Pieces In A Pocket

By Wee-Me

Beetlejuice 100 Kisses Challenge

DISCLAIMER: I do not own The Ghost With The Most, nor any of his cohorts. All Beetlejuice related characters are the beautiful brain children of Tim Burton.

Also, this story contains mention of suicide, I in no way advocate it. If the subject is sensitive for you please do not continue.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a response to the Beetlejuice 100 Kisses Challenge. This story is here for Llewlyn (because she threatened me - just kidding) and I hope it's up to standards. I think it's sweet, but it might be considered angst if you look at it that way. My mind veered off the beaten path.

Chapter Title: Butterfly Flew Away

Used Items: # 73. Butterfly Knife and # 21. Silk Handkerchief

He always kept it close to his heart, just as he did her though they never agreed on anything and hardly seemed to get along. He had made a name for himself, one that he wasn't even allowed to say, as a prankster or a monster, depending on who you asked, who cared for no one but himself. He did care for himself, and quite a lot, but it simply wasn't the case that he didn't care for others. He cared and he cared a lot, but only about a select few and in a way that could not be proven nor used against him at a later date. Plausible deniability is a must to keep up his reputation.

His select few as of this moment, as he sits drinking whiskey by the fire in the den of his dilapidated old house on the outskirts of the Netherworld, is made up of three individuals. His three include a handsome young (relatively speaking) poltergeist named Betelgeuse (if you just wanted to be technical), a recently added young (accurately speaking) flesh wearer named Lydia A.K.A. Babes who knew him by his hooked-on-phonics name Beetlejuice, and his dear-ish friend Juno who could make him feel bad without ever saying his name. His thoughts tonight were running toward the maudlin as he worked on his second bottle of whiskey, being banished back to the land of the dead always did that to him.

"Maybe that's why 'm thinkin' 'bout old Junebug an' all that other friend-y crap. Better than worryin' 'bout my Babes. And now I'm talkin' to myself. Great. Spend two years in a waiting room and leave crazier than ever."

It is a piece of Juno that keeps close to his heart, that he rests his hand over now through his jacket. Of his favored few he is only allowed a part of Juno now, he has himself all to himself, and he will not settle for having less than all of his Babes. The piece that rests over his non-beating heart is a gift that she gave him when he was to be punished, stripped of his own fine name, and no longer her assistant. If he were honest with himself (and who else was there to be honest with?) he'd admit that the part of his punishment that stung the most was losing all the time he got to spend with his closest, and possibly only, friend.

Juno had chosen him to be her helper from the ranks of the dead-end dead, those who had little or no hope of moving on or being allowed to simply un-live in the Netherworld outside of the main office. It seemed that the higher ups knew that there was something special and dangerous about him long before he ever showed any outward sign of greatness. So, though he had died long before her, Juno outranked him and he was plucked from the paper-sorting nightmare of the Form Center and into her office as her assistant. This had given him the chance to flex his mind and his powers so he had stayed satisfied in his position for several decades before he'd begun to cause trouble and eventually get himself booted.

They had gotten as close to each other as a man and woman could without either having a single romantic feeling for the other, and that was much closer than he ever would have believed without having experienced it personally. They spent all their time together, when he wasn't in trouble, either at the office or at her tiny apartment (this was long before he was allowed out of the office alone) swapping stories, joking around, or simply enjoying the other's company. She had warned him that someday he would get into trouble that she wouldn't be able to protect him from the punishment of, and when that day had come he was sure that she had been just as brokenhearted as he was.

He had waited in her office as she got his sentencing papers from the higher ups, and he hadn't waited patiently. After situating and re-situating his personage in a chair and about the room several times he started moving things in her office, such as her desk, filing cabinets, and a small box he pulled from within his many pocketed jacket. He was mid-pace when she walked in and considering an attempt at moving her desk to the ceiling. Her eyes were spilling tears and sobs were ripped from both her mouth and the slit in her throat. He had held her until she was calm, that being the only thing he could think of, what seemed like hours.

"Never could do with a crying woman. Makes me sick, an' I can't think. Always makes me stupid, do stuff I regret. Hmm, third bottle of whiskey. Tastes better than the others. Aww, doin' it again, gotta stop talkin' to myself. Drinkin' will help, can't talk and drink."

When she regained her composure, she pressed it into his hands, a small bundle of something. It turned out to be a beautiful black handled butterfly knife wrapped in a silk handkerchief with a "J" in script in the corner. On further inspection both the wickedly honed blade and the blue cloth were marred by a dried red liquid he knew somehow was blood. When he looked up to ask her what it meant she gazed at him with such open affection that he was struck silent as she told her story, a story she shared only with him, never before and never again.

"I was never the most popular, never the most beautiful or smartest or any of that. I was never anybody's favorite, or anybody's friend. I was always just the quiet girl off to one side that no one really noticed. That's why I did it in the end. You see, I was sort of lonely my whole life, but it was never too bad because I thought that at least someone would care if I lived or died. And then I found out that they didn't.

I was sick for maybe a week, too sick to even get word to anyone, sick enough that I stayed in bed for nearly five days solid and no one noticed. I was living in a house with my father, brother, and sister and not one of them noticed that I wasn't around. They acted surprised when I mentioned it, and said they hadn't realized. That's when I decided, I figured if all I was doing was taking up space I might as well free if up for someone who could better use it.

My sister stumbled in a while later, as I bled out, she wanted to borrow my earrings. She held my handkerchief to my neck and yelled for help. That's the most attention I ever got when I was alive. After I was dead they all counted my virtues and told stories about me, most of which never happened. My sister wore the earrings she was coming to ask for to my funeral. All in all it was a lousy ending to a lousy life."

She gazed at him steadily, her expression one of unwavering affection while his own face began to crumple and he teared up. She moved around her desk to kneel in front of him.

"And I know that if I had just had a friend like you, I wouldn't have done it. But now that I'm here and have you I don't regret it at all. Now I just don't know what I'll do without you."

She looked near tears again so he gathered her up onto his lap and rocked her gently, his own voice unsteady as he spoke.

"I'm sorry Junebug. I never meant to leave you here, it's jus' I'm not meant for this place. I need to get out, stretch myself, get the Juice flowin'. I'd take you with me, if you'd go."

"No, you know that I can't. I belong here as much as you belong out there, even if you are out terrorizing everyone."

She stood then and dried her eyes, taking an unnecessary breath for calm.

"Now it's time for you to go. Beetlejuice . . . "

He pressed the knife back into her hands, it was obviously significant to her, and stood awaiting his banishment form this place that held his only friend.

"No Beetlejuice, I want you to have it. Keep it with you and remember me. The next time you see me we'll be on opposite sides and we won't be dealing on friendly terms. You keep that knife and remember what you mean to me."

He hugged her then, touched by her words and saddened, then spoke in a voice thickened by tears as he slid the knife into his inner breast pocket over his heart.

"G'bye Juno."

"Goodbye, Beetlejuice."

And then he was gone.

He often wondered if she had found his own parting gift, a piece of himself that he'd painstakingly wrapped and left on her desk with a note, the package he'd fiddled with as he waited. He'd last seen it just before she said his name that third and final time. He sort of thought she had it, but could never be sure and he was always in too much trouble to be left alone for very long in her office.

"Maybe if I got in just a little trouble I could snoop a bit, anyways it'd get me in to see 'er and she'd never have to know I missed her. It'd kill some time 'til I can solve The Lydia Problem an' get back to the land of the breathers, too. Yeah, first day home and I already have an un-life plan, and Juno says I don't listen. Guess I can prove her wrong tomorrow. Tonight isn't over yet though so I still got time for drinkin' an' thinkin'. And I'm doing it again, shut up me."

The rest of the night was spent with whiskey, the fire, and his memories.

And there you have it

AUTHOR'S NOTE 2: See? Not sad, heart warming-ish. I will likely continue with Beetlejuice's gift, for those of you that wondered. Depending on the response I get on this, I also have a few ideas for some other challenge topics that might wind up here. Please review if you would like and thank you for reading. In any case, whether it was good or bad, Llewlyn can put down the stick because I've met her demands. giggle

Wee-Me