Okay… I know lots of you are angered 'cause I haven't made a new chapter for Find Hope, but it's not my fault! I swear! I thank the 36 of you who took the time to review the newest chapter already. It's my muse's fault. That dirty, low-down, no good, JACK ARSE!! He went on vacation to "invent new ideas" and took my ideas with him to "motivate him." He's been gone for weeks and has made no sign of returning. I hope he chokes on a wishbone, hits his head on a pipe, and gets some sense knocked into him. That'd teach him for leaving me.
Anyways, all of you Wicked Heart lovers should rejoice… I'm currently working on the third chapter. Why am I so slow? Blame it on the weatherman… or on my socials teacher; either one will do. Yes, taking summer school is a horrible thing to do, but no! I'm not stupid! I didn't fail…. I just don't have enough room in my schedule next year to take all my icky courses, so I had to take one over the summer. And, ta da! My lack of time to do anything was born! We do a chapter a day, and we've already had one test and a quiz. Our average for the test was 58%. Kind of makes you wonder what kind of mark I got, right? Well, even I don't know. He's showing us tomorrow. The highest mark was 14/16, which is about… 88%, which kind of sucks, seeing how it's barely an A. =.=
Anywho, I blather on too much, on with my foul little story I made up during break today. I hope you enjoy it, my tiny minions of doom. Er… I mean, my tiny little readers of … fanfiction. =)
"…" Speech
'…' Thoughts
[…] A/N's
Disclaimer: I own nothing but Yukio and Tony and any other miscellaneous characters I may have come up with. In no way whatsoever do I have any umm... ownership thingies for CCS.
Drifting to the End
Chapter One
My Mind Wanders
My mind meanders off as I finish off my false orgasm. Even as I pocket my pay, my mind continues to roll about in any direction. I assure the stranger that he was the best lay that I've had in ages and continue to my mind strolls along the banks of fantasy. Allowing my mind to drift away is one of my few luxuries.
The night is dark as I saunter away from the car. The driver honks his horn once and I wave half-heartedly over my shoulder, not looking back. I won't see him again, and if I do, it will be under the cover of darkness yet again. I take great measures so that I never get good looks at my customers. It just makes it so much more real; things being real stop my drifting thoughts. The stopping of my thoughts makes it so much more real. Reality sucks and when I'm doing the things I do, I don't like to be reminded that it's real. It's so much easier to think of it as part of an act you're starring in; like you're playing a game and nobody else knows about it except you… so they all end up losing except for you.
The time is just past three o'clock, and that's three am, not three pm. I know this because of during my last round of "lovemaking" I caught a glimpse of the dashboard clock. The night wind chills my skin. Or should I say early morning wind? I haven't figured out why three am is called night while four am is morning. English is a funny language.
I know of a place not far off where I can get a frapuccino wannabe for cheap. Mike's Coffee is famous for ripping off big shot companies and using their beverages in his own shop. When I get there, I'll be able to let my mind realize just what I did tonight. I don't like thinking when I'm on the job; all that thinking makes me realize just what I'm doing at just the wrong time. I don't like it when that happens; it ruins my concentration and that in turn makes me get paid less than usual.
I smile ruefully; one does not need concentration for a job like mine. All you need is a bodily orifice or two (or three) and some good acting skills. Hell, you don't even need good acting skills; you just have to moan once in a while, and Ba-da-boom, the job's done.
I stop walking and freeze in the middle of a dark sidewalk. It's not exactly the best place for a person to stop in broad daylight, let alone in not so broad moonlight. I believe a gang holds office nearby, and there is an alleyway off to my right, which is probably swarming with homeless people, druggies, and other miscellaneous stereotypes. But right at this moment, I can't remember that; for a second, my mind really has left me.
Have you ever felt… disoriented? So disoriented that you couldn't breathe, that you couldn't move, that you couldn't do anything except wonder where you are and how exactly you got there? I always do after a hard night's work. Sometimes my disorientation is weak, and lasts only a few seconds, while at other times, it hits me so hard that I don't know the name of the bloody country I'm on, what species I belong to, let alone who the hell I am.
It's quite frightening actually. It terrifies me when it happens, 'cause sometimes, the disorientation is so complete that I forget that it can happen to me. Once, when I was younger, a few years back, it hit me so hard that I collapsed in a street full of people. I was just walking, normal walking, I had the day off and the day after that day too, so I was very happy. I decided to go shopping… but things went bad. I remember trotting down a sidewalk, smiling, staring at the window displays. Then, it hit me and I froze. Someone bumped into me, apologized and then walked off. They didn't notice what was happening to me. Then again, not a lot of people did notice. Well, not until I shut my eyes and fell over.
Let me explain. I fell and I had to shut my eyes because the pain, yes there was pain, I don't know where it came from, but it was so complete coursing throughout my body that I was seeing pink, not black, but pink, and my knees burned. But the burning of my knees was probably from my fall. Everyone around me kind of stopped and began stooping over trying to figure out what was wrong. I was so scared, they looked like aliens to me, large faces, giant eyes; the noises from their mouths could have been Swahili for all I cared. I had no clue what they were saying, or what they were in fact. I just wept until the police came by with the paramedics. The doctors didn't understand what had happened, so they just said it was a heatstroke/nerves sort of thing. The temperature was a cool 17 degrees Celsius that day.
Troy had had to pick me up. The doctors had called and Troy wasn't happy about it. Apparently there was a party and Troy was the guest of honour and I had made Troy late. But Troy didn't mind, Troy liked me; I think. Well… Troy did give me hug and told the others to look after me. But I hadn't needed any looking after; I had felt fine right after I got out of the ambulance.
I think it happens cause I force my mind to float around too long while I'm working. Then again, it could be something else, but I'm too scared to tell anyone how bad it really is; not a doctor, and not even my friends. What if it's brain cancer or something like that? This time, I'm lucky; my disorientation lasts for only a couple of seconds.
I realize that I'm in front of Mike's Coffee, my favourite after work meeting place. I swing open the door and bells tinkle hollowly as I step inside. My high-heeled boots click as I walk across the black-and-white checked tile floor. The floor, as always, reminds me again of the game of checkers; or perhaps it is chess that I'm remembering.
The shop is half empty, half full, and half insane. People sit upon the cracked, red vinyl seats, dull now from constant use, sipping at their drinks slowly. They suck caffeine through straws, eyes half shut, half open, the best of both worlds; they try their hardest to stay awake at such an ungodly hour. Some customers sip from tiny, chipped, porcelain espresso cups. Others have gone for some more sanitary containers; lattes seem to be in favour at this time of day. The clear plastic cup caps are pierced by long neon coloured plastic straws and they stand out against the customers pale white late night (or early morning) faces amazingly. They all seem to be made of white plaster. Except for the thin African female sipping from her pink plastic straw in the corner; her straw stands out against her dark, chocolate brown skin. She does not have pale skin. (Duh.) I wonder if it's harder to get make up if your skin is dark. I recall the thousands of commercials I have watched in my short years on earth. They all have Caucasian females demonstrating the wonderful effects of their makeup.
Big Mike, the owner of this fine establishment, (note my sarcasm) and self-proclaimed bouncer of his shop, is behind the counter, as usual. I notice that my friend hasn't finished her shift yet, so I approach the counter. Big Mike turns to me, the perfect stereotype for a bartender in a sleazy strip club or some other dirty place. He has a dirty dishrag hanging over his shoulder and was using an equally grubby dishrag to wipe away at an espresso cup. He had once been a professional bodybuilder, way back in his youth, so he was heavily muscled; unfortunately for him, the passing years had turned much of his muscle to fat. A huge, badly stained apron stretched its way across his ample stomach.
"The usual," I said to him, giving him a wave of my hand. "I want a strawberry frap wannabe."
He grinned and put down his espresso cup to grab a plastic one. As he filled it with strawberry goodness, he asked, "Good day?" in his usual, gruff tone.
I nod silently and watch as he pulled out a lid for my drink. I chose a red straw from a box on the counter and placed it between my lips while he put the cap on my frap wannabe. I like to chew on plastic; it's an odd habit I picked up in my childhood and haven't been able to let go. It's oddly comforting.
He shoved the frap at me and I grabbed it. Big Mike began wiping the espresso cup again and I recalled just why I always ordered things that cam in one-use plastic cups. Big Mike was a nice guy, but he just didn't understand the use of washing dishes well. He usually just stuck them in a pot of boiling water until everything came loose and wiped away everything with a dirty rag.
Big Mike waited as I hungrily gulped down about an eighth of my frap wannabe. It was so good and cool; just the thing I needed to calm me down and wake me up. I could feel my mind starting to concentrate on regular things, rather than bumble its way around wherever it wanted.
Big Mike was still standing there while I sighed my contentment. Happy, I bared one of my breasts to him, quickly flipping my nipple to make it hard. I pulled down my tube top before the other customers noticed my means of payment. They didn't; they were all too involved in sucking all the caffeine out of their drinks to bother looking at me.
Frowning, Big Mike rang up an imaginary cost on the till. "Only one?" he growled out as he handed me two twenty-dollar bills.
I grinned at him and tucked the two bills into my hidden pocket. I'm guessing it looks like I'm feeling myself up because Big Mike hands me another twenty and grins back at me. I put it away and pick up my frap wannabe. "Inflation Big Mike," I explain to him. "Blame it all on inflation."
He nodded and went back to wiping his dirty cup with his dirty rag. I smiled again and walked away chewing on my red straw, heading for a back booth to await my friend. Big Mike had no clue about was inflation was but all he did was nod. He's a nice guy.
I sit down in my booth and stare out the window. It's still dark. My reflection stares back at me. I allow my mind to wander some more; I'm not ready to deal with reality just yet. I sip quietly on my cheap rip off of a frappuccino wannabe and continue to stare at my reflection. It helps keep my thoughts off of what's really on my mind.
In order to stay sane, when I do my jobs, I don't… think about what I'm doing. I allow my mind to drift away to keep away the pain. I did not choose my job, and I do not want my job. And yet, without it I cannot survive. No not the money issue, money is easy to make if you understand certain things, but the being hunted down by my pimp issue.
When my mind wanders, it hits on the most stupid topics. These topics include: how a telephone works, how many pennies can fit up a persons nose, the amount of spiders one inhales while sleeping, etc. As I have already said before, these random thoughts keep me from realizing what I am doing at the time I am doing said act. If I were to realize what I was doing, I would probably break down in tears.
In fact, that happened many times in my first few weeks at my job. Yes, I call it a job; I am someone who gives services to customers. That is what someone with a job does; they serve customers. But as I was saying, many times I would end up crying in the middle of a job. Several times I was able to pass it off as sheer ecstasy, but at other times I wasn't very lucky. My pimp was complained to, and I was punished. I learned that the easiest way to alleviate my feelings and pain was to blank out and send my thoughts in random directions. It may be surprising, (or not surprising) but many times while I do my false orgasm routine, I am thinking about what kind of font is the easiest to read. Said question troubles me at odd times and I find myself returning to it at peculiar moments. I still haven't figured out which font is most easily read.
"Sakura," breathes out a voice from across from me. I tear my eyes away from my reflection.
Oh… Shall I introduce myself before I introduce my friend? That would be polite. I am Sakura; I am a female of the human race; my age does not matter; I am a prostitute under the supervision of Troy, my pimp.
The female in front of me sips at a vanilla latte, or something like that. I know that it's vanilla, that's all she ever orders. Her name is Tomoyo; she is also a female of the human race; her age does not matter either; she is also a prostitute under the supervision of Troy.
We have known each other for about four years or so, ever since Troy bought out a pimp from the lower West Side. Tomoyo was one of the prostitutes he bought off of Dice. At the age of twelve, we were both placed in the same room; sadly enough, we were not the youngest ones there. Three other females of the age of eleven were also employed by Troy at the time. The youngest of those three has died of AIDS, having taken a "tumble in the hay" "without a raincoat." We were all in bad spirits after that for a while. But life goes on, as does my tale.
Tomoyo and I became good friends in our time spent together. Being forced to live with each other did that to most people. You either became the best of friends or the worst of enemies. Which reminds me, if you are the worst of enemies… aren't you the best of friends? Because you're the worst of enemies… which makes you not good enemies… Not good enemies are friends. And the worst of enemies are the best of friends? I confuse myself and I digress. That's not a good combination.
Hmm, where was I? Ah, yes, Tomoyo. Dear, purple-haired Tomoyo. She is… sitting across from me and starting to get up. I look outside the window. Woot, she has a car. I wonder where she got it. I hope she didn't just go around switching licence plates again. The police aren't very fun people to have chats with.
I get up and am suck at my frap rip-off before I realize that it's done. I take out the straw and toss the cup into the garbage can, and then place the straw between my teeth. Winking at Big Mike, we exit, the bell acknowledging our departure.
It's a red car, a convertible, but the top is in use, so we won't be too cold for the ride home. Cool, it matches my straw. We get in and buckle up, Tomoyo in the driver's seat. I lean my chair back all the way that it can go and fall asleep, straw still clenched between my teeth; I do not have Tomoyo's stamina. That girl can go for hours and keep on going long after I've fallen over from lack of sleep.
We drive down the deserted roads. Even though it's around three thirty in the morning, several cars cruise by us. At least, that's what usually happens when I'm awake. In my state of heavy sleep, I didn't see anything. I sleep well usually, sleep is something of a luxury item for me; I catch it whenever and wherever I can. Sometimes I have the weirdest dreams… Like the time that I tried to go up the stairs, but the noodles kept… I'm digressing again. It's not my fault. I'm still not fully here right now. At the moment, I'm allowing my mind to drift. I don't like crying in cars; I'd much rather cry in the safety of the shower, where no one can hear me.
My nap is well used; I awake refreshed and happy in front of our house, Tomoyo shaking me gently. I'm holding my straw in my hand when we get out of the car and enter the house.
I toy with my straw and lock the door behind us. We're right inside the kitchen and would you look at that? Right in front of us stands Troy.
Don't fo'get to review… Or… I shall bite you and infect you with NISHIES. Which is always capitalized. 'Cause it's special. =)