I Have Been In Earth, I Am Going To Hell
This is a fanfiction crossover, based off two short stories I read during a creative writing course. The short stories are entitled "Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?" by Joyce Carol Oates, and "Girl", by Jamaica Kincaid. I liked exploring what might happen to the named characters in the former, Arnold and Connie, and the unnamed character in the latter, whom I christened Anne.
Connie looked out the window of the car. It wasn't the jalopy. It was a new one, one Arnold had bought very recently. She didn't know what kind it was. She didn't care. It had nice leather seats and that 'new-car' smell. Arnold kept it pretty clean. She continued to look out the window. She wasn't looking out the window, though. She was looking outside and into herself. Her reflection loomed up beside her, asking her questions she didn't want to answer.
She loved Arnold, she supposed. It wasn't love like you read in the romance novels, or like how you expect love would be like. She loved him through hating him. She hurt him with every word, but only hurt herself. They were so much a part of each other that there was no distinguishing between the two. She didn't know if he loved her, or even if he loved himself. She didn't know if he was capable of it.
She took a slow drag of her cigarette. At first, Arnold hadn't allowed her to smoke--couldn't stand the smell, he said--but after she'd threatened to call her family and let them know where she was, he relented. He'd never wanted her to contact her family--and she'd had no desire herself. The very fact that the possibility scared him so gave her power over him--power she drank up and power that made her sick to her stomach. She despised it.
Arnold coughed and rolled down her window. The smoke from Connie's cigarette was sucked outside and flew along the side of the car, dissipating as it reached the end. She flung it out the window. She didn't care about the waste of a good cigarette. It was Arnold's money. She spent it liberally.
"Where are we going?" she asked, her voice sullen and scratchy. There were deep shadows under her eyes. She didn't sleep much. Didn't eat much, either. She was even thinner than she had been when she'd met Arnold.
Arnold glanced in her direction. "You'll see," he said in a reassuring tone, though it didn't reassure anybody about anything. Everything he said was forced. She wondered when he'd ever say anything that wasn't.
She sighed, annoyed. He didn't know any more than she did.
She reached down into her bag and grabbed her cigarette box. There was one left. Even more irritated, she flung it down into the space between her seat and Arnold's. "I need more cigarettes," she said, crossing her arms and looking out the window.
Arnold didn't reply.