So...new story time-? Uggggh please kill me because I know I haven't written for this fandom in forever and all my stories never update and just...ew. So here's some crappy writing (and an entry for TooBusyBeingAnAwkoTaco's contest) for all of you to (probably not) enjoy. Note the bold headlines, btw, for future reference.
Disclaimer: I don't own House of Anubis.
Tuesday, June 28th, 10:00 A.M.
Pain.
Patricia Williamson is in pain. She's in pain, but she's alive.
Alive, but shot.
She was shot, wasn't she? Or did she imagine it?
"Patricia." The voice comes from her right ear, and it's soft. Too soft.
Patricia coughs. One, two, three. "Joy," she deadpans.
Joy frowns, contrasting her tired, teary brown eyes.
Patricia smirks.
Tan arms then shoot forward and encircle the paler girl's torso, and Joy Mercer has never cried as much as she does now when hugging her best friend. Patricia doesn't say anything, doesn't do anything, just lets Joy's tears soak her bloodstained shirt without complaint as she gingerly hugs back as firmly as being shot in the abdomen lets somebody.
"You could've died," reprimands Joy harshly, but her voice quivers like it should as a best friend and doesn't come off as harsh as a boss's voice usually should.
Patricia focuses on the walls of the hospital, pretending to ignore Joy's words. The walls are too white and too clean, she decides; Patricia has always liked dark colors, like black, because they hide things better. Blood stains, for one. White hospital walls wouldn't be able to hide blood stains.
"Patricia. You could've died."
Patricia snorts. Waits two seconds instead of three. "I know."
Joy lets go of Patricia, wiping haphazardly at her tears, and she soberly says, "Just so you know, I'm going to hate you forever for this. You really..." Joy stops, and doesn't elaborate, but Patricia fills in the blanks herself.
Fucked things up.
"Yeah," is all Patricia says. "I know."
Joy exhales shakily. Then once more. And then, "Do you want to see him?"
Patricia doesn't ask who she's talking about. "No."
Joy bites her lip, slowly falling backwards into the grim hospital cushioned seat that is beside Patricia's hospital bed. Quietly, Joy mumbles something Patricia doesn't catch.
"What?" Patricia demands.
Joy waits. One, two, three. "Nothing."
Patricia focuses on the bedsheets. White again. Why is everything white in hospitals? Maybe it's blood. Everything goes back to blood; hospitals deal with blood a lot more than Patricia does, yet they don't use dark colors. Why don't they use dark colors? So blood is easier to see? Hospitals doesn't need to see blood. Patricia does.
Patricia sighs, then winces and says, "So, then, tell me if we got through."
"No." This time, Joy's voice is harsh.
"I just need to know," says Patricia, surprised. Shocked.
Joy frowns. Harder this time. "Really?" she asks, incredulous. "That's what you decide?"
"Joy."
"No, you shouldn't get to know. Not when you-" Pause. Joy doesn't like pauses. One, two, three. "You're lucky you're even alive. Don't push your luck here."
Patricia laughs dryly. "Don't talk about being alive to me."
Joy opens her mouth, then closes it.
Patricia shifts forward, wincing at the pain. "Joy," she repeats. "Tell me."
"Don't...move like that. You'll hurt yourself."
"Joy."
Joy stands up, and she hovers over Patricia, watching her with those tired brown eyes Patricia has always known to be full of life, always sparkling with excitement. And its with an even more tired voice that Joy asks, "Do you not remember?"
Patricia falls back on the hospital bed. "I don't remember."
Joy's quiet. So quiet she doesn't even count to three and continue.
"Joy. Tell me," Patricia prompts, fearing her friend has forgotten her request.
Joy moves towards the hospital door. Patricia watches, her jade green eyes flickering to her hesitant best friend and to the light brown wooden door that also isn't dark enough for a hospital.
"You saw everything," Joy says thickly, her eyes misting. "Everything."
"I don't remember." Patricia keeps her eyes on Joy, her voice urgent.
"You have to. You have to remember. Otherwise-" One, two, three, and then Joy adds, "Otherwise, I'm not going to say anything. Remember, because I'm not going to tell you."
Patricia feels the anger rise. "Why the bloody hell not?"
"It's not my place." Joy's eyes look towards something outside, in the hospital hallway.
Patricia frowns.
"Just...remember," Joy finishes, and her voice is now more tired than ever, like an exasperated kindergarten teacher speaking to a disruptive student instead of a best friend. "Please." And Joy leaves without so much of a goodbye, out the light-colored wooden door.
Patricia's frown falls. Please. Joy had said please.
Patricia wants to remember. She really does. But how can she? All she knows is blood. All she'll ever know is blood. Why does Joy expect so much? Joy must know that Patricia is suffering. Joy has to know that Patricia can't be bothered.
All Patricia needs is a yes or no. Is that too much?
There's a knock, then. A hollow, hesitant sound that Patricia recognizes.
"Come in," she says, but her voice betrays her; it cracks on the last word.
He's there. Just the person she didn't want to see.
"Hey, Yacker," he says softly. Too softly. Why is everyone being soft to her?
"Slimeball," she grits, and she frowns at him, because he looks different. The memory she gets of him is a clean-shaven young man with a distracting tattoo of her name on his neck, but he looks haggard, and his tattoo has been removed; in its place, there is a patch of burned skin. Besides that, he has a bloodied bandage on his forehead, and his lip is split. It's like he's been to hell and back, Patricia marvels.
"You're, uh, finally awake," is what he manages out, and he smiles, but it's fake. Forced. He doesn't sit, but he does hover, and his body tenses every second as though he's about to say something, but he never does.
Patricia doesn't have time for small talk. "Cut the crap, Miller."
He ducks his head down shyly.
Shyly.
He is never shy.
"Are you in any pain?" he then decides to ask.
Patricia frowns. Grits her teeth. "You're doing a poor job of distracting me."
He doesn't even look offended. Instead, he keeps looking at her like she's a wounded animal, like she's the one who looks like hell. This puzzles Patricia, because he's always been the type to back up with a smart-alecky comment and get on her nerves, not have sympathy for her.
"Eddie," she starts, and his name is foreign on her tongue, "tell me if we got through."
His forehead crinkles. "You don't remember," he states, not even asking as Joy did.
"No."
He stares at her, not bothering to hide his disbelief.
Patricia doesn't like the feeling. "Quit staring," she demands. "Just tell me."
He doesn't tell her. Instead he sits down, finally, dropping like a deadweight.
"Slimeball," she snaps, angry. "Tell me. Yes or no, did we get through?"
His stares again, this time his gaze harsher. "Tell me what you remember."
Patricia doesn't like his tone. Doesn't like him.
Eddie gets angry. Stands, then sits. Opens his mouth to yell but never does. Finally, it's with a quiet, defeated voice that he pleads, "Patricia, tell me what you remember."
Patricia waits. One, two, three. "No," she answers, and her voice is angry, her face is angry, she's angry. She doesn't like this; she has just been shot for God's sake. Why does she need an interrogation?
"Please," he says.
Please again. Patricia has never been really polite.
"I don't need a bloody interrogation," Patricia snaps. "Just tell me." Her voice is demanding. She's always been demanding; she doesn't ask for things nicely, nor does she intend to start.
Eddie rubs at his eyes. Keeps his hand there for a while. One, two, three. "I will," he says, his voice soft. "But you have to help me out here. What do you remember?"
Patricia frowns, because she doesn't do helping either.
"C'mon, Yacker," he begs, and he isn't teasing her with the nickname. No, he says it softly, sweetly, like it's a term for endurance. "Think hard. What's the first thing you remember from June 25th?"
June 25th. The date strikes a chord.
The chord triggers something, and she finds herself in a haze of memories that rush to her. They aren't pleasant, either; they're messy and everywhere, reminding her just how bad that day was.
There's her name, boldly tattooed on Eddie's neck.
There is Eddie's gun, and it's pointed at her.
Patricia is yelling.
Eddie is yelling.
Joy is trying to break into the room.
Fabian's there. He's falling.
Mara's there. She's bleeding.
Jerome's there. He's screaming.
The gun's still there, never moving, still in Eddie's hands.
Nothing prepares her when the first horrid memories come flooding back. Patricia finds herself breathless easily, as if she's still living it, as if she's still there, as if it's still June 25th.
"What day is it?" Patricia asks, and her voice is tinged with panic.
Eddie falters, but slightly. "Um, the 28th. Still June," he adds lamely.
Patricia takes that in. Three days. Just three days.
"Patricia," he says, and his voice is careful, cautious. "Are you-"
"Hold on." She cuts him off. Doesn't let him finish. When has she ever let him finish anything when she doesn't want him to? She stares at him, trying to understand why he looks like hell, why her name's been burned off his neck when it's only been three days.
"Patricia," he repeats, and his voice is urgent. "Tell me what you remember."
Patricia focuses on the white walls of the hospital. Doesn't meet Eddie's eyes. She closes her own eyes, willing herself to think to the very beginning, willing herself to find something other than the horrific memories her brain taunts her with.
Mara's blood. A lot of blood. Patricia can do blood, but not yet.
Joy's smile. Patricia loves her smile, but not yet.
Fabian's burnt fingers. He's careless. So careless. Not yet.
Jerome's smirk. He teases too much. Not yet.
Amber's blunt remark. She's too blond. Not yet.
Nina's kind words. She's too...Nina. Not yet.
And Eddie. He's...he's something. Patricia can't understand him quite yet; why he's so soft-spoken right now, why he even got her name tattooed on his neck, why he keeps showing up in the blasted memory of June 25th when he's just an annoying prat she barely knows.
"Patricia." His voice is still urgent.
Patricia exhales. She decides to let the words flow off her tongue whichever way they come to her. One, two, three, she counts, and it's with a tense, quick tone that she blurts out, "You. I...remember you."
Eddie doesn't speak. Doesn't move. Keeps his eyes on her, even when her own eyes are still on the white hospital walls, never wavering. He brings a hand to his neck, gingerly probes the burned skin, never stops studying her, never stops analyzing her.
"Tell me," he says, and it's so quiet, Patricia almost doesn't hear him.
Almost.
Patricia scowls, because she doesn't want to tell him anything. She doesn't get why he needs to know, why he needs to understand what she thinks of him, why he's a part of June 25th at all.
"Yacker," he repeats, his voice coming off too gentle once more.
Patricia scowls harder. "Don't call me that."
"Then tell me." Eddie breathes in, breathes out, keeps watching.
Patricia looks at him, finally.
"Blood," she says suddenly. "I just...blood. Before you, I remember there was blood."
Eddie takes that in. Nods, even.
Patricia hesitates, just once. One, two, three. "And it wasn't mine."
He keeps nodding. Sort of rhythmically, too.
"It wasn't yours. But I wanted it to be."
He furrows his brow. Stops nodding.
"I hate you," she says, coolly. "That's why I wanted the blood to be yours, because I hated you then. I still do." She scans his eyes. Waits for a reaction, waits for the I-hate-you-too and the matching smirk. Waits for the old Eddie to come back, not this soft-spoken, caring Eddie.
Eddie nods once. One, two, three, his eyes chant.
"Keep going," he says once the seconds pass.
Patricia pauses. Falters.
Then she begins, "I was told to count to three when I first met Joy."
He nods again.
"And when I met you, I started doing that a lot more," she says.
Nods again. Green eyes never stray.
"And on June 25th, it didn't work," she says.
One more nod.
"June 25th was three days ago?" she asks, feeling vulnerable; she hasn't forgotten, but there's something about the conversation that makes her want to stray from it. This questions is a breath of fresh air, almost.
"Yeah." He keeps his answer curt.
She focuses on him. "Then three days ago, I killed a man."