had been talking.

“Apologies,” he said, setting down his cup, “I should get going. I’ve already rested for far too long.”

He got up and walked towards the door, taking a deep breath before transforming into the muscular form the world knew and loved.

You would never get used to that either.

“So, (Name),” said Principal Nezu, “how are you finding the school? I trust you’ve had support from our staff?”

“Everyone’s been really kind,” you said. “I know they’re busy with their own workloads this term, but they’ve had so much time for me.”

You wrapped your hands around your cup, warmth flooding your fingers. You wanted to explain how grateful you were for the opportunity -that not so long ago your life had been falling apart- but you never got the chance, for the door to the lounge flew open and a student stormed inside.

“Principal Nezu! Something terrible has happened!”

It was Iida from 1-A, dressed in his hero costume and visibly out of breath. Your blood ran cold and you glanced across at Nezu, who had gotten to his feet.

“USJ...there’s been an invasion at USJ! Please help!”

Nezu’s response to the matter was swift and efficient. He turned to you, visibly transformed from the mild mannered principal who had offered you a cup of tea.

“(Name),” he said. “I’m going to gather everyone available. I need you to liaise with the authorities.”

“Of course,” you said, setting aside your tea and whipping out your phone.

“Meet us there,” he said as you began to dial.

“S-sir?”

You weren’t a pro hero; what possible use could you be?

━

His intentions soon became clear.

While your colleagues rushed into the danger zone, you stayed behind with the police, hitching a ride with Tsukauchi to the station once the area was secure.

Time was of the essence. You had read enough crime statistics to know that villain attacks very often came in waves, making the next few hours crucial to the safety of UA. Having a human lie detector on hand during the interrogations was more than a little bit useful.

You only wished you could concentrate.

Everything you knew about the incident came straight from Tsukauchi, so even though you had never actually seen the full extent of the carnage, you knew enough for your imagination to run wild.

You knew that the students had escaped with minor injuries and, while Shouta was badly hurt, he wasn’t dead. You couldn’t stop thinking about it, especially since the only image of the incident you had seen was that of his goggles broken on the floor.

You sat beside Tsukauchi in the interrogation room, silent as they brought in prisoner after prisoner. You only spoke to activate your quirk; only dragged yourself out of your contemplations to ask the same set of questions.

Three hours later, you knew only fractionally more than you did to begin with. The villains you’d caught were blatant throwaways, with no knowledge at all of the man they’d followed into battle or a greater scheme. They’d all wanted to take a shot at the symbol of peace and had no idea how close they had come to succeeding.

“Are you going to be alright?” Tsukauchi asked as interrogations came to a close.

You knew you must have looked a mess, popping aspirin and pinching the bridge of your nose.

“I’ll be fine,” you said, “honestly.”

“I’ll organise a car to take you to UA,” he said, but you shook your head.

“No, no that’s okay. I need to go somewhere first.”

━

Technically, you had two places to go first.

You stopped by the police station washroom to freshen up, leaning over the sink as the migraine set in. You pinched the bridge of your nose and watched as it began to bleed.

You weren’t used to using your quirk for such a long period of time and had almost certainly overdone it. The bleeding began to slow and you switched on the tap, washing away the blood on your face before plugging your nostrils with tissue paper. Unfortunately, you had still managed to bleed on your collar.

Just your luck that you would use your quirk too much on the day you decided to wear your new white blouse. You cursed at your reflection, trying and failing to adjust your shirt in such a way that it wasn’t noticeable.

Even now, you couldn’t concentrate.

You had never crossed paths with so many villains in one day. You had watched your father cross examine witnesses and plaintiffs many, many times, but had never been in his shoes. You hated it.

You knew exactly how they felt when you activated your quirk, recognised the squirming as it crawled through their skin. Part of you had enjoyed it, knowing that their discomfort in that moment did not compare to the violence they had inflicted on others.

Shouta.

The violence they had inflicted on Shouta.

He was a hero, you told yourself. He had signed up to fight those very same villains.

Even so, you hated them for it in ways you’d never hated a villain before.

You thought back to your training and took a deep breath.

“This is normal,” you whispered. “This is normal. This is a negative emotional response to a distressing situation. This is normal, we’ll move on.”

You took another deep breath, but your heart still rattled.

What is it that’s bothering me?

You reached into your purse for your makeup, painting away the shock for now at least.

We can work through that later.

━

PRESENT

And so, there you were, standing outside of Shouta’s room in the hospital.

They’d put him under the care of one of the best doctors in Musutafu, who assured you that surgery had been a success and his life was not in danger. There was a high chance his quirk would be affected by the damage to his orbital floor but even that was lucky, all things considered.

You tapped at the door and let yourself inside, taking in the calm and quiet of the room. Shouta was tucked up in bed and connected to numerous monitors, their steady beeps breaking the silence. You closed the door behind you and crept over to the bed, taking in the bandages that covered almost every inch of his body.

You had always known that heroes risked death and worse on a daily basis but had never seen it in person. You didn’t know how to feel about seeing him bloodied and broken. You had seen this man naked; you’d held onto the arms that a villain had broken. Did it always feel this personal?

You took a seat next to his bed, taking note of exactly how much of him was covered in bandages. You wouldn’t have known it was him if you hadn’t been told otherwise.

You didn't know what you had expected to find at the hospital, only that it would give you closure.

Why, then, did you still feel so uneasy?

You recalled his words from only recently, after you had given him a faceful of pepper spray.

Why would you try and confront a villain without help? You could have gotten yourself killed.

You need to be more rational in these things. Running head on into danger gets people killed.

Why hadn’t he followed his own advice?

Truthfully, you knew exactly why.

He had been well aware of the danger, but made the call anyway. He had analysed the situation and prioritised the lives and safety of his students over his own. It was the right thing to do and the rational part of you knew that, but you didn’t feel very rational right then.

You had to report back to Nezu; had to adjust your schedule ready for trauma counselling. You weren’t the only one who had been exposed to an unprecedented amount of villains that day. 1-A had almost certainly seen too much too soon.

You knew you had to leave, yet felt guilty as you got to your feet.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, hoping that your words would reach him through the anesthesia. “I have to go...but I’ll be back tomorrow, okay?”

You promised yourself that you’d skip lunch if you had to.

“See you,” you said, leaning over to kiss his forehead as if on autopilot.

Your heart skipped a beat once you realised what you’d done.

Oh God, what were you thinking?

You reached into your purse for your chapstick as you left the room, so focused on painting away the kiss that you didn’t notice his fingers twitch.

[hellyeahrpmemes]

※ JENNA MARBLES SENTENCE STARTERS, PT. VI ※

here’s sentences from 10 more of jenna’s videos! feel free to change names/pronouns/zodiac signs/etc.! more jenna sentences

REVIEWING BAD APPS 3

“All I did was download them and giggle.”

“What I like about this game is that there’s a lot of depth to it.”

“No, you’re dead.”

“I’m out, I’m out, I’m out.”

“I love how all of this works.”

“This is too stressful.”

“I’m over it, nope, I’m done.”

“I wouldn’t get you that for a ring. That’s an ugly ass ring.”

“This is getting dark.”

“It won’t let you say no!”

“It costs 99 cents to figure out how to build sexual tension.”

“Don’t talk about your problems, you fucking slouch.”

“I paid 99 cents for that.”

“Excuse me, I’m learning here.”

“I paid 99 cents so you knew how to get sex.”

“Ew, this is nasty.”

“This whole thing is extra.”

“She’s not having it, this is wrong.”

“Oh my god, this is so uncomfortable.”

“I’m learning so much today.”

“Is he asleep?”

“I have glasses, I can’t.”

“Oh my god, it’s real.”

“If you’re in the car with your parents, this is infuriating.”

“Yo, Uber, pass me the aux cord.”

“That was 99/10. That was a great app.”

“How to get unfriended in one day.”

“This app fucking rules.”

“It’s kinda relaxing.”

“Okay, can we give this a rest, now?”

“You paid for this.”

“This is pretty fun.”

“Oh my god, I want to die.”

“As angry as it makes me sometimes, I do like it.”

MY BOYFRIEND DOES MY VOICEOVER

“Please don’t listen to anything he says, it’s all garbage. It’s all lies and garbage.”

“You can eat the ball of foam when you’re done.”

“There’s no calories, so it’s good.”

“This works if you put it directly in your eye for enhanced night vision.”

“I prefer a Sharpie, but we were out of Sharpies, so I used makeup.”

“I think it’s working. I kinda wish it would just be done.”

“Are we done with the eyebrows yet?”

“This is art, people.”

“I’m doing the underneath part, which is getting dangerously close to my eyeballs.”

“If you were a really bad kid and you always drew on tablecloths, you’re gonna be really good at this.”

“Oh, I hate this part.”

“We are literally making up our eyeball.”

“This is easily the worst thing ever in the world.”

“Look how messy I am.”

“I wanna kiss myself.”

“The word contour comes from an ancient myth about centaurs.”

“We can fool people.”

“Makeup is a good, deceitful trick, people.”

“Okay, so now I have some cheese.”

“Shut up…!”

“I hate this.”

“I think we’re highlighting.”

“This is only available in Ukraine, and I flew there once to get it.”

“This is a great way to cool off.”

“Oh, okay, that’s it. Thank you guys, bye.”

THOUGHTS FROM A COUCH

“I wanna lay on my couch in this blanket.”

“Repeat after me. The president is not my daddy. He cannot just spank me whenever he feels like it.”

“I think we need to abandon this mission to Mars business. It’s been a long time, and it’s not gonna happen.”

“I say we start terraforming Saturn.”

“When you look up in the sky, you can see rings. Tight.”

“If everybody donated the ends of their loaves of bread a week, we could feed a lot of hungry people. Especially if they’re hungry for shitty sandwiches.”

“You asked for this.”

“Maybe a simple solution is don’t get your news from Facebook.”

“I know what billionaires want, and it’s Tom.”

“I think the punishment for mistreating animals should be being thrown into a pit of gorillas.”

“Too soon? Too late.”

“We could get rid of rush hour by making half the population nocturnal. Half the people work regular hours, half the people work Batman hours.”

“What is armpit hair for? What is it for?”

“Think about that. That’s an impressive statistic.”

“Drums should be called bangs, and bangs should be called regret.”

“Why does the government get to tell me how many dogs I’m allowed to have?”

“Do I look like someone who lies?”

MY DOGS’ WEDDING

“Today seems like the perfect day to just bring everybody together with some love.”

“We need some love right now.”

“I mean, that’s pretty, right?”

“I’m not here to judge them.”

“Time is of the essence.”

“It just feels like the right thing to do.”

“I mean, this is looking pretty dope.”

“Wow, you look fucking nice.”

“It’s not very good, but I do know the basics of it.”

“I mean, it’s pretty cute.”

“I’m hoping that it looks right.”

“Today’s the day, baby girl. You’re getting married.”

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“You’re gonna remember today forever. Or you might forget it. But it’s important.”

“I know, you’re so excited.”

“Wow, you did it.”

“I’m so excited for you.”

“I mean, that’s really it.”

“This is what I did with my time today.”

P*SSY GRABBING SELF DEFENSE

“Even if he doesn’t become president, he could still grab me by my pussy.”

“I think the fuck not!”

“Is this what you wanted?”

“I don’t like this at all, why did I do this?”

“I regret all of this.”

“You didn’t think it all the way through, did you?”

“Fuck off.”

“Was it stupid? Yeah. Do I care? No.”

WE GOT IN A CAR ACCIDENT, WE ARE OKAY

“We are okay, everything is fine.”

“This is all I can do.”

“It’s scary, it’s not fun, and the last couple of days have been miserable.”

“I already don’t like flying.”

“Can’t think about that stuff… trying not to.”

“Let me set the scene for you, okay?”

“The first thing I remember is I heard him yell.”

“We couldn’t breathe — it’s like getting the wind knocked out of you, but it’s like your neck and your head and your brain.”

“I started to lose consciousness.”

“It could’ve been far worse than it was.”

“You know I don’t like needles.”

“Oh, sick, fuckin’ tight, hell yeah.”

“I will probably start crying. Worst case scenario, I might pass out.”

“I’m already having the worst time ever.”

“Wait, you have bruising from the IV?”

“The pain isn’t the worst ever.”

“This is some ultimate universe fuck shit.”

“A really fun thing to do after a car accident is get in a car.”

“All of a sudden, we’re driving through a police shootout.”

“Is this day done yet, fuck?”

PRANK CALLING IN SICK FROM JOBS I DON’T HAVE 2

“Although I’m not seeking validation, I am a human being, and I have feelings.”

“Just come to the desert, please.”

“I know it’s gonna be a really rough day tomorrow.”

“It was just too much, man.”

“I don’t feel good already.”

“I’m so sorry, I won’t see you tomorrow.”

“I hate myself already.”

“I forgot how guilty this makes me feel.”

“Apparently, you can’t drive your Porsche through a river.”

“What’s gonna happen?”

“I’m gonna go under anesthesia, I’m not gonna remember anything.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“I would just die laughing.”

“Hopefully, we’ll never do this again.”

“I literally was told that I was in seventh grade today.”

SHAVING MY EYEBROWS

“I think a lot of people think I was joking.”

“Is Jenna okay? Is she losing her mind?”

“Everyone thought I was going full Britney Spears.”

“Life’s too short not to have really exciting hair.”

“They grow back really fast.”

“Also, they’re mine, not yours.”

“Let’s just get into it.”

“Pray for me.”

“Don’t laugh at me.”

“How is it a bloodbath?”

“Ooh, did I cut myself?”

“You know, you’re really supportive and wonderful, have I ever told you that?”

“Julien, I love you so much, thank you for not judging me.”

“Don’t smile like that.”

“Don’t do that.”

“It’s not even that abnormal-looking.”

“I did not think I was gonna be this excited.”

“Here, let me do it.”

“I don’t know if I trust you to shave my face.”

“No, no, no, I don’t trust you.”

“It feels so good, though.”

“Alright, I think I’m done.”

“I think it looks sick.”

“Julien, you don’t like that?”

“I feel like I would be so fast if I went swimming right now.”

“I’m gonna rock your look.”

“Just come touch it.”

“I think it looks natural.”

“We don’t have anything important coming up, do we?”

“I think it’s kinda cute.”

“Like, yeah, it doesn’t look natural, but has anything about me ever looked natural?”

“Now I just look like a different type of asshole.”

“Don’t I look like that someone that wants to party right now?”

“Nope. Nope, nope, nope.”

“This is honestly the most fun I’ve had with makeup probably my entire life.”

“I mean, I don’t hate it. It’s a look.”

“I fuckin’ hate you.”

“This is not what I asked for.”

“That’s dope as fuck, oh my god.”

“Congrats on your freedom.”

“You know what? I’m so glad that I did this.”

“I’m living my best life.”

MY BOYFRIEND DOES MY NAILS

“She is an incredible Internet goddess.”

“She is the Internet I signed up for.”

“In this month alone, I have been nail-shamed so many times.”

“There are people like that in the world, they’re so obnoxious.”

“Get out of our house.”

“I’m sorry, is that an opinion?”

“Just trust the process, okay?”

“But it looks good…!”

“Oh my goodness, it’s stunning.”

“That looks like shit, you didn’t even try…!”

“I’m laughing at you. I’m laughing directly at you.”

“That’s literally not even my job.”

“Oh, that is my job.”

“Don’t knock this over. If this gets all over the floor, we’re never getting our security deposit back, ever.”

“You’re making a mess.”

“That doesn’t look good, dawg.”

“That’s exactly what I was doing.”

“It went from good to really bad.”

“I mean, that’s really not the worst.”

“That glitter really saves everything.”

“If you’re confident that it’s dry, put it in your mouth.”

“How the fuck did you guess that already?”

“It’s a lot harder than it looks.”

“Say ‘yes, ma’am’.”

“I love being called ma’am. I want to exclusively be called ma’am.”

HELLO YOUNG PEOPLE, IT’S HILLARY CLINTON AGAIN

“It’s me again, ya girl, Hill-Daddy.”

“I need you to get out there and vote.”

“I will be the dankest, dopest, bombest president the world has ever seen.”

“Our common thread doesn’t stop there.”

“In here, we’re exactly the same.”

“It’s just a relaxing thing I like to do in my free time.”

“I know where we are, do you think I give a fuck?”

“You just deleted the entire hard drive.”

“My favorite thing to do is faceswap with myself.”

“What the fuck is this?”

“I’m not even connected to the Internet.”

“Is that an ad? This is a DVD.”

“How did you even get in here?”

“It’s my turn…! It’s my turn!”

[loversandantiheroes]

Like Blood Running Warm - Part 1

Author’s Note: Happy Spooktober.  A couple weeks ago I mentioned how this song made me want to write a Vamp!Clara AU.  This is the result of that.  Part 1 of probably 2 or 3 if they remain this sort of length.  Big thanks to @longjackets, @nikkidee, @kingandcrook, and @infiniteregress17 for the beta help.

Summary: A snowstorm strands a group of bus passengers at a near-derelict station overnight near the Colorado border.   One of them just can't seem to get warm.

Rating: T (currently, AO3 link is pre-tagged for the later stuff)

Warnings: Angst by the bucket, Terminal Illness, Simm!Master being...Simm!Master and thus a walking dumpster fire, Implied Past Drug Use, Implied Harassment.

Word Count: 5799

AO3 Link: here

Did you call for the night porter? You smell the blood running warm I stay close to this frozen border, so close I can hit it with a stone Now something crawls right up my spine That I always got to follow Turn out the lights Don't see me drawn and hollow Just blood running warm

      - Mark Lanegan, "When Your Number Isn't Up"

- 11:07pm

John Smith, the night porter, sat in the break room of the bus terminal. He should, by all rights, be keeping post behind the counter in the booth, even at this late of an hour, and he knew that. Pointless, though, wasn’t it? An old portable telly spouted crackling spurts of weather reports at him. Worst snow in a decade, record lows, blah blah. He could’ve guessed that himself looking at the drifts forming outside the sliding doors, which he would have to keep shovelled out unless he wanted to end up buried in here. Buried alive with shitty instant coffee, a vending machine that half-worked, and a telly he couldn’t even get a decent signal on. His employers, stingy bastards that they were, were too cheap to provide anything new or at least decent on the premises. In the lounge, where most stations would have the new plasma or LED or god-knows-what-the-fuck-ever craning down from the ceiling or mounted on the walls, there were instead tiny coin-op televisions. Bloody ancient things with built-in radio dials bolted to the arms of the benches and chairs, popping and crackling to life at the generous price of 30 minutes for a quarter.

John had no bloody idea why the hell the relics were still installed. Honestly, he didn’t know such things even existed until he took this post, but the real shocker was that somehow they still worked. By all rights, they shouldn’t be able to pick up a signal anymore, save for the radio dial, not after the big push from analog to digital broadcasting. Converter box wired up to some kind of main switch maybe, that was the best he could figure. Mystery of the fucking universe, or might as well be; tech was not his area. But it made him feel something. Kinship maybe, he thought, cradling the battered porcelain mug of coffee and trying to work some warmth into the joints of his fingers. Old and busted, but still working. Last legs, maybe, but some life still crackling inside.

He’d moved to the States for the sake of his health, that was the joke of it. Christ on a bike, that was the fucking joke. The belching exhaust of a passing lorry in Glasgow last spring had left him doubled over and hacking against a lamp post. Not that a cough was that unusual, he’d been a smoker from the age of fourteen. He was used to the hack-and-rattle first thing in the morning, or when the seasons changed from Damp and Warm to Damp and Cold (Scotland only had the two seasons, really). But this time had been different. Not quite worse, but deeper, like the first signal of the flu.

He’d gone home to his flat that day, made tea, and emptied his tobacco tin into the garbage. Good fucking riddance. Something welled up in him then. A change of scenery would be good. He was nearly fifty-six years old, and he’d never even left the country. Wanderlust, he’d called it at the time. Not entirely untrue, but a little too grand. All he’d wanted in that second was to run away. It wasn’t as if he had any real ties to Glasgow anymore. No friends to speak of, all those were gone. Family either dead or distant. He spun his wedding ring unconsciously. No children. That was almost a relief, considering.

Once he decided to go, he’d sold everything but his clothes and his guitar. Sentiment was only the half of that. He’d never admit it, but he’d simply found the idea of travelling halfway across the world with nothing but the guitar too foolishly romantic to give up. Then on the emptied floor of his flat he’d laid out a massive map of the continental US, closed his eyes, and flipped a coin at it.

He’d spent six good months in Colorado, taking odd jobs and occasionally even sitting in on open mic nights at a local bar, plucking out something of The Velvet Underground or Bowie, and chalking up the slow but steady weight loss as stress and an aversion to American food. Then the cough had come back.

Small cell lung cancer. The fast moving shit. The sort that dug its nails in and decided it lived in you now. Gentrification of the lungs. Radiation or chemo might have bought him some time, but that was the best it could offer. But the pricetag on a few more months was entirely too steep. One look in the clinic window at the thinning husks hooked up to IV drips with pallid eyes and piebald pates, and he’d been out like a shot. On his way to work that night he’d bought a pack of cigarettes. If he was gonna die, he’d at least do it with a full head of hair.

John leaned over the break room table, rubbing at his temples. Too busy feeling sorry for himself to think fucking properly, he inhaled just a bit too sharply. The heating in the bus station was rubbish, the glass windows and sliding doors too thin to keep the cold out, and the electric heater he’d dragged in himself, in a feeble attempt to keep his toes from freezing during the long winter, barely managed to take the chill out of the break room.

Cold air needled into his lungs, and he choked, sputtering and coughing so hard it made his bones ache. Hot coffee sloshed over his hands, and he swore, or at least tried. He needed air to curse, and his lungs weren’t having any of that nonsense. He pounded on the table, sloshing more coffee and overturning a plastic tumbler full of spoons. As the fit subsided, John fumbled in his pockets for his handkerchief and spat, folding it away and trying to pretend he hadn’t seen it come away from this lips bloody.

John sat with his head between his knees until he could breathe evenly again, the sound of the telly all but drowned out by the rush of blood in his ears. At last, he stood, sopped up the mess of coffee, and stumbled out to check the departures and arrivals. Departures from Shotton had been cancelled even before John had limped to work in his jeep. The last two drivers had waved him off as he pulled in, climbing into their own cars to get the hell out of Dodge and back home before the snow settled in with any real intent. Now the roads were closing, and that meant he might be stuck here alone, hacking his lungs up over bad coffee and worse telly until the snow plows went out.

“Fuck,” he muttered. The arrivals list, which had been a string of delays when he’d come in, was now almost completely cancelled. All but one. 11:20 from Cheyenne. Delayed, but still inbound. Wonderful. Snowed in overnight with a busload of pissy tourists on their way to Denver. Wouldn’t that just be a time. “Of-fucking-course. You couldn’t even give me one miserable night off, could you?” he growled at the ceiling.

He kept swearing as he pulled his winter gear on. He’d read once that swearing helped with pain relief; maybe the blue streak would keep him warm. He struggled this balaclava over his head, wondering if it wasn’t time for a haircut. He was a little too proud to still have a full head of hair, grey or no, and had let it go a little wild after the move. Insulation, he told himself. Too fucking cold to trim the hair back, be liable to freeze to death before the cancer gets a chance to finish the fucking job.

Laughing, John wound his scarf around his head.

- 11:34pm

John had most of the entry cleared and shook down with rock salt and sand, when he saw headlights. The bus lurched up through the drive, crunching and shuddering its way up through the snow to the sheltered entrance.

John leaned on his shovel and flapped a thickly-gloved hand as the bus ground to a stop in front of him. The door hissed open, blowing a gorgeously welcome gust of heated air at him. The driver was a new guy, a round-faced man with close cropped hair and a frankly terrible goatee. “Fuck me ragged,” the driver called down, grinning, “I’m gonna get held up by the Michelin Man.”

John made a gun out of his right hand and popped his thumb. Ka-chow. “You’ll want to get inside,” he shouted through too many layers of damp wool.

The driver frowned, motioning at his ear. “Can’t hear you, pal.”

He waved again, palm in, fingers curling. Come the fuck in.

- 11:40pm

There weren’t many passengers, thank God. John counted heads as they shambled in, jamming his gloves into his pockets and fiddling with his scarf which had gone stiff with frost. Seventeen or eighteen, including the driver, who’d pulled off to try and park the bus proper while he still stood a chance to get it moving. An old couple cooed and laughed over the coin-op televisions. A young black woman in a pea-colored coat almost as heavily padded as his own gave him a nervous smile as he struggled out of his balaclava. She asked hopefully about coffee with a London accent that made him do a double take.

“Or tea or hot chocolate?” she went on in the sort of bright tone only the incredibly anxious and incredibly exhausted can achieve. “Anything hot, honestly, I’m not fussy.”

John grunted, both in effort and assent. He’d worked up a fair sweat out there, and the wool was stuck fastidiously to his head. He bent, trying to pull it up from the back, and heard a second voice with an unmistakable Blackpool twinge.

“Easy, mate, you’ll pull your whole head off by mistake.”

Cold fingers brushed at the nape of his neck, curling into the wool, helping him pull. And then he was free, spitting lint and rifling a hand through the haphazard sprawl of his hair.

London giggled behind her hand. Beside her now was a second, significantly smaller woman who was holding his snow-crusted balaclava out to him. For a second, all he saw were her eyes, wide and brown and faintly crinkled at the corners as she smiled up at him. She was lovely, far too lovely, and he was far too old, and oh Jesus Christ he was staring.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, trying to flatten the beast his hair had become. “Uhm, the coffee machine’s on the fritz,” he said, gesturing at the line of vending machines and utterly missing the excited upshoot both women’s eyebrows did when they heard his accent. With a touch of annoyance, he noticed the out of order sign had dropped once again and was slowly soaking into a puddle of slush. “I’ve got a kettle in the break room, but the coffee’s instant. But there’s quite a lot of it, at least, so.” He shrugged, grinning awkwardly and trying not to look at the short one with the big eyes.

“That’d be amazing, I’m frozen,” London said, bouncing on her toes.

“Right, well, have a seat, I’ll go and get that on.”

“I’ll give you a hand,” Blackpool said.

London scoffed, rolling her eyes. “No accounting for taste,” she muttered.

Blackpool stuck out her tongue.

John glanced at her sidelong as he opened the door to the break room. She noted his hesitation and gave him a quizzical look. “You on your own tonight?”

John frowned. “Yeah, why?”

“Then I will definitely give you a hand. You look fit to keel over.”

The frown deepened into a scowl.

She laughed. “Oh, go on, your eyebrows look like they could shoot laser beams when you scrunch up like that.”

He pushed through the door after her, shrugging his parka off and pretending that he wasn’t trying to hide a smile, unsure why he should be hiding it other than that recurring little prickle that said she’s too pretty and you’re too old and have you forgotten you’re dying?

“I like the accent. Where in Scotland?” she asked, already filling the kettle as he stripped off his overalls.

“Glasgow.” He spared her a glance over his shoulder, cocking an eyebrow. “You’re from Blackpool?”

“Ooh, jackpot, well done.”

“Not the sort of accent I expected to hear coming in with the snow in the arse-end of America. I had friends there. The other girl, London, is she with you?”

“No, not really. Met her at the station, actually, we’ve just been headed the same way. Fell in together a bit. It was just nice, y’know. Familiar sort of accent. America’s so bloody big, makes you feel a little less alone.” Her gaze shifted outward and for a moment she was gone, the over the hills and far away sort of gone, hands still trying to seat the kettle without the help of her eyes. On the third try, she finally managed to set the it down on the base properly and click it on.

“Oh. I know that look,” he muttered, sitting down to try and struggle his overalls past his boots. “Someone’s homesick.”

“Something like that.”

He opened his mouth, but the well-meaning platitude he’d meant to give was lost in a deep, lung-rattling cough. He bent double, hugging his knees, eyes squeezed shut, and told himself over and over again it will pass, it will pass, it will pass. Spots burst and swam behind his eyelids as his body protested the idea. The muscles in his body froze up, lungs refusing any command except get out get out get out. All at once the darkness seemed to deepen, wrapping around him, swallowing him up. There was a bizarre sensation of detachment. Like he was falling into himself, as if his body was some hollow thing he was floating around inside like a sensory deprivation tank.

An arm curled around his shoulders, holding his body up, a cold hand rubbing circles on his back. Blackpool’s voice came floating through the black from miles off like sweet woodsmoke.

“Hey, c’mon breathe, breathe, you’re alright.”

At last, his muscles unlocked, and he sucked in a great whooping gulp of air and coughed again, half-retching as Blackpool shoved a crumpled wad of tissues into his hands. John sat shaking as his breathing leveled, swimming back up into the peaked fluorescent light. The coughing was old, but the blackout, that was new. New and decidedly not good. Blackpool’s hand still rubbed at his back. She was still there. He swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, and as he blinked the tears out of his eyes he saw a smear of red across his knuckles. Fuck.

Blackpool looked down at the blood on his hand, eyes wide with concern and something else he couldn’t quite place. Something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Her pupils were dangerously wide, irises a thin sliver of copper that seemed to pulse and flash. A fresh shudder rippled up his spine.  Lack of oxygen, he told himself.  Surely.

“You need a doctor,” she whispered, searching her coat pockets and finally producing a phone in a chipped blue case.

He grasped her hand, shaking his head. “I don’t.”

“The hell you don’t,” she hissed. “You’re ill.”

“I know,” he said, and that stopped her. He sighed. “Just, please, trust me. An ambulance couldn’t make it through this mess anyway. No point. I’ll be fine in a minute, I just need to catch my breath.”

She stared him down, mouth set and grim. For a long, horrible moment he felt close to talking. To actually saying it. He hadn’t actually told anyone about the diagnosis. There was nobody to tell, and somehow that was the worst of it. He was going to die here alone in a shithole of a town thousands of miles from home, and nobody would know. Loneliness hit him in a crushing wave. He saw himself reflected in the dark of her eyes, drawn and pale and hopelessly lost.

And then she sighed, and his shoulders dropped, and the moment passed.

“What’s your name, Glasgow?” she asked finally.

“John. But mostly people call me the Doctor.” She gave him a funny look and he shrugged. “Old nickname. Long story.”

“No doctor for the Doctor, though?”

He shook his head, resolute.

“Well, then fuck that,” she said flatly. “Glasgow it is.”

He rasped a laugh that set him dangerously close to coughing again. “Suppose I’m supposed to just call you Blackpool, then?”

“It’s only fair.” She smiled tentatively. “But it’s Clara, for the record.”

- 12:03am

Blackpool - Clara - handed out hot water in little styrofoam cups. John followed behind with sachets of coffee and tea bags and tiny packets of sugar. London, who Blackpool said was named Bill, squealed happily when he produced a pyramid-shaped teabag out of his pocket.

“Oh that is gorgeous, you’re a lifesaver, mate.”

Blackpool had moved onto the driver, whose name tag was emblazoned with “MASTERS” in off-kilter lettering. His cheshire grin slipped sideways into a leer as she handed him the cup, his fingers lingering on hers a little too long.

“Cheers, love,” he said with an overblown wink and an equally overblown mockery of an English accent.

Blackpool’s face went stony, and she jerked back, moving on quickly to the elderly couple. The grin on Masters’ face spread even broader.

Bill fidgeted, her own smile fading fast. Her eyes flitted around like nervous hummingbirds, lighting on Blackpool, him, the ceiling, the floor. Anywhere but the driver. John clenched his jaw, hands making a decision for him before his brain stood a chance to intervene, accidentally fumbling the handful of coffee and sugar and knocking the cup of still-steaming water out of Masters’ hands and into his lap. The room was entirely too cold (and his kettle frankly a bit too crap) for the piddly amount of liquid to be hot enough to actually hurt him, but the man yowled like it was boiling.

“Ach, so sorry mate,” John crowed, playing up the Glasgow in his voice to the most ridiculous degree he could that still stopped short of Rab C. Nesbitt territory. “The cauld goes fae my joints, sorry, like, I’ll get ye some towels an’ a fresh cuppa, dinnae worry about it.”

He trotted back to the office, more than a little delighted at the sour look on the driver’s face. How’d that saying go? Like a rottweiler licking piss off a dandelion. That was the one. Beautiful.

- 12:15am

John ran out an extension cable and a power strip for the ones needing a charge for their phones, which unsurprisingly was all of them. Reception was shit, and the storm was only half of it. No wifi, either. He made apologies, gesturing at the desperately out of date equipment. “Give them another ten years, and they might actually catch onto the indoor plumbing fad.”

Blackpool gave him a wink and a thumbs up over the top of her phone. London rolled her eyes and lamented the absence of Netflix, rather loudly at that. Blackpool shook her head and set to poking half-heartedly at Candy Crush.

London wandered over, leaning back against the desk where John sat. She had apparently memorized the names of the other passengers and ticked them off to John as she sipped at her tea. She pointed out the elderly couple. “Melvin and Tilly. Their granddaughter just had her first baby, they’re going down to visit. Spiky hair over there is named Dan or Dave or maybe Doug, he talks a bit too fast for me to really catch it. The cougar with the long blonde hair is Susan; loves badminton, very straight though, shame. Oh, that over there, that’s Dee. Or D, like the letter, not sure which.”

“And of course, you’ve met Clara,” she gestured at Blackpool, who was still flicking through her phone. “Late twenties, maybe early thirties at a push. Used to be an English teacher back home, I think she said. Didn’t like talking about home though. Breakup or something, I dunno. There’s a sore spot there, I didn’t want to poke. I did learn, however, that she likes Jane Austen, souffles, and apparently, older men.” London tilted her head at him pointedly, amused by the way John’s gaunt cheeks colored as he stared fastidiously at his shoelaces. She tutted. “Oh you poor bugger. Five minutes in and you’ve already got it bad. Don’t worry, mate, same here.”

“I really d-”

“Oh like hell. You absolutely have, of course you have. I’m not stupid. And I mean it’s not like I can blame you. Look at ‘er.” She lifted her hands again at the other woman as if her existence was the only proof needed. In fairness, it probably was.

John nodded solemnly. “Alright. So what next, fisticuffs? Rifles at dawn? You can get in an early dig at my honor if you want, I’ll let you go first.”

She laughed. “Naw mate, she is way out of my league. Out of your league too, now that I think about it.” London put a playful elbow in his ribs. “She still likes you though. I can tell. Haven’t seen her smile at a single bloke until she saw you.”

He cleared his throat. “And uh, what about the driver? Masters. What’s the deal there?”

London’s smile evaporated. “He’s a prick,” she said flatly.

- 12:40am

“Alright, the suspense is killing me,” Blackpool said at last. She’d taken to pacing around the lounge with her phone in her hands and had veered out of her path to the front desk suddenly.

“I’m sorry?” he said, blinking.

“You said people called you the Doctor. Why?”

John waved a dismissive hand. “It’s really not that interesting, honestly.”

“C’mon.”

“Why do you want to know?”

She rolled her eyes, laughing. “Because I am dying of boredom. And because, quite frankly, I like listening to you talk.” John fumbled his pen. Blackpool didn’t seem to notice. She tilted her head. “How’s your cough, by the way? I suppose I shouldn’t bother you. Talking might actually be a bad idea….oh god, I am rambling aren’t I?”

“I hadn’t noticed,” he said dryly.

“Right. Well. I’ll just, uhm.” She motioned away.

“I had something of a reputation when I was younger,” he said suddenly, not really wanting to tell but wanting her to leave even less. “Drugs. College,” he shrugged. “Nothing terribly shocking, but also not very legal. Used to get folk turning up at all hours on my doorstep, worn out or strung out or heartbroken. I’d find the right remedy in my bag of tricks to calm them down, get them talking.”

“A stoner psychologist?”

“Basically.” He leaned back and spread his hands. “The Doctor is in.”

- 1:17am

Boredom took over rather quickly. D-or-Dee, a youth with a partially shaved head and a pocket full of quarters went around feeding coins into the slots of the tiny mounted TVs, looking for one that still worked. For awhile, several of them crowded around to catch the weather reports - snow, lots of; we now return you to your regularly scheduled programming - but it quickly became apparent that the only thing on this late was going to be infomercials and horrible sitcom reruns. The tiny knot of people dispersed, and the youth settled for twiddling the radio dials, trying to find a signal in the squelch and static.

“How do you manage alone here at night?” Blackpool said, leaning over the front desk and swirling the last dregs of her instant coffee as he scratched at a newspaper with a pen. “This place is practically prehistoric. I keep waiting for a dinosaur to jump out of the ladies’ and come charging out to eat us.”

“Alas, it’s never been quite that interesting. But I manage, mostly.” John wiggled his pen at the desktop, heavily populated with familiar nightshift detritus: thin paperbacks (Vonnegut and Iain M. Banks stuff mostly), crosswords, at least three newspapers, and an mp3 player half-hidden under a pack of L&M cigarettes. A stack of monitors to his right showed crackly footage from security cameras in the station; two from the lounge, one in the hall by the lavs, and two outside at the front and back entrances. He gave them a cursory glance and saw nothing amiss. Then looked again, brows knitting together. That wasn’t entirely true. Something wasn’t quite right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He checked the doors again and did a head count, lost count, tried again, distracted by the way Masters was leaning over three chairs to talk to London, who was resolutely ignoring him. John felt the first twinge of a headache at his temples. What the hell was he missing?

And then Blackpool’s arm darted in front of him and grabbed the mp3 player and the cigarettes in one quick swoop that left him blinking.

“Oi, Quick Draw McGraw, give over!”

Blackpool shook the cigarette pack and gave him a disapproving glare. “Seriously?”

He scowled. She seemed to bring that out in him. “I’m old enough, miss, honest. I’ve got ID, I can prove it, even.”

“These can’t be doing your lungs any favors.”

“When did you turn into my mother?”

“Well, if you’re going to be like that I guess I’ll just have to take your toys away,” she said coolly, slipping them into her pocket.

John scoffed. “You really want to be stuck in here with a crotchety old bugger going off nicotine? Trust me, it won’t be pretty.”

“You ought to take better care of yourself, y’know.” The playfulness hadn’t gone, not entirely, but there was a genuine edge of concern.

John felt heat creep up his face and grumbled, fiddling with his hair. That inexplicable urge to tell her hit him again. Christ, he was pathetic. Was this all it took? A pretty face and a kind word, and he was ready to fall on his knees and confess. It was a sin anyway, wasn’t it? Suicide by inaction. Jesus. Get ahold of yourself for fuck’s sake.

Blackpool held up the mp3 player. “Got anything good in here?”

“Depends on your definition of good.”

Music warbled faintly from the earbuds as she shuffled through his playlist. “Bowie. Lots of Bowie.  Miles Davis.  Screaming Trees. And...Peter Andre?” She gave him a look that was just a hair’s breadth away from mocking.

“It got stuck in my head, ok? It was either download it or put a plastic spork in my ear.”

She laughed, properly laughed, round face all crinkled up, rocking on her elbows. Any indignance he might’ve felt fled immediately. He watched her laugh and felt a little of the malaise drain from his limbs.

Blackpool shook her head at him, eyes sparkling. “Well, that’s good to see.”

“What?”

“You. Smilin’.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. He hadn’t even realized.

She patted his hand. A fleeting touch, but enough to make his heart catch almost painfully. “It looks good on you,” she said.

“Oh, flattering an old man,” he said. “If you’re here for my many many riches, as clearly evidenced by my glamorous, high-paying position, I’m afraid I have bad news.”

“Shut up,” she smacked his shoulder lightly.

“I just thought you should be aware!” he carried on, blustering his way through the blush that wanted to creep up his cheeks again.

A sudden burst of static made the both of them jump. D-or-Dee cheered happily, having finally found a radio signal that wasn’t just weather reports or bad country music. Violin strings cut through the crackle and pop in a lilting swell. A guitar crawled in in response, sweet and slow as molasses. John recognized it, an old Fleetwood Mac tune from the Peter Green days.

Melvin, the old guy, was on his feet suddenly, tugging at his wife’s arm. Tilly cackled, called him a sentimental old goat. And then she went to him, smiling sweetly, hands clasped together, one arm on his shoulder. They revolved slowly, beaming at one another.

A few others joined them, Dave/Dan/Doug, the youngish fellow with spiky hair, offered his hand to Susan, a woman about John’s age who laughed musically and joked about breaking her hip, but went anyway. D-or-Dee snatched up London even as Masters was moving closer and twirled her away while the driver was left sneering. A cold little prickle crawled up the back of John’s neck as he locked eyes with the driver. He was going to be trouble. Before sun up, John was certain, he would be trouble.

Blackpool’s hand was on his again, her eyes locked mistily on the elderly couple. “Dance with me?” she asked suddenly.

He sputtered, half-laughing, an immediate refusal on his lips, but then she turned her head and he saw the tears in her eyes. He knew that look. It wasn’t wistfulness but hurt, like an old wound had suddenly reopened. John felt his heart perched on the edge of something he didn’t want to name, teetering, ready to fall. He could let it, knowing at once he’d give anything to take away whatever pain had filled her, and chastised himself for the foolishness.

As if he could. The plows would go out in the morning and she would be on another bus and that would be it. And anyway, he was old enough to be her father and not likely to see the last snows of the season melt. Nothing lasted, not ever. The kid turned the music up, and John felt it working in his chest. A little miracle, a little spark crackling away inside. Old and battered and still playing something sweet and strong enough to make him feel. Maybe that wasn’t all the music. Maybe.

Nothing lasted, but maybe it didn’t have to last to be worth it.

John squeezed her hand once and made for the door. The security monitors dragged his attention for a split second, but he kept moving. Whatever it was, it could wait another five minutes. Blackpool held her arms out as he rounded the desk. He hesitated, swallowing hard. People were watching. London looked at once hopelessly amused and somehow proud. She grinned at him and popped a double thumbs-up, giggling. The driver looked significantly less pleased. The man’s face had gone rat-like and sour, staring at them both with such utter contempt John could almost feel it on his skin, slippery and unpleasant like motor oil.

But Blackpool’s eyes were turned up to him, wide and dark and too full. You wave and you wave with your wide lovely eyes ran through his head with a kind of sick-sweet flush. He went to her. London pumped her fist discretely in triumph.

“You’re cold,” he said as she curled around his shoulder.

“I’m alright.” She took his left hand with her right. Should’ve felt odd. Probably. It didn’t. She led and he followed, trying to pretend he was more than a gangly wreck of limbs and mad silver hair.

She settled against him, fingers worrying over the ring on his hand. “I hope I’m not,” she paused, pressed her face to his jacket, tried to start again. “I dunno, overstepping or something. I don’t want you to think I’m trying to put the mack on a married man.”

His eyebrows flew up. “You’re putting the mack on me now, are you?”

“Shut up,” she said, but there was a chuckle in it.

“I’m not married anymore. It’s sentiment, I suppose. Maybe just habit by now. Just never taken it off.”

She looked up at him, searching his face as if looking for the answer to something she didn’t quite want to ask. She seemed to find it. He could guess; a ghost of that same hurt he’d seen in her face. “I’m sorry,” she said.

John’s mouth went painfully dry. “You too, eh?” he asked.

She nodded. “We weren’t married,” she said, so quiet he could just barely hear her over the music. “But he was going to propose.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Her breath hitched, and she swayed a little in his arms, head down low on his shoulder. John turned them slowly, putting his back to the room, giving her what little privacy he could. He stared out the window. The snow was coming down harder, big fat snowballs of the stuff forming new drifts in the track he had cleared. The sky outside was a dull, muddied pink, the snow drifts colored orange in the streetlights. Blackpool wept discreetly, not making a sound, but he felt tears soak through his hoodie to his t-shirt, and wondered that even those felt cold. He pressed his hand into the small of her back, thumb rubbing absently against her spine, and he tucked the top of her head under his chin. She smelled faintly of lilac soap and deep, bitter chocolate.

“Thank you,” she said as the song ended.

“What for?”

“For being kind.” She looked up at him again, and he watched the last of her tears spill down her cheeks. “That’s rarer than it ought to be.”

A commercial for Thompson’s Water Seal replaced Peter Green, and the other pairs drifted apart. John barely noticed. Her eyes skimmed down over his face, pausing long enough at his lips to make his heart beat faster. She couldn’t possibly...

A cracking from outside made his head snap up, and John watched as a heavy branch bowed over the power lines, cracking and popping. He swore, dropping his hand to his belt where his maglite hung, just as the branch gave way and fell.

In the split second before the darkness descended, John finally registered what had been wrong with the cctv feed. As light as it was outside, even at this hour, the inside of the station was brighter, and he saw himself reflected in the plate glass of the sliding doors. Six feet of wiry thin Scot. Face a little too long, a little too drawn now, but eyes as bright and cold as the night outside. His hands hovered in midair, clasping nothingness.

Of the woman in his arms, there was no sign. Blackpool had no reflection.

[theliterateape]

Hope Idiotic | Part 18

By David Himmel

 Hope Idiotic is a serialized novel. Catch each new part every week on Monday and Thursday.

“HOW MANY DIFFERENT TIMES AND WAYS DO I HAVE TO APOLOGIZE TO YOU?”

Weeks later, Gina was still furious with Chuck over his two-day disappearing act.

“Keep going. I’ll let you know when enough is enough. What did you even do?”

“I went to San Diego. I sat on the beach.”

“And you got wasted.”

“I drank some, yeah.”

“You got a fucking DUI, Chuck!”

He didn’t want her to know. But when you give a girl the key to your place, there’s a good chance she’s going to glance at your mail. And when she sees an official-looking envelope from the Clark County Office of the Clerk, she’ll probably open it. And when she reads it, she’ll discover that you’re an idiot who capped his alcoholic road trip off with a DUI.

“And you’re charged with resisting arrest! What is going on with you?”

“Nothing.”

“This isn’t nothing!” she said.

“I didn’t set out to get pulled over.”

“I should hope not.”

“Can you lighten up a little bit? You’re not helping the situation here.”

She grabbed her purse and dramatically slung it on her shoulder. “I’m going home. I can’t do this right now.”

“Good. Nice to know we still agree on something.”

He watched Gina’s car pull away from the front door then grabbed a can of beer out of the refrigerator. He sank into the brown leather recliner Lou left for him and placed the unopened beer on the end table. He looked at it a moment and considered that the descent to hell was far too easy. He called Lou and confessed to the DUI.

“Yeah, that’s embarrassing,” Lou said. “Although I would have told you about it right away.”

“Whatever.”

“Listen, that’s some pretty serious shit. Now, I won’t ever tell you that you should stop drinking entirely, but maybe you should slow it down some.”

“I think you’re right.”

“Besides, I’m drinking enough for the both of us out here. Thankfully, we have quality cabs in Chicago that only charge you fifty bucks for puking in them. Much cheaper than a DUI.”

“No fucking kidding. I’ll talk to you later.” He closed his phone, then put the can of beer back in the fridge.

✶

THE NEXT NIGHT, CHUCK WAS UPSTAIRS IN THE HOME OFFICE WHEN GINA STOPPED BY UNANNOUNCED. She startled him in the doorway; he shrieked, jumped and nearly knocked the Mac monitor off the desk.

“What the fuck…” he said as he composed himself.

“I just came by to get my things.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I don’t want to do this with you, Chuck. Not right now. We should stop seeing each other.”

She turned and walked to the bedroom to gather the few clothes and toiletries she kept there. Chuck jumped up and once again almost knocked his computer off the desk. He remembered that Lexi was coming over and that he’d already flipped the room. In order for his two-timing to continue, he had to swap out each girl’s things whenever the other was going to be at the house. It was a meticulous task because he had to be sure to place toothbrushes and blouses and shampoos and soaps and lotions in the exact same manner in which they were left. When he stored the girls’ things, he had to take care not to bend, break, wrinkle or lose anything so neither would grow suspicious. He worked hard to avoid situations exactly like this one.

He sprinted past Gina in the hallway and beat her to the bedroom. He closed the door behind him. “Just hang on a second,” he told her. He dove into the walk-in closet and fished out Gina’s box.

“What the hell, Chuck?”

“Don’t come in! I’m… the room’s a mess. Hang on.”

“I don’t care about the mess.”

She opened the door and Chuck was standing with her box in his arms like a thief caught red-handed.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

He thought fast. “I had a feeling you’d be by. I just wanted to make this easier for both of us.” He gently pushed her backward and out of the bedroom as he handed her the box.

“You knew I was going to break up with you?”

“I don’t want you to, but, um… yeah. But you know, you don’t have to, Gina. You’re mad. I get that. Why don’t you go home and we can talk about this tomorrow night.”

“Chuck, you’re a mess right now. You need a lot of support and help in order to get your life back on track.”

“I know. And I’m looking into getting the help I need.”

“That’s great. But I can’t be with someone who is in recovery or AA or whatever. I’m sorry. I just have too much going on in my own life. I can’t carry you, too.”

Her words crushed him. He thought they were selfish, mean. But Chuck understood them. He had let her down. He had become the one thing he never wanted to be: a problem. If he hadn’t been in a rush to get her out of the house before Lexi arrived, he would have fought harder to keep her. Instead, he walked her downstairs and saw her out. And just as her car pulled out of the driveway, Lexi’s pulled in.

“Who was that?” Lexi said as she walked inside.

“A co-worker.”

“What co-worker would be here this late? Looked like a girl.”

“Yeah, this girl Gina from sales and catering. She lives in the neighborhood and just came by to drop off some stuff for pre-shifts.”

“It couldn’t wait until morning?”

“Yeah, I don’t know. She’s strange. Totally could have emailed it since it was all on a thumb drive. Doesn’t matter. Wanna eat?”

He had become the world’s greatest liar and most horrible man. And he knew it.

✶

HE WASN’T LYING, HOWEVER, WHEN HE TOLD GINA HE WANTED TO GET HELP. Things had gotten far out of control. While a fair amount of the misery resulted by his hand, there was plenty that was not his fault. And that blame could only fall to the Universe, God or Mother Nature.

Chuck was never the person to shift blame or point fingers. He was a consumer of guilt and self-loathing for every mistake he made and every good deed he did not undertake. And that’s exactly the sort of thinking that got him where he was. He had made himself well known to collection agencies, IRS enforcers, Clark County clerks, billboard advertising attorneys and repo men.

Chuck still had a few thousand dollars left on his car loan when he stopped paying it. This initiated an incredible game of cat and mouse with the repo man. The tow truck was unable to take the car away while Chuck was at work because Tigris prohibited automobiles from being towed off the property unless the auto in question was entirely broken down or unquestionably abandoned. This was less a policy created out of kindness wherein Tigris was standing up for its deadbeat employees as it was an exercise in preventing violence on resort property. Because seeing a repo man towing your car away is cause to incite rage in even the sweetest of front-desk agents.

What Chuck’s repo man would do then is go to the house and wait in the street for Chuck to return. The first time Chuck saw the tow truck as he turned onto the street, he hit the brakes, slammed it into reverse and hightailed it to Lexi’s. He returned at 5 a.m. and, thankfully, the truck was gone. He knew this would be the new norm, so he devised a plan. He would disconnect the garage-door sensors that caused the door to lift back up when an object was in the way. He would press the garage-door remote in his car as he neared the house. Once the door was lifted, he would press the remote again to close the door. Then he’d gun it and whip the car past the repo-man’s tow truck, up the driveway and into the garage with no time to spare and no margin for error. As long as he ignored the phone calls, the doorbell and the knocking on the windows and the front door, he’d be good to go. A closed garage door meant he was safe.

The only problem with this plan is that Chuck didn’t know how to disconnect the garage-door sensors so he pried them off with a screwdriver. Other than that, it worked perfectly.

After three months of this, Chuck’s BMW, a car bought during better times and that symbolized success, was dead. He drove his cars hard, and Bimmers were not cheap to repair. If the dealer wanted its car back, the dealer could have it. He hoped the dealer didn’t mind that he’d run it into the ground first.

He rolled the car out of the garage and into the street. He caught a ride with Lexi to work then phoned the repo man.

“My car is waiting for you outside of my house on the street. It’s yours. You win.”

“I have to tell you,” the repo man said, “you’re the hardest repo I’ve ever had to do. And I’ve been in this business a long time. Job well done, man.”

“Thanks. You know where I can buy a new car? Something cheap.”

“Yeah, I imagine you’ll have a hard time getting a loan.”

“Probably.”

“If you can scrape together three hundred bucks, I can get you something. Not something good, but something.”

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII Part VIII Part IX Part X Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17

[foryoureyesonlysweetheart]

Hello stranger...

It’s been a while since I wrote in here. At the moment I’m training myself to stay awake for these upcoming night shifts and I thought what better use of my time than to write a long post on here for you. 

I have a lot to apologise for. 

Even though we have skyped quite a lot today, i still feel guilty and ashamed of myself. For the past 1-2 months I really haven't been a good boyfriend to you. I’m expecting you to read this and just nod and nod and go “fucking hell finally he realises” and hopefully forgive me after. You have been having a very tough time recently and your mental health hasn't been great and teaching has been hard and you’ve been overworked and tired and what did you need? some support and someone to tell you everything will be okay and someone to listen to all your worries and concerns. I do not feel like I have been that person. I think I have been selfish recently and, since finding out I'm not here after easter, have put in more effort with my house than i have with you. i didn't always make time to FT you and i overreacted (or under reacted) to things, I dismissed things, I told you not to worry about things when they were blatantly worrying you, i wasn't there for you. Nothing will make that okay and trust me i am beside myself with anger and I'm so ashamed of myself and to think that I've hurt you by not supporting you really kills me inside. I have not been the person I usually am and i honestly cannot feel more apologetic than i do right now. 

A week ago (last wednesday?), we had a rather large argument about sex etc and it got pretty out of hand to the point where we didn't seem like we would properly make it through. I was so stupid to say some of the things i did. I must have just been too worked up about it because at the end of the day i really actually don't care. If you ask me whats more important; shagging all the time or having someone to talk to, hug, kiss, lounge around in bed with, go to the cinema with, go to a museum with, go travelling with, FaceTime for hours - you know which Id choose. We are going to prague very very soon and if i can ask one thing of you it is this - DO NOT WORRY about sex. Please. I know that is so much easier said than done but i couldn't care less. In prague what i want is a lovely relaxed time with you where you don't have to tread on eggshells or worry about what will happen later, i want to live purely in the moment with you. i hate myself that I've inadvertently subjected you to this sort of pressure and its not fair at all - its not right. I will say it now, i do not expect ANYTHING from you in prague. What i’m really craving now, and have been always, is affection. I want hugs from behind, cuddles at random moments, random kisses on the cheeks, makeouts, bum squeezes, long hugs. thats what i want. i want you to know that ever since that argument i have felt so incredibly guilty. we say we are all good over Skype but at the back of my mind I'm still feeling horrible for that argument and i think its the elephant in the room - this may not be the actual case but in my mind I'm convinced that its still causing problems and I'm worried for how you feel towards me. So please, please, please, do not worry one single bit. If you kiss me before you go to bed and kiss me when you wake up, that is good enough for me - believe me when i say that. 

Ive been reading your diary all evening and yeah I've shed quite a few tears. I have not appreciated you the way i should have over the past few months. Fuck me i am the luckiest man alive to have you as my girlfriend. you mean the world to me and i am so so in love with you i cannot imagine not being with you. i wish more than anything i could take back these recent times and just stop being such a dick. I was the biggest fool ever to let us grow slightly apart but please understand i will do everything i can to help us get back together properly. I don't feel like you’re 100% there at the moment, you’re not as affectionate over ft or over text even at the moment and in my mind I'm putting that down to you still getting over how I've treated you and maybe subconsciously giving me a taste of my own medicine - i may be completely wrong but I'm trying to rationalise it. I wouldn't blame you if you were. I just feel like i really need you to realise how important you are to me. You are my best friend, my confidant, my number one girl and the one person i want to share everything with. there are no excuses for how I've treated you (and i may be blowing it out of proportion idk) but i can tell you now it will never happen again. ever. 

You also commented how you think you’ve changed so much this year. You think youve become a lot more independent and matured a lot - that is absolutely fucking fantastic news to hear and i am so proud of you and i support that fully! I think thats such an important trait to have and such a great skill to learn (particularly before getting into the real world) and i was genuinely so happy to hear that. You may think that now you’re independent you don't need me anymore, and the truth is you don’t. I don't think any healthy relationship relies on “needing” the other, i think a healthy relationship is two people doing what they do and enjoying their life independently but wanting to share experiences or spend time with someone else too. I think in that sense our relationship can grow so much stronger because we can do our own thing and not get insecure or anything but we can still want to spend time together if you know what i mean, i hope you feel the same way! But i am so proud of you.

Also, about the head shaving business - go for it. I was drunk and i think i overreacted to it and in the cold light of day, i think its important you know that i will support you in whatever you do. Whatever happens you are still the same person i fell in love with and nothing will change that. Im sorry for making you feel bad about it and i want you to do what makes you happy, thats all i want! For you to be happy. So yeah, fucking go for it! I’ll still kiss it, you may have to get used to me rubbing it all over tho lol.  

I am and always will be 100% committed to us and i will support you through every high and low time that comes your way, i will be there to ft you when you've had a bad day and to sit through your tears and maybe cheer you up with a song if you're feeling it. i’ll be there to listen to your achievements and encourage you with all your bravery and independence. If you want me to be, i will be. 

I love you so much sweetheart, i really really do and its not long until we see eachother again, its not long until we see eachother after that and then its really not long until we go back to living 20 minutes away from each other. imagine those evenings where its like 6.30pm and I've just finished dinner and so have you and I'm just like “shall i come round?” and within 30 mins ill be at your house and we could watch an episode of OITNB and then i can go back home and it'll be that simple. Next year we will both need so much support and so much care - its going to be so stressful but together I'm sure we can fucking smash it. 

you are the most amazing thing to ever happen to me, i hope you realise that and i hope its not too late for me to make amends and remind you of how great we can be together. u da greatest <3

PS: if this is all getting repetitive (i know I've sort of mentioned it a bit over ft) then pls tell me to stop flogging a dead horse and to shut up. I just thought you may appreciate a proper, thought out, from the heart apology :3