#turn to brittle stone and chip away after the last fight of your life

[tumbly-s]

Trigun body horror week day 5 — LIMBS

[tales-unique]

FAULTS OF THE HEART  II

Chapter 2

That night is, quite possibly, the worst night of your life, so far. No matter how you try to position yourself you manage to aggravate your wound, rendering any progress towards sleep null and void in a matter of seconds. You hiss in frustration, sitting up after what feels like hours of fighting, deciding that there was no sense in trying while you were so wound up.

You decide instead to sate your curiosity about the place you have been brought to, starting with the room you’re in. It’s bathed in iridescent moonlight, the fire having long since burnt out, which gives it an almost ethereal glow. In its prime it must have been such a beautiful place to read and study but now it sits abandoned, a sad echo of former glory. All the books, though dusty and stained with age, look to be in good condition and, despite your fatigue, you untangle yourself from your makeshift bed to peruse them. As you edge towards them the wood creaks beneath your feet and you freeze, listening for any signs of life other than yourself in the building. When you hear nothing you release the breath you had been holding, gazing in awe at all the different books before you. Some of the names you couldn’t even understand, their beautiful cursive calligraphy written in a language that was foreign to you. Perhaps the man of the house was an avid collector of interesting books? You gently trace your finger over the spines, ignoring the burn of protest in your shoulder as you move away towards an old desk that sits under the bare window. The wood is chipped and covered in a layer of dust just like the rest of the room, the items scattered about its surface also buried. Your hand disturbs a stack of papers, the paper parched from years of exposure to the sun, to see if there’s anything you can gleam from them, but the ink is so faded that you barely make out the words. You frown at the inkwell that sits near a stack of books, some of which look like writing journals, the quill stuck inside the dried up ink. The feathering had mostly vanished, decomposed until barely any were left to cling to the brittle spine. This was someone's private space once, but not any longer. All at once the feeling that you were an invader hits you like a tidal wave and, with one last somber look, you back away from the desk to look at the door. For all you knew the man could have locked you inside, to curb any possible excursions without him knowing. The thought sent a spark of fear shooting through your system and with a brisk pace you came face to face with the door. It’s old, just as the rest of the room is, and the ornate handle is a deep brass colour under the layer of dust and grime. You hesitate, your hand hovering over the handle, sucking in a deep breath to try and calm yourself. Quickly, you tell yourself, before your fear petrifies you. The grip you have on the door handle is so tight you barely register how your knuckles are turning white, or how your shoulder aches in protest at the awkward angle you're bending at, as you peek out into the dark hallway. After a cautious once over you tentatively step out, careful to tiptoe your way down the hallway so you wouldn’t alert anyone to your presence. But it was already too late for that. The man, the lone inhabitant of the abandoned place, was already awake and wandering himself when you decided to leave your room. He had been angsty knowing there was someone, a human no less, in his castle, and so, like you, sleep evaded him. Your movements were easy to trace, the vampiric blood that flowed through his veins heightening his senses to an alarming degree. Hidden in the looming shadows he follows you, all while you are unaware, to see just what it is you’re doing wandering around at such an hour. At the end of the hallway you find a grand staircase and a hazy memory clouds your mind. You remember being swept up these stairs in the arms of your nameless rescuer, the receding image of the almost comically tall doors receding as your vision grew darker, your consciousness slipping in and out. There was even a trail of drying blood leading up to where you had been left, noticed only now that you were actively looking at the floor beneath your feet. You grimace, making sure to descend on the other side of the stairs. Once at the bottom you come to stand in front of those large doors, ever imposing, and a sense of apprehension settles like a lead weight in the pit of your stomach. Although you had no idea where you were the danger of leaving while still injured with no means to protect yourself loomed threateningly, and that alone made you hesitant. Swallowing your fear you gingerly tread towards the doors, careful in opening them lest you further injure yourself. Whatever you had been expecting, or not , when you stepped out into the night, you could have said with certainty that it wouldn’t have been impaled corpses . You freeze, your blood like ice. Corpses. Impaled. On spikes . Any and all doubts you had about the dangers outside being greater than the ones inside were now none-existent. The man who lived here, the one who had saved your life , was the same man who had done this to these people. A rational person with a sane mind wouldn’t willingly do this to someone, right? No, which meant you had to leave, and quickly, or you could be next. But, oh God , how would you get past them? You barely had time to register that they were more mummified than fresh, having been there for a while, since you were back-peddling as quickly as your legs could take you. Until your back hits something solid and more alive than the doors. You let out a scream, partially from shock and from the pain sent rocketing through your arm, twisting sharply on your heel to see the doors cast open wide and none other than the man standing there, blocking your path. “You’re up late,” he speaks with a casualness that unnerves you more than anything, his gaze solemn. Your chest heaves as you stare at him with wide eyes, panic surging through your veins. Inside you're a mess of emotions that will not be tamed. Utter chaos and turmoil. When you don't respond he lets out a defeated sigh, a weary sound that betrays how worn down he has become. "If you wanted to leave you could have just said so," he muses, frowning when you recoil away from him when he moves to pass you. He stops to look at the corpses that frame the entrance but there's no feeling there. Not anymore. His hate and anger and pain has faded into nothingness, a void he had hoped he would never fall into. You watch him like a hawk the entire time, body tense. At any point he could turn on you and you had to be ready . But the moment doesn't come. There's just him, standing illuminated in the moonlight, broken. "Where would I even go, if I could leave?" The words are quiet but you can't stand the stifling silence any longer. "You could go anywhere," he answers easily, resolute. You scoff, brushing your fingertips over your bandaged wound. It stings and you wince with a hiss. "And do what? I have no money, my arm is useless right now. I'd be dead in a day or two. And that's if I don't get found by the Baron's men first." It's true that the Baron was still a threat to you, even more so now that his hunting party had been cut down, so blood would be demanded. Just not yours if you could help it. "Who are you, anyway?" You ask, changing the subject. There's so much you want to ignore at that moment so you focus on him. There's a moment of silence before he finally responds and his voice has an edge to it that you can’t quite place. You get the feeling that he’d much rather remain nameless to you, but out of politeness he must give in. How quaint. "Your people call me Alucard," he replies, turning to look at you expectantly. You quickly stumble out your name, suddenly feeling like a caged animal under the starkness of his golden gaze. They almost glow in the light, giving him a predatory air. "Well," you clear your throat, quickly stepping past the, ahem, decorations , to stand next to him at the top of the stone steps, "thank you, Alucard. I'd have died if you hadn't helped me." It's the truth; you owe him your life, and he knows it. "You are welcome," he responds slowly, awkwardly, glancing at you from the corner of his eyes before they turn heavenward. "A beautiful night, isn't it?" He's trying to ease the tension and even though it doesn't help much you appreciate the sentiment. "Yes, it's nice," you answer softly. Looking at him as he is in that moment you find that he doesn’t seem so intimidating as you had first thought and you feel ashamed for having judged him so harshly so quickly. Not that it doesn’t diminish what you have learnt from your little excursion outside the castle. After all, there were dead bodies on his front step. Maybe there was more to this than first met the eye, maybe not, but you were determined to discover the truth.

[beckytailweaver]

[FIC] Coco - What the Xolo Dragged In  (Part 7)

Before anybody wonders, remember that in another lifeline, Héctor Rivera had the moxie to punch Pepita in the nose when he thought she was after his chamaco.  This is not a cowardly man, for all that he graciously yields to more forceful personalities...most of the time.

Coco - What the Xolo Dragged In

Part 7 - Break

These days, Héctor always felt terribly out of place up in the nicer sections of the city.  Everything was clean, clearly lit, and brightly painted, pretty as a picture in the mid-morning sunlight.  The skeletons walking to and fro about their business were well-dressed and had the white, sturdy bones of the Remembered.  The stares and whispers, however—disdainful and sometimes horrified, unlike the mere curiosity of his Shantytown peers—made him glad he’d kept to the side streets and alleys, acutely conscious of his awkward gait, ragged clothes, and chipped, weathered bones.

The Forgotten were memorable when they appeared outside their dank domain below—as memorable as a leper at a gala ball, and just about as welcome.  It was always the same; the constant prickle of open stares, or the cold shoulder of being deliberately ignored.

At least if they were staring at him, they were less likely to notice the little shadow he led along by the hand, or at least more likely to pass it off as a Forgotten child—something they wanted to acknowledge even less.

Miguel was doing a good job of keeping up, uncomplaining, though his small head swiveled this way and that the whole trip, in awe of the bright maze that was the massive city of the dead and its inhabitants (they’d taken care of Miguel’s business in a dark corner just outside of Shantytown, where hopefully no one would really notice one more puddle on the damp pyramid stones).  The boy was probably getting tired from the very long walk, but he gamely kept going; he had a lot of questions, but was mostly distracted by anything resembling music.  Every time they passed another source of song, the child locked on to it like a pointer dog until they passed out of earshot or another one appeared.

Soon enough, the instances of music thinned and vanished as they walked, driven away by the austere silence of the forbidden zone surrounding the quiet street Héctor knew far too well.  The sense of impending doom curled his shoulders more with every step; he was walking into the jaguar’s den and he knew it, but a little stomach growled audibly at his side like a tiny angry alebrije and he continued putting one foot in front of the other.

If he kept thinking about Miguel, he wouldn’t think about the anger and rejection that awaited him.  Miguel was love and warmth and a ready smile and a cheerful voice that danced like happy guitar music and hugs that felt like home.

With every step he took, he grew closer to losing that joy forever.

But Miguel needed food and care and everything Héctor couldn’t provide, and that was far more important than his own wants.

Almost before he knew it (before he wanted it), they were in front of the familiar gate, overshadowed by the large sign shaped like a shoe.  The high wall was brightly painted; the house beyond it was even taller, built upward to contain the family like all structures in the Land of the Dead.  It was quiet within, the courtyard shaded from the sun by colorful sheets of fabric tied up in gentle swoops.

“Papá Héctor,” Miguel whispered, staying close to his side, “this looks kinda like my house.  See?  There’s the same sign.”

“That’s because it kind of is your house,” Héctor said softly, forcing the sadness out of his tone.  “Or it will be your house, someday.  It’s your family’s house, where everyone lives when they’re not visiting your ofrenda.”

“Oh.”  Miguel looked up at the gate a moment longer.  “They have breakfast here?”

Dios mío, I hope so!

“Let’s go find out.”  Carefully, Héctor pushed the gate further open and led the boy into the courtyard.  Up this high, the ground was wood and brick rather than stone, the yard tastefully decorated with art and sculpture here and there to give the look of plants and shrubs.  There was even a small fountain that bubbled pleasantly, which small bird-shaped alebrijes might use as a bath.

Héctor took deep breaths to steady himself as he approached the front door, not out of any need for air but only old habit.  If he let his hands shake, Miguel would notice, and the poor kid didn’t need anything more to worry about.  Standing on the mat, he took one last glance down at his grandson and winced; hair sticking out around the oversized hat, face smudged with grime from the back streets, covered in a tattered, filthy poncho, the boy looked like a complete ragamuffin.

...whoops. Not gonna win me any points...but I’m already in the record-setting negatives anyway.

Héctor raised a fist and knocked timidly.  He couldn’t exactly hope that no one was at home, but maybe Imelda would be out and he could speak to someone else—

A roar resounded through the courtyard and sent Miguel crowding against his legs with a frightened squeak.

Oh no.

Imelda’s huge, terrifying alebrije rose from a sunny spot on the outbuilding roof across the courtyard, wings casting a deep shadow as the massive feline leaped effortlessly to the ground.  The growl the creature emitted shook the courtyard floor as it advanced.  Pepita knew Héctor on sight and, after this many years, knew that her mistress didn’t want him around.

And yet, Miguel’s fearful whimper seemed to drown out all of the oncoming alebrije’s noise.

“Hey!”  Hyper-aware of the tiny hands clinging to his trouser leg, Héctor pointed a finger at the big cat’s nose, marveling somewhere in the back of his mind that his hands still weren’t shaking.  “Back off!  I’m here on business, and you’re scaring the kid!”

Pepita snarled but stood still, as if momentarily baffled by his defiance.  One swat from her paw could scatter him all over the courtyard like an upended bundle of sticks, and she’d never been shy about showing her displeasure.  Before she could respond, however, a small brightly-colored bundle of excitement bounced up to her feet, yapping loudly and tail wagging in a blur.  Apparently stymied by this enthusiasm, Pepita stared down at the Xolo-alebrije-pup that threw itself to the ground in front of her and wriggled endearingly as if ecstatic to see her.

With the fearsome alebrije thus distracted (perhaps she wasn’t sure if she should eat it or play with it), Héctor kept Miguel close to him and edged away from the hazard.  The only thing worse now would be—

Just behind him, the door swung open sharply.  “—is going on, upsetting my alebrije and—you.”

Imelda’s voice, quick to bare fangs of spite, bit into him with all the pain and force he remembered from the last time he’d darkened her doorstep—and the time before that, and the time before that...

Dios, dame fuerza.

Héctor closed his eyes, gave himself one moment to gather all his strength, and turned to her with the most neutral, earnest expression he could manage.  Now was not the time for smarmy grins, romantic flourishes, or exaggerated pleas.  “Imelda, buenos días.  I—”

“Get out!  Pendejo músico!” she snarled, her face twisting with rage.  “If I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times, never come back here!”

“I’ll go, just give me a moment to—!”

“I gave you my heart!  I gave you years of my life!”  She had her boot in her hand in the blink of an eye, advancing on him as threateningly as her alebrije had.  “You spat on it all and threw it away!  I will give you nothing more!”

Already he was backing away from her wrath, ducking her swing.  “Imelda, listen—!”

“Cállate!  I told you to get out!  Out!  Never show your face here again!”

When he dodged back again, his leg bumped against solid warmth.  Miguel was still there, cowering from the huge angry alebrije and the shouting adults with a child’s innocent confusion, and Héctor was his only shelter from all that was frightening and unfamiliar.

Imelda had a right to her anger, but this was a separate issue.

Enough.  Enough.  This is not helping Miguel!

If he stepped back even once more, they’d be fighting on top of their great-great-grandson (a young child should never be subjected to their parents’ conflicts).  Héctor straightened his spine as Imelda swung again.  Instead of giving ground, he raised his right arm to block the blow.

Her boot slammed into his radius, snapping the brittle bone with a crack that seemed like a gunshot in the closed courtyard, thudding into his ulna with bruising force.  He grit his teeth against the lightning agony that rocketed up his arm, the pain turning his voice sharp.

“Will you stop shouting and listen to me for one God-blessed minute?”

For a moment Imelda stood blinking at him, startled as much by the fact she’d actually connected as with his tone.

“This is important.”  He lowered his arm, pushing her shoe away; urgency made him force the pain to the background, though he didn’t dare try to move any of the fingers of his right hand.  “Miguel is here.”

“What?”  Her jaw went slack.  “You mean—my Miguelito?  But...I-I should’ve been notified—!”

“He’s not dead,” Héctor reassured her quickly, reaching back with his good arm to nudge the child forward.  He reclaimed his fraying hat, removing the haphazard disguise on the boy.  “He didn’t come in through Arrivals.”

Stunned, Imelda stared down at the living child on her doorstep.  Wary of her, Miguel kept a grip on Héctor’s trouser leg as if expecting him to disappear.

“He showed up last night near—near my place,” Héctor went on, “and...I thought it best if I brought him to you.”

“Last night?” Imelda snapped, her ire quickly returning.  “He’s been here since last night and you didn’t—?”

“He didn’t recognize me.”  Héctor tried not to bite out the words, tried not to sound the slightest bit accusing, the pain in his arm already sharpening his tone.  “And I didn’t know who he was at first.  And he was soaking wet—I wasn’t going to run him across town like that in the middle of the night!”

Imelda’s scowl deepened along with her glare.  “Explain.  Now.”

“He came from the Waters.”  Héctor kept his good hand on Miguel’s hair, trying to reassure the boy as he spoke quickly.  “Something about a ghost trying to grab him—maybe La Llorona?—and this alebrije puppy rescued him from it, but somehow he got from the river in Santa Cecilia to...here.”

Imelda spared a quick glance at Dante, where the pup was bouncing happily around Pepita’s paws as if trying to reach the big cat’s face to lick it.

“Alebrije can’t carry anything across the Veil,” she stated skeptically.  “If they could, people would have been sending letters and packages back and forth every day instead of only on Día de Muertos.”

“I don’t know how.”  Héctor shrugged, and immediately regretted it when the movement jostled his fractured arm.  Wincing, he hissed through his teeth and pressed on.  “I found my living grandson washed up from the Waters with this alebrije that used to be his pet, and he doesn’t understand what happened either, only that he heard a scary sound, fell in the river, and saw something that looked like a ghost before his dog pulled him under and he woke up here!  And now he’s got to get back to the land of the living, he’s hungry, and I don’t have any way to help him!”

“Another inconvenience you’re so eager to leave behind,” Imelda sniffed, folding her arms.

Struck, Héctor found himself glaring back at her for several beats, wondering if she’d actually heard any of the words he’d said.  He had to tighten his jaw to keep from retorting something about how she’d wanted him to bring the boy sooner.  His worry over Miguel had apparently short-circuited his usual guilt and passivity in her presence, but if he fought with her they’d get nowhere; Imelda never backed down from a fight, and the quickest way to defuse her was to avoid locking horns.

“I have nothing,” he said, as flatly as he could manage.  “I have no food for him, and my house is not fit for children.  You can provide for him better than I can.  You can make sure the Department does everything possible to return him to the living world.  This isn’t about me—this isn’t even about us.  Miguel takes priority, and I can’t help him.”

She studied him for long moments before finally rolling her eyes and looking away.  “Fine.  You’ve done your good deed.  Of course I’ll take care of him.  Now get out.”

“Gracias, Imelda.”  With only one arm, Héctor tried to push the boy toward her, but Miguel wouldn’t let go of him.  “Miguel...mijo, you’re gonna stay with Imelda now, alright?  She’ll get you some breakfast.”

“No...Papá Héctor, I wanna go with you!”  Miguel resisted the soft pressure, balking more when Imelda reached for him.  “I don’t want to stay here!”

“Easy now—I got it.  Hey, hey, Miguel,” Héctor said gently, kneeling to look the child in the eyes, “this is your Mamá Imelda.  You know her, right?”

“She’s on top of the ofrenda,” the boy said after a moment, guarded.  “Mamá Coco’s mamá.  She made shoes first.”

“That’s right.”  Héctor smiled encouragingly.  “Mamá Imelda has room for you, and food too.  That’s why you need to stay here.”

“But...”  Miguel cast a wary, suspicious look up at the stern woman, keeping a tight hold on Héctor’s left arm bones.  “She’s the one who said no music.  She’ll hate me.”

“No way!  Mamá Imelda loves you.  She takes care of your family that lives here, just like your Abuelita takes care of your family where you live.  You’re much more important than music, mijo.  You need to stay where it’s safer for you.”  Héctor didn’t let his smile waver, cajoling and positive.  “You’ll feel better when you get some food, okay?  Your family here will be so happy to see you!  And then Mamá Imelda will help you go home to your mamá and papá.  You’ll be fine.”

“Well...okay...”  Very reluctantly, Miguel let go of Héctor’s good arm.  He didn’t look pleased, but at least he wasn’t digging in his heels.

“Come along, Miguel.”  Imelda held out her hand, her voice firm but not cold.

The boy glanced at her outstretched hand, then at Héctor.  “When are you coming back?”

I’m not.  I’m sorry.

“Imelda’s gonna take care of you now.”  The tears he held back burned as his good hand cupped his grandson’s cheek, cherishing the warmth he would never touch again.  Leaning close, he kissed the boy’s forehead, lingering to murmur, “Be good, Miguel.  I love you.”

Please don’t forget how much I love you.

As Héctor rose and stepped back, holding himself rigid, Imelda caught Miguel’s arm when the boy reached for him again.  She still glared at him, but there was something off in her gaze that he couldn’t process; all his strength was taken by staying upright and polite.  There wasn’t time or space for one more hug, one more goodbye, one more anything—he would always want one more, and another, and another...

One more chance.  Please, just...

If he started he’d never stop.  He had to hold himself up in spite of his broken heart breaking all over again, in spite of the jagged pain in his cracked arm.  As if it wasn’t his family he was walking away from once more; as if it wasn’t the only kin who’d shown him any affection in almost a century he was leaving behind, never to see again.

I can’t...

I have to.

He’d told her he would leave as soon as he’d explained.  His face a mask, he cleared his throat and tipped his hat to the lady as if she was a stranger he’d bumped into in the marketplace.  “I’m sorry to have bothered you, Señora.  Good day.”

She started and looked as if she wanted to say something, but he turned away too quickly.  He was already at the edge of his tolerances, and if he lingered now he’d collapse.  He could only try to ignore the sounds behind him—the scuffling of little feet, the click and rattle of a door opening.

“Papá Héctor’s gonna come back, right?  M-Mamá Imelda?  He’s gonna come back?  After breakfast?”

“Of course not.”  Imelda’s voice, gentler with a child but still displeased.  “That músico is not welcome here.”

“B-but, he’s—!”

“Miguel, behave and come inside.  We need to get you home.”

“No...no, Papá Héctor, please!”

I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.  I can’t help you.

Héctor kept walking, telling himself he couldn’t hear anything behind him, not the upset little boy or the irritated woman or the confused whines of the alebrije-dog.  Everyone here hated him, but Miguel didn’t want him to leave, and that was almost enough to break him.

My boy.  I love you.  Go home.  Live.

Closing the courtyard gate behind him helped drown out some of the noise, but it didn’t really stop until Imelda managed to get Miguel inside and shut the door.  Then he was walking through the quiet of an ordinary neighborhood in the late morning, with no living child at his side (no small warm hand in his, no sweet musical giggles, no curious little voice asking so many questions) as if once more it had all been a dream, as if it had never happened at all.

Every step he took carried him further away from the last scrap of love in his existence.  If by some astronomically slim chance he lasted long enough to see Miguel again, his grandson would be grown, old enough to understand the truth, and turned against him by the stories of their family.  The little chamaco who looked at him with love and adoration would never do so again.

But Miguel would live.  And that was all that mattered.

Héctor kept putting one limping foot in front of the other, his only company the broken-glass ache of his fractured arm.  He didn’t care where he was going, just away, and his feet carried him along aimlessly until he found himself all the way back where he’d started, just outside of Shantytown.  Old, old habit had led him back home.

Beyond the gate there was music and joking and raucous teasing shouts.  Everyone within sounded far too happy in the afternoon lull.  Like they hadn’t had their fondest wishes offered to them on a silver platter and had to let the gift slip through their fingers.

It wasn’t fair of him to be bitter.  He should not begrudge his Shantytown Family any happiness they could find.  They hadn’t had the privilege of a surprise living family visit, not even through an ofrenda.  He’d had an opportunity few of them could even dream of, and he should be grateful for the time he’d had.

It was his own fault.  He’d known Miguel for less than a day, and sending his grandson away was almost like leaving Coco behind all over again.  He got attached far too easily, even when he knew he shouldn’t.  He knew it only caused pain, missing what he couldn’t have, and he already had enough to miss just trying to see his daughter again.

His heart disagreed with his head.  His heart said that Miguel was his grandson and he had every right to miss him, even if he’d only known him for a few hours.  His heart wanted to rush back to his family’s home and beg for one more chance, even if pleading had never worked before.  His heart knew that he loved that beautiful little boy helplessly, instantly, eternally, just like he loved his wife, his daughter, and all of his faceless grandchildren no matter how far apart they were.

Héctor couldn’t stand the thought of returning to his cold, empty hut without the music of Miguel’s voice to fill it.  He had no strength left to don his careless grin for the sake of his fellow Nearly-Forgotten.  He turned away from the merry voices of his Shantytown Family (their laughter he couldn’t join and their questions he didn’t want to answer) and his feet took him onward to the shadowed place at the edge of the misty Waters where he’d first found Miguel.

There he slumped like a forgotten marionette, with his broken arm and his broken heart, silent tears rolling down his cheekbones.  In over a hundred years of existence, he’d never learned to stop longing for things he couldn’t have, and all he could think about was the precious boy just beyond his grasp and the beloved daughter whose whole life he’d missed.

He didn’t move from that spot until Chicharrón found him, hours or days or eternities later.

(tbc)

How can I not love you? What do I tell my heart? When do I not want you Here in my arms? How does one waltz away From all of the memories? How do I not miss you When you are gone?

How can I not love you When you are gone?

— Joy Enriquez, “How Can I Not Love You” (Anna and the King)

I know it’s a romantic song, but it has the right sentiment.

Partial inspiration for the bone break comes from @im-fairly-whitty and This Post.  (I hope you don’t mind, Wit!  I thought “Hey wouldn’t this be dramatic?” and then remembered “Didn’t someone already do this?“)

Imelda didn’t give Miguel the best of first impressions in the film canon, either. (He tried to escape her then, too.)

This chapter was just plain hard to write.

[henrybcwer]

Good Riddance

A/N: I deleted the request on accident but the main jest is that the Bowers gang looks after Henry and gives him things he needs without being obvious about it. I tried doing this in Stephen King’s style but I’m not sure if it worked. Also this fic mixes canon from the movie and novel so keep that in mind.

His home is overtaken by a mosaic of pulsating blue and red lights and a crowd of people that didn’t belong. Henry could see them a mile away and hear them half a mile. In his foggy mind he tells himself to stop, turn around and get the hell out of Derry; there was nothing for him now. Yet his body keeps moving on its own, craving to be anywhere that wasn’t in the dark. The moment he, a patch of vile stenches and discoloration, steps within the police’s line of sight, they tackle him to the ground with enough excessive force to keep a man twice his size subdued.

They surround him in the integration room; five to seven officers all tall meaty men with an axe to grind. He’s quiet, almost could be described as timid, never looking any of the looming figures in the eyes, and he supposes that’s what pisses them off most. The Chief of Police slaps him across the face, startling him to the point of yelping. “Look at me when I’m talking to you, son!” The Chief demands.

It takes the stinging of a second slap for Henry to obey, vacant eyes that mourn the loss of—everything, slow rise to meet black eyes, and for a moment, Henry got a glimpse of what the Losers club had been forced to witness throughout each of their encounters over the summer; the blazing eyes of a cold man.

“We know you killed em. We got the evidence to prove you did it.” Chief Brandon bluffs. “We found the books in your closet that belonged to Reginald Huggins and Victor Criss. Think how their mothers must be feeling. My

Derry High School/ 4th period lunch … mom made extra.” Belch says, holding out a brown sack lunch to Henry. “She forgot she made me lunch last night and made me a second this morning.” That was a lie. Belch always made his lunch the night before, since both he and his mom had early morning shifts with barely enough time to get up and get dress. Last night Blech decided to prepare an extra lunch for Henry after the Bowers boy came to school with beans in a small Tupperware for the fourth time that week.  It had been a while since all three of them were able to eat lunch together since Henry was a grade behind them. So much so, that Belch and Vic had forgotten that Henry’s diet consisted 94% out of beans his old man’s girlfriend brought over. A large, obvious part of them knew that Henry must have been sick of the stuff; he would eat only one or two spoonfuls per lunch, and then dumped the rest in the trash. Of course, Henry’s pride would keep him from accepting anything he deemed as a handout, hence the lie.

It wasn’t a subtle lie, lucky for him Henry wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shied. “Your moms goin’ senile.” Henry jokes, taking the bag.

Victor does catch on however, and pawns in his Twix bar. “I already ate one this morning,” he lies.

“Jackpot!” Henry snatches the candy off the table before Victor could invoke a take back, still oblivious to their motives. Twix only happen to be Henry second favorite candy, right after Juicy Fruit gum, so to him it didn’t matter why Victor was parting with it as long as it was going to him.

Add in Patrick’s mandatory milk from the cafeteria line and Henry had enough to constitute as a balance lunch.

The potluck lunch continues into the following week. Soon enough time passes that it becomes the norm, with each of the boys either bringing from home or taking their classmates’ lunch. One day around the middle of the school year, Belch pins down one of the losers, Richie Tozier, to the wall with his arm. He had only planned on taking the kid’s lunch until Richie open his fat mouth to make some poorly thought out joke about Belch’s mom. In an instant Belch draws his fist back and

Police Integration Room/ 2:14 am knocks the wind out of his lungs. Henry hunches over in a coughing fit, clutching his stomach. A sluggish stream of red starts adds new color to his already messed up face. He had taken quite the fall down that well, chipping one of his canines and breaking his nose against the old stone and bricks, after running from his gang and getting into a wrestling match with Mike.  The man who punched him in the gut, a detective by the name Lottman, tells him to stop zoning out and fess up.

“We know you did it.” Lottman says. “You know you did it. Those people out there know it’s true too. So just admit it. Admit

Kansas Street/1:34 pm it!” Patrick shouts, pointing an accusing finger down at Henry. “You’re a cheater!”

“No I ain’t!” Henry stands up, tossing his cards on the ground in a similar fashion to what Patrick did seconds ago.

“No deck has five aces.”

“This one does.”

Patrick makes a face, one of indifference and annoyance, the kind of face that says, yeaah sureeeeee. He could deliver Henry irrefutable evidence that clearly states what Henry did was cheating and the boy would deny it venomously.

“Hand over the belt, Hockstetter.” Henry stretches his arm out, vigorously opening and closing his hand, gauging Patrick’s lack of a comeback as a victory for himself. Patrick makes somewhat of a display rolling his eyes, looking down at Henry’s own belt. Calling it worn out would be an understatement. The leather had become brittle, faded, and stained in the light, the holes where the hook went through have stretched with age creating long noodle like holes that did little to keep the belt tight around his waist. Some of the holes merged together and the seams have started the process of coming apart and fraying. It was a wonder Henry wore a belt at all. His was utterly useless.

Removing his belt and folding it, Patrick reaches out to hand it over to Henry, who by this point is absolutely giddy. But he stops midway, tugging back from Henry’s hand, relishing in the sudden twist in Henry’s expression. “Admit you cheated.”

“I didn’t.” Henry grits.

Patrick raises a brow, slowly bringing the belt closer towards himself.

“Fine!” Henry bellows, stomping his foot down. “I admit it. I

Police Integration Room/2:27 am did it.” Henry whispers face cast down.

“You did?” Lottman asks, a mixture of relief and surprise peppering his expression.

“Yes.” Henry says.

“Do you confess to killing your father?”

“Yes.”

“Do you confess to killing Patrick Hockstetter?”

“Yes.”

“Do you confess to killing Reginald Huggins and Victor Criss?”

“Yes.”

Veronica too. The police never asks how and for that he’s grateful, not sure if he could even think of a plausible explanation that would satisfy them. He could never tell them the truth. The horrors he witness. Only those who’ve had a first person encounter with—that thing could understand. No one else could ever have an accurate conception of the intangible power it possesses over the town and its people.

His trial was a long and drawn out. The police had over exaggerated how much ‘damning’ evidence they had on him, no surprise to Henry, and the District Attorney was only able to get him convicted of murdering his father. Not for a lack of effort mind you, the District Attorney pulled all the stops, calling upon witness after witness to testify to Henry’s character. Three of them were the mothers of his friends: Belch, Victor, and Patrick. Their testimonies were painful to listen, striking chord after chord, playing a haunting melody within the hollow emptiness of his being.

He’s remanded to the care of the Augusta State Mental Hospital during the trial and the following nineteen years afterwards. Often restrained physically and chemically, he saw the facility as a sort of purgatory, one that did not lead to heaven but another layer of hell; Juniper Hill.

On his first night at Juniper Hill the staff straps him to a gurney and preps him for shock therapy. They drug him with succinylcholine, a muscle relaxant to keep him from convulsing, but does little to spare him the terrifying feeling of suffocation that comes as a side effect. The initial pain comes in brief pulses but the searing sting lingers throughout the night. By the end Henry’s in a daze of confusion, droopy eyes wander the room with no recollection of how he got there or why. It was a very lonely experience.

Months peel off the calendar and his shock therapy increases to three times a week. For the most part everything’s the same. Same muscle relaxant, same terrifying feeling of suffocation, same searing sting that lingers, and same lonely experience. The only real change is in Henry. He stops fighting the staff when they take him to his treatments so they let him ride in a wheelchair without restraints. It’s a small thing, asinine really, but it gives him a sense—however misguided—that he still had some control over his life, that he was no longer confined and sedated and force to watch others make decisions for him.

His chest is heaving and his pale face is streaked with tears, a common occurrence during his treatments. His eyes are barely open and he makes not a single move to sit up. The staff comes for him, positioning him back in his wheelchair and wheels him to his cot. They tuck him into bed and he instinctively rolls over to his side, staring at his nightlight intently. Winnie the Pooh holds his honey pot close to his chest and glows softly, emitting a comfort in addition to its light. If Henry squints juuuust right, he could morph the yellow bear into something that crudely resembles Belch carrying something…someone.

The Kissing Bridge /5:00 pm “That was fucking crazy, man!” Victor laughs, playfully punching Henry in the shoulder.

“Didn’t think you had it in you.” Patrick admits.

“I did.” Belch boasts being one of the few, if not only, people in constant awe of what Henry could do.

“Suck up.” Patrick adds.

Henry, with arms cross, shrugs his shoulders, leaning into Belch’s chest. Their praise overtakes any pain in his mangled leg and elicits a proud grin from the teen. “It’s nothing. I ain’t no chicken.” Now he had the injuries to prove it.  The nearly white skin of his leg begins to blossom with purple and yellow beneath the river of red oozing from a half crescent gash on his upper calf and a stiff, warm numbing pain has settled all the way to his foot.

The boys were playing chicken in the middle of the road with oncoming cars. The goal was simple, run to the other side of the road just when a car comes rushing by. They had picked a one way street, not completely daft, and took turns freighting drivers and themselves alike. Ironically, as their leader Henry had the least and most to prove all at once; therefore he was the most reckless out of the bunch, taking on the more dangerous stunts. His luck—and the game—ended when a car narrowly runs him over, clipping his right leg and causing the teen to tumble down in writhing pain as he screams bloody Mary. His friends recoil in unison, then rush to his aid, quick to pull him out of road.

Simultaneously they try to help him, touching and prodding and pushing up against his leg. Henry shoves them off all him. “GET OFF ME!” he bellows, his eyes were water glazed and the familiar pain of a broken bone throbs loudly in his ear and leg. Five seconds later he gets on to them for not helping him up. They scramble for the best position. Victor on Henry’s left and Patrick on Henry’s right, hoisting him up by the hips with Henry’s arms slung around each of their shoulders. Through team work, Henry’s able to stand, his bad leg dangling an inch off the ground. Together: Henry, Victor, and Patrick, try to maneuver down the narrow slope of the hill but find it a challenge as Henry’s foot unwittingly kept dragging too low and tripping them up. Finally it was decided that Belch would carry Henry bridal style the rest of the way home, a plan Henry vocally veto but was out numbered.  

At one point, Patrick asks “When’s the honeymoon?” and Henry told Belch to walk closer towards the boy so Henry could punch him in the jaw. Belch denies the request, leaving Henry to sulk in his arms.

“You think it’s really broken?” Victor asks, looking down at Henry’s ratty excuse of a leg.

“Probably.” Henry says. “Might need a cast.”

“If you get one, I wanna sign it.” Belch says grinning.

“Me too.” Vic nods.

“Me three.” Patrick smiles, getting caught up in the excitement.

“You all can sign it.” Henry reaffirms them. “Big signatures too. Don’t want no ijit thinking I’m a loser with no friends.”

They all talk over each other, a rambling mess of ideas and opinions on what would look make the cast look the coolest.

The sun sets on the rag tag team of bullies, their silhouettes behind them erasing their differences. All of them blissfully unaware of what violent terrors were awaiting them the following summer as they focus on enjoying the moment, having the time of their lives.

[patrickcharlton-oshea-author]

Death Becomes Him: An Age of Steam and Sorcery Novel

Chapter Thirteen: Wakefulness came gently the next morning. The sun was peeking through his curtains that were swaying in the light breeze. His mother had clearly been in as his clothes were no longer hung on the chair by his desk. She must have opened his window to get some fresh air into the room too. Curious, Peter climbed out of the sheets and wandered down the hall. It was rare for his mother not to wake him. In fact, it was surprising she had not entered his room like a herd of over-caffeinated elephants, insisting he bound out of bed and eat his bowl of cardboard flakes. This was whole new direction for her. Nor was she to be found in the kitchen. The aforementioned bowl was on the table, but the flakes were still in the box and the spoon was being used to weigh down a note. Peter put the cereal box back in the cupboard and set the jug to boil. There was an unnatural feel to the silence in the house. As the jug clicked off he poured the water into a mug and dropped a peppermint tea bag in after. Taking the note from the table and his mug of steeping tea into the lounge, Peter sat on the couch to read. “Honey, I can see that this whole thing has upset you more than you’ve let on. Take a day off and read a book, get better and take care of yourself. I’m going out for the day so you can relax. There’s plenty of food in the house, and I’ve given you some extra in your allowance in case you want to order something else. Be good and at least try to get some fresh air today, you haven’t seen the sun since Monday. Love you, Mum” A whole day to himself. The only caveat was that his mum expected him to go outside at some time during it. Peter shuddered. The whole drive of human civilisation had been to get as far from outside as possible. He normally much preferred spending the day inside with a good book. Now, it would give him the chance to research how cavemen skinned their prey. He already knew the first part of the answer: inside a cave. He tossed the piece of paper onto the coffee table and pulled up a web page in his digital vision. He sipped his tea as he read up on early hominids and primitive tools. It seemed that the first tools were made of stone, unsurprisingly, but were incredibly sharp for all they were brittle and easily broken. Making them was quite simple too: you just had to find two rocks and use one to knock chips out of the other. Once he had found a way to make a simple knife he could acquire the needed skins with, Peter checked into tanning methods. The results nearly made him spit his tea out, there was far too much poo involved in the process. No wonder tanners went mad. No wonder the crazy old coot in the hut was mad. It was surprising he had not been forced to move out of the village, digital world notwithstanding. Staring into his unfinished cup, Peter decided to head up to the roof. Mothers have an unerring sense as to whether their instructions have been followed so he figured he should get it over and done with as soon as possible. He took the elevator up and emerged blinking in the sunlight. The elevator doors opened into an area that was protected from the elements by a small roofed area, but the rest of the top of the building was a pleasantly landscaped garden. Gravel paths led between the garden beds from which sprouted small clipped bushes. Benches dotted about, each with their own sunshade, for residents to sit and relax. It was like a watered down version of the Garden of Tranquillity, but the sound of horns drifting up from street level spoiled the ambiance. Here and there lighter spots on the gravel were all that remained of the ashtrays since smoking had been completely banned a few years ago. The smell still lingered though, another reminder that this world was not his preferred location. Peter buried his nose in his mug as he passed each one. Leaning his elbows on the rail at the edge of the roof, Peter looked out over the city. The last remnants of the steam from his tea tickled his nose as he watched life happen to other people. Thousands of cars trailed nose to tail from one horizon to the other. Buildings much like his own rose in regimented order, a shelving system for humanity. Far away below ant like figures bustled along completely absorbed in their own issues, trusting their guidance apps to prevent them walking into another pedestrian or in front of a vehicle. From a building across the street came the slamming of a door. A man stalked out onto his balcony followed closely by a screaming harridan of a woman. He stomped his foot and screamed back at her. She slapped him and he punched the glass sliding door, cobwebbing the surface. His screams ratcheted up an octave, but she just shrugged and flipped him off and stalked back inside, followed shortly by him. Soon another door slam cut off the noise, leaving Peter with the impression that this is how his parents would be if they were not forced to moderate their behaviour because of his presence. Or, maybe not? If it were not for him and his incident the family would not be in the situation. I’m the one that had cost them their home in the suburbs. My incident that had been the cause of all the fighting and vehicular vandalism. If only there was something I could do about it, but all I’m doing is piss off bullies and cause more problems. Peter rubbed his scar again. Hi tea soured, Peter poured the rest over the edge and watched the stream disintegrate into a mist on the evening breeze. He briefly considered tossing the cup after it, but that would only cause more problems. Stepping into the elevator Peter leaned against the wall and let his head rest against the cool metal. Every time he returned to the real world he was reminded of how much his life sucked. What he needed was a way to stay in game for longer. He was still considering ways to achieve an extended stay as he entered the apartment. One could only fake sickness for so long before you get taken to the clinic and outed as healthy. He could try taking the advice his Dad have given him, that would get him suspended for sure. It could also get him mushed into a pulp. More thinking was needed. Until then, there was the rest of the week to get his digital life in order. Peter dropped his cup into the sink and grabbed a muesli bar from the cupboard. By the time he reached his room it was gone and the wrapper let fall into the bin in his room. He turned and flopped backwards onto the bed and had let the digital world claim him before the second bounce.