gift for the summer '12 fic exchange.
for- emmy (lightning veins)
prompts- vanilla chai tea, "I don't want to die without any scars," a thunderstorm, and pale, pink lace (not in that particular order, though)
a/n- I've had a really rough week, and this is the angsty result. At least, I have an excuse this time, haha. I hope you like this, Em!(:
disclaimer- All quotes, brands, and characters (etc.) are not mine.
warnings- language and weird stuff.
something's odd
-dc-
"And Something's odd- within-
That Person that I was-
And this One- do not feel the same-
Could it be Madness- this?"
—Emily Dickinson
-dc-
The pain is unique, searing and sneaky, like the child's infamous boogeyman under the bed. For a few minutes, it takes the disguise as the shrug off, as the I don't give a fuck, then the next moment, it's made a niche over the breastbone and heart, clicking into place and shoving itself deeper and deeper, creating impressionable dents that make it hard to even think. Breathing is short and stabbing and takes practiced effort, because crying and screaming appears to be the only release from some of the painful buildup, but those are wimpy options and shunned upon observation. Suicide is not far from the mind; it creeps from the subconscious in petulant baby steps, hoping to get the one in a hundred chance to dominate a weakening mind. This is sadness, and it's excruciating.
Derrick is sad for a long time; he lives in shadowy places, a long face in a hopeless world, where his mom is technically dead, and his dad's a shithead, and sometimes, he wonders why he's just existing, because he knows that he should be living and shit and fuck, but he's an indolent person, and he doesn't care about it either. Because Derrick is exactly where he wants to be, and he's not concerned that no one likes him, and that he doesn't like anyone, and that his mom is gone somewhere (heaven, hell, purgatory: lies, lies, she could still be around; his dad, the little fuckheadliar) and his dad is a stupid drunk that tries to beat on his Derrie, but Derrick fights back, and Daddy doesn't like that. He just can't care.
But then he meets Claire.
-dc-
Claire is different and pretty and sweet, and Derrick likes sweet; he needs sweet, but he hasn't tasted it in a long time, and it almost scares him.
"Hey, Derrick?" Her voice is soft, very soft and inviting, like the smile of a new mother. He doesn't understand how she can be so happy all the time and act like nothing's wrong; her family is fucked-up: her mom, an uncaring bitch, and her dad, somewhere in Puerto Rico parading around illegally with sleek-skinned whores.
"Yeah?" He can hear the exhaustion in his voice, barely cloaked, and cloaked, only because he doesn't want to lose her. She makes him feel okay, and he hasn't had that in a long time.
Her hand curls around his, her coral nails, jagged against his palms, "Have you ever thought about dying?"
He turns his head away, so she can't see his confusion. They've been together for a few weeks, and he's never seen a reflective, ominous Claire.
"I try not to."
"Why not?" Her voice is flat, and he gulps, turning to look at her hair blowing in the breeze, light blond and nearly translucent.
"Because I just don't like to think about it."
She's quiet for a few seconds, her big eyes blinking reflexively. Then, she says, "Why? Does it hurt or something?"
He sighs, "Why are we talking about this-"
"Just answer the question."
She's acting different, and he doesn't really like it, "Yeah, because it hurts too much."
She nods, satisfied with his answer. Her look changes suddenly, her eyes wide and alight, "I think about dying a lot," she squeezes his hand, looking over at him and enforcing eye contact, "Everything's my dad done, everything my mom hasn't done- it hurts, Derrick, but I'd be nothing without the hurt I feel. Life isn't cherries and rainbows and kittens," she shakes her head, "no, it's shit most of the time, but I want it anyway. It's that desire to live that keeps us alive-"
This statement hits hard, and he interrupts her, "What's your point, Claire?"
She snaps out of focus, her eyes staring inanimately, "I don't want to die without any scars, Der."
And with that, her pink mouth purses in a conclusive sigh and seals.
Derrick begins to wonder what's happening, and if this is a dream, or if he has just misjudged her, because she's strange and blurry to him now. As her arms wrap around him, and his lips caress her milky skin, he ponders how he even came to be where he is, and he feels hopeless and vulnerable, and he doesn't like it.
-dc-
When Derrick thinks about his life, he feels depressed, the edges of his existence, dog-eared and charred, and when he thinks about Claire, he still feel depressed, but things are healing somewhat, and sometimes he just feels hopeful, and it makes him smile, which angers his Daddy, but Derrick doesn't care, because his dad's an uncaring, motherfucking bastard that's going to be angry anyway.
Derrick and Claire sit on her bed,; her curtains are agape, inviting shimmering moonlight that tethers the room in a breathless grasp, carving out shadows that Derrick shies away from. He's with Claire right now; he brings her faint, thin hand to his lips and kisses it.
"I'll be back," she smiles tenderly at him as she leaves, and he can't help but be overjoyed, because he thinks he can love this girl; if he does, he knows, he just can feel, that if he really loves her, that she'll save him, and he figures that's what he really needs.
When she returns, her eyes are faded in the shadows, and her hair, yellow and silky, is parted in the middle, and he can't help but think that she looks like something old, and not a blooming, seventeen year old that he's in love with. She's carrying a mug, and he can see a quiver in her spidery fingers as she claws at the handle.
"Claire?"
She doesn't respond, just walks to the bed and slides next to him, folding into an Indian style.
"Whatchu got there?" He nudges her.
"Tea," she whispers, pink lips moving slow, "vanilla chai tea."
"Well, can I have a taste?" He's teasing, but he's becoming uneasy, and he pinpoints that it's probably because of the shadowed look in her face; she looks ten years older, even though her skin is still smooth and soft and satiny; and the same lovely, small figure is propped beside him, but she just looks older. Maybe it's because of the way her lips are in a stick-figured line, every limb stiff, or maybe it's just the moonlight playing a trick on him. Either way, he worries.
"No," she replies, finally taking a sip.
"Claire," he says, feeling uncomfortable, wanting to reach out and touch a thin limb, but too nervous to actually do it, "why not?"
"My name is Sue," she spits out, face breaking into a childish frown.
He laughs, "What?"
"I said," her hands clench around her mug, and the tea shakes in turmoil, "my name is Sue."
He looks at her for a few moments. She's distant, her gaze unfocused.
"Claire, baby, we might need to take you-"
"My name is Sue!" She yells, shrilly, and Derrick jumps away and heads to the door, because the bitch is actually serious.
She doesn't stop there, "Cam, where are you going?" Her eyes are pale and her fingers are thin and his heart is fast, and all he hears is the dumdum of his life as he struggles for answers.
"My name is Derrick," he says quietly and slowly, panic overcoming his senses in acid tones. This can't be fucking happening, but it is, because he's Bad Luck Derrick, and everything sweet in his life turns stale.
Her eyes narrow, and he actually feels scared, but then, "Der? Derrick?" Her face softens back into youth, sweet and desirable, and he goes back to her widespread arms and envelops her, swallowing and blinking away tears.
"What?"
"I love you."
-dc-
Derrick finds Claire to be her normal sweet self for a while, and all he sees is bright things and nonexistent shadows; it's just him and Claire, ruling the world and taking it stride by stride and all that shit, and it feels nice, and Derrick feels nice, and everything's dandy.
Derrick hurries to her house; she had called him on the phone, voice high-pitched and unusually excited, jabbering on and on about how he must see something and it's at her house, so he needs to come over asap. He does, because he loves her, even though he knows that if his dad found out that his son was racing to a girl's house at one am, he would be fried on a pancake griddle and popped with bacon grease, but-well- he loves her too much.
When he arrives and steps into her room, the shades are drawn, and a lamp is flicked on, flooding everything in a burgundy glow that he finds to be downright creepy; the sheer curtains can't hide the coal black shapes that the trees throw across the floor; Derrick walks edgily around them.
"Cam?"
He swallows hard. Fuck, no.
"Cammie," Claire approaches him, and Derrick forgets for a moment that she's calling him Cam instead of Derrick. Her hair is flipped to one side, cascading down in an enticingly beautiful manner what with all the curls at the ends and the buttery texture and Derrick just can't even take his eyes off of her hair and vibrantly painted lips or the way that they arch upwards and open to reveal pearly rows of teeth, and holy fuck, her eyes are pretty; very light and blue, and he can tell that she has eye makeup on, because something's dark around her eyes, and he figures that's it.
"Claire?" He whispers, touching her delicate hands.
Her eyes burn, and she slaps at him, "No! My name is Emily."
He takes a step backward and then another one and another one, and the cycle repeats until he's in the kitchen with his palms on his forehead; he can't figure her out, and he doesn't know who she is, and what the fuck-
She's in the kitchen with him, and he grows fearful; in the light, she's wearing a blouse embroidered with pale, pink lace at the collarbone, and a hot pink tutu around her hips, and Derrick decides that Claire's sense of fashion might be off, because light pink with bright pink just doesn't go; he continually distracts himself with such un-Derrick-like thoughts, until he can't take her come hither stares anymore and bursts.
"Stop playing these little girl games, Claire! It's fucking annoying, and I'm tired of it. Your name is not Sue, and it's not Emily; it's Claire. Claire. Your name is Claire," he yells; her face shrinks and narrows and wrinkles, moving into several different expressions that Derrick can neither keep pace with nor comprehend, and he feels frightened and insecure, and just wants to be at home for the first time in several years. Goddammit, why does everything always rot on him?
"Cam, I don't know what's wrong with you," Claire replies, pretty head shaking, "but my name's Emily."
"No, it's not," his eyes fill up with tears. He can't take this.
He leaves then, heart clenching into a ball.
-dc-
The next day, Derrick finds a picture of Claire and Cam in the yearbook; Claire looks bright and happy, and Cam just looks like the loner he is. Derrick had never paid any attention to him in school, since Cam stuck to himself, wore hoodies and converses, and always had his nose pressed up teachers' asses and various other intellectual things, but Derrick's paying attention now.
"What do you know about Claire?" Derrick asks this immediately after shoving ten dollars in Cam's hand.
Cam looks at him blankly, "Who?"
"Claire Lyons, blonde, beautiful.. Strange?"
"Don't know her, sorry," Cam mumbles, and Derrick knows he's lying. His eccentric eyes are flat and cold, but Derrick can see moistness on Cam's brow, and how he can't stop messing with the hem of his Black Keys t-shirt. He's definitely lying.
Cam pushes his way around Derrick, and Derrick grabs him, early enough to see the intense manic sadness crossing his face. Knowing that he's been caught, Cam whispers, "Leave her." He walks away, and Derrick punches a wall, because walls can't talk back, but they can still cause pain, and Derrick needs pain once in a while.
-dc-
Derrick can't stay away from Claire, because he's a sniveling, little ass that apparently needs her. When she calls, it's her sweet voice that he hears and when he goes to her house, it's her sweet voice that leaves him breathless.
When she drinks tea, she's old, lethargic Sue. And when she wears pink, she's seductive Emily. Derrick flounders in his indecisiveness; he should leave her, and he knows he should, because she's crazy, but he's found that Sue and Emily aren't really that bad, and since he sees Claire most of the time, his virtuous, beautiful Claire, he sticks around and refuses to call the big van that picks up crazy people. Derrick can't put her in a hospital with faux white things and with shadows, endless shadows, for company. Derrick's been there before, been a crazy, loony, psycho, and he knows that Claire couldn't take that. Maybe Sue, definitely Emily, but not Claire. Claire would break, Claire would shatter, and the other ones inside her would dominate, and Derrick can't permit that to happen.
Derrick and Claire lay on her bed, staring at her fresh, chartreuse walls; a thunderstorm rages outside, and Derrick turns his head to watch lightning extend its arthritic fingers across the pallid gray expanse of the sky; one strikes close, and his bones shake and quiver, and Claire whimpers next to him. Her eyes are opened wide, her bottom lip in the grasp of her teeth, as she clings to his arms.
"I'm scared, Der," she whispers unsteadily in his ear.
"It's okay, Claire Bear; I've got you," he smiles weakly at her, feeling just as frightened. He grabs a pink blanket and wraps it around her shoulders, and brings her to his chest.
"Cam, you smell different."
Derrick freezes and shuts his eyes tightly, and holds her closer, "I changed colognes."
He can feel it creeping from his subconscious in petulant baby steps, hoping to get that one in a hundred chance to dominate- he swallows and engulfs Claire in his arms.
"You okay, Cam?"
"Yeah," he glances out of the window at the crooked, crackling lightning, "I'm okay, Emily."
He should just take off the pink blanket, but it wouldn't make a difference in the end.
-dc-
Derrick floats along, and he's lost most of the time, just him and Claire and Sue and Emily, and sadness overtakes him often, because he knows that this isn't where he should be; his existence no longer has charred edges; the edges are gone, and the pages of his life are shrinking, a hole sprouting from the middle, an infinite shadow that beckons him when he falters. The only thing that saves him is insanity, and he clings to it like a mast during a storm, because only insanity can push him away from pits and darkness and death.
Claire's pale hands caress his face, and he turns into them, his eyelashes gleaming with tears.
"I love you, Claire Bear."
-dc-
It ends after a while; people find them out, discover their secret, and Derrick is in the loony bin again, and Claire/Sue/Emily are gone, and Derrick cries for what he's lost, and for Claire, because there's no one to understand him now. Not the spectacled doctors with their crisp suits and groomed moustaches, nor the petite nurses with the pretty faces and white uniforms. It's just Derrick and his hard bed and his off-white walls.
-dc-
Life fades for him, the days flying past in soothing tones and whispers behind gloved hands. His dad visits him, calls him a stupid motherfucker, because he knows that Derrick's aware of how much the bills are (and Derrick thinks how that vodka his dad loves is too expensive for him to buy now), but he hears his dad crying and other people crying, and he swears that he sees Cam and his odd eyes, and this is how it goes, his life, rapid and blurry. The nights bring shadows and Derrick weeps in them.
-dc-
He thinks it's a dream when he sees Claire/Sue/Emily standing next to his bed. She looks pretty, as usual, and through the dreary film over his eyes, he sees her and he smiles.
"Claire?"
She grins, and it's weird and crooked, but, through his meds and faltering conscious, he's sure that it's just an illusion, "I'm here, Der."
"I lo-I love-" He can' t quite enunciate the words, and he feels angry, goddammit; he's always angry, he didn't know it, but he is, and he moans in frustration.
He hears her giggle, and her gaunt hand brushes his face, "They've let me out; I'm free," he sees her twirl, long, purple skirt flying.
"Where are you going?" He asks, and he feels desperate. No. No. No. She can't leave him; they all hate him; he'll die alone-
Her face straightens out, her lips curled up at the ends, her hair settled; her eyes are a dark navy, and her voice is austere, when she speaks, "We'll come back for you."
And before she leaves, Derrick sees a pink tie, tucked under a lacy, pearl blouse, and he becomes afraid and hopeful.
"I love you, Cameron," she whispers in his ear, eyes twinkling as she pulls away. She walks out of the door, and Derrick falls into a fitful sleep.
-dc-
a/n- So, that was awfully depressing, and omygod, my drabble style is horrid. Just a bunch of run-on sentences that I tried to make as grammatically correct as possible. I'm sorry, Emmy; I know this is crap, but it's really all I could come up with. Your prompts were awesome, and I ruined them, but I hope you liked it, and I hoped everyone else liked it too. Reviews would cheer me up substantially.(: