Disclaimer: I do not own Misfits, and any dialogue you recognize was taken from the show itself.
Chapter Two - I Am Going To Kill You
Why the fuck was she still awake?
Her life had gotten to the point that the sheer state of consciousness had become a source of annoyance. The way Izzy saw it, in the aftermath of not one, but multiple near death experiences, she was owed a decent night's sleep. The extreme exhaustion should have been enough to accommodate her. It seemed only fair. But, no, apparently she had accumulated sufficient shitty karma for even that small courtesy to be denied to her.
Izzy had a mind to blame it on the fucking baby in 6C. Its wailing was timed more consistently than her alarm clock, flipping on like a switch at the lovely hour of 4:47 a.m. As such it was responsible for more than a few days of over-caffeination and general grumpiness, but if she was being honest with herself this night's sleeplessness was entirely of her own making. She had dropped on the mattress, fully clothed and with no intention of changing into her pajamas, waiting for her eyes to droop closed and sleep to wash over her. But for some damn reason her mind couldn't give the mental calisthenics a fucking rest.
It rolled around in her mind like a loop—what had happened in the alleyway. Her brain just sat her down in front of an old timey movie projector and played it over and over, like she was watching Charlie Chaplin fall down the stairs over and over. Each viewing was just as ridiculous and mind boggling as the first. It made no sense. She had reached the point where she wasn't even afraid of those blokes anymore. They were kilometers in the rear view mirror. What scared her the most was what she had done to them. The pressure under her skin, the feeling of it exploding outwards, the three of them being hurled backwards like rag dolls. The scene had gone through her mind so many times she couldn't tell if it was real or manufactured. Perhaps she had slept after all and the entire thing was a bizarre dream induced by the thai food in the fridge that had gone slightly off.
Izzy rolled over on her lumpy mattress and gazed down at the cheap alarm clock she had propped up on a stack of old books. It's angry, red, blinking numbers spelled out a number that was, quite frankly, ridiculous. 5:54 a.m. The dim morning light had just begun to leak through the curtains hanging ratty and limp near her head. It hit her retinas, making them sting in rebellion against the very idea of morning. Groaning loudly, she snatched her pillow from under her head, using it instead to cover her face. She took a breath and sank into the mattress, prepared to spend hours there, completely unmoving. But then the fucking baby began to cry again. Resisting the urge to begin bawling herself, Izzy ripped the pillow away and stared again at the clock. 6:02 a.m. She fought back the urge to smash the thing—she didn't have the money to accommodate that type of anger. And she wasn't sure if she was angry for the time passing too quickly or too slowly. Either way, it was decidedly inconvenient.
"Fuck my life," she muttered under her breath. After a few moments of self pity, she hauled herself out of bed and wiped at the corners of her eyes whilst trying her best not to think about the state of her hair. There was no doubt in her mind that it had become sentient during the night, twisting itself into a conformation that made her look like a flammable Medusa. She peeled off yesterday's socks, tossing them over her shoulder into some unknown corner, and slipped on her flip flops before grabbing her towel and shower caddy and padding towards the floor's shared bathroom. At the least her insomnia provided one upside. It had been weeks since she showered in hot water.
Latching the door behind her, gently placed the caddy in one of the less rust-covered corners of the shower and turned on the water. One, two, three, four, five loud thunks of the pipes coming to life and the water spurted violently from the shower head. She tentatively stuck her hand under the spray, waiting for the water to transition from 'boil a crustacean' hot to levels that a human being could viably withstand. She finally stepped under the cascade and sighed. The hot water raining down on her shoulders washed away the insecurities of the day before. Soap stung the small scrapes around her wrists where the men had grabbed her. By the time she stepped out of the shower, she felt clean. Her skin did at least. Her mind was still a rollicking mess.
Stepping up to the sink, Izzy wiped away the layer of steam coating it. The reflection staring back at her, what with the limp hair and bruised purple bags under the eyes, was becoming far to familiar for her liking. The only difference today showed was a small abrasion at her temple where her head had hit the wall. She had never been a particularly bright or happy person, but now she just looked drained. A few more sleepless nights and she would be just as ashen and grey as everything else in this hellhole. "Suck it up, McCallum," she muttered to herself, quickly wrapping herself in a thin towel and plodding back to her flat.
By the time Izzy had dressed in her usual flannel and jeans, the sun had just begun to make its debut, creeping over the tops of the buildings and making them glow in a faint, cold light. Turning towards her cloudy, poor excuse for a mirror, she dabbed on makeup, covering all signs of exhaustion as well as that fresh scrape. Pulling on her shoes, she sat on the edge of her bed, unsure of what to do with herself. After a few moments contemplation, she laced them up, grabbed her bag, shoved her earphones in, and stomped for the door.
Izzy didn't quite know what her destination was. She just strolled absently between the graffitied buildings, letting her feet make most of the decisions for her. They directed her towards the corner shop where she slapped a few pounds on the counter, collecting a sugar puff bar, cup of tea, and pair of shitty sunglasses in exchange. New glasses perched on her nose, she ripped open the packaging with her teeth and gobbled down the sugary monstrosity before chasing it with a loud slurp of too-hot tea. Eventually her feet found their way to the front of the community center.
Izzy stopped short at the sight of the building, a frown pulling at the corners of her lips. Glancing down at her watch, the frown deepened further. 7:33 a.m. She was a full hour and a half hour early.
Fuck it. Waiting there would be better than waiting at her flat. Her Swedish neighbors were apparently in the throes of homesickness and had taken to eating surströmming, leaving her flat filled with the scent of rotting fish. Somehow the odor of the community center managed to be more pleasant, though not by a wide margin.
Dragging her feet around to the building's entrance, Izzy was forced to stop short a second time. Somebody had opted to treat the building to rather morbid form of graffiti, painting the words 'I AM GOING TO KILL YOU' across the side of the building in ragged, red letters. "Tell us how you really feel," Izzy muttered to herself, raising her eyebrows at the new wall art. One of the shitheads on the Estate had a seriously fucked up sense of humor. There had clearly been a disruption in the migration patterns of psychotic wackjobs of late, because they seemed to be flocking to this neighborhood in spades.
Her stomach still rumbling from her nutritionally imbalanced meal, Izzy shoved her way through the front doors and made a beeline for the vending machines to purchase a water bottle and packet of crisps. Munching idly, she strode into the main room looking for a chair to collapse in. Her quest was soon interrupted, however, by a strange noise. She pulled an earphone out to listen more closely and soon realized that she was listening to the sound of snoring. Loud snoring. Snoring which by all indication was coming from the balcony over her head.
Curiosity piqued, Izzy climbed up the stairs to find none other than Irish, fast asleep and sprawled on the ground in a rather compromised position. The sight was less that flattering. "Oi, wake up," she said, nudging him in the ribs with the toe of her boot.
Irish simply readjusted his position, hugging his pillow closer to him as a steady flow of drool streamed from his mouth. Izzy wrinkled her nose, glancing between him and the pile of luggage lying against the railing. She prodded him again, and this time he just smacked his lips and gave a silly smile. "Oh, yeah, that's how I like it," he murmured. "Just like that, keep goin'."
Izzy rolled her eyes and sighed in distaste. Blokes. They spent 90% of their waking hours thinking about sex and their nights dreaming about it as well. No wonder they kept doing stupid shit—their blood flow was never exactly directed towards the brain. Letting out a huff, she twisted the cap off her water bottle and upended it over his head.
"What the fuck!" he cried, holding his hands over his face to halt the onslaught.
Izzy righted the bottle, taking a long sip before returning the cap. "Good morning to you too," she said shortly, peering down at him.
"Why'd you have to go and do that!" he exclaimed, grabbing a rumpled T-shirt to wipe his face dry. "I was having a bloody fantastic dream!"
"Oh, I'm well aware of that," Izzy replied easily, a superior smirk gracing her features. "You sounded in need of a cold shower, so one was provided. Happy to be of service."
Irish blinked heavily and shook his head, sending water droplets flying. He pulled himself into the sitting position, and already familiar shit-eating grin covering his face. "You know," he said, waving a finger in her general direction, "if you're tryin' to keep up this charade that you're not stalkin' me you're doin' a right piss-poor job of it."
Izzy quirked an eyebrow and leaned in closer. "You're right," she said, her voice adopting a seductive tone that made him blink. "There's nothing that gets me more hot and bothered….than finding a bloke drooling on the floor of the local community center. That's a sight to light my knickers aflame."
The goofy smile on his face faded quickly as her tone shifted from slow and syrupy to one dripping in sarcasm. His head spun about, as if he had only just realized where he was. "Ah, yes," he said, scratching at his head. "My mum and I had a wee bit of a disagreement about the current state of our living arrangement. All a misunderstandin', really. But I've temporarily relocated myself for the time bein'."
Izzy frowned, her contempt diluted with pity. As she was given to understand, that wasn't how families were supposed to operate. "Your mum kicked you out?" she demanded, her voice harsher than intended. "Without making sure you had somewhere else to go?"
"Nooooooooo," he drawled out in a patronizing tone. Izzy folded her arms across her chest and raised her eyebrows, making him falter. "Okay, yes," he admitted with a flourished wave of the hand. "But like I said, it was a misunderstandin'. In a few days it'll all be sorted and she'll go back to fixin' me dinner and washin' my pants."
Izzy let out a forceful snort, suddenly gaining more sympathy for Irish's mum than she thought she'd be able to muster. Hell, she might have done the same thing. Spinning on her heel, she turned to make an abrupt exit, but before she could take a step a hand darted forwards, encircling her wrist. The pressure on the bruised flesh made her wince, and Irish dropped her hand like it burned him.
"Don't tell the others about this, yeah?" he pleaded. "I've got a reputation to uphold an' all that shit."
"Really?" she demanded. "What sort of a reputation?" But he looked up at her with wide, plaintive eyes like he was a baby seal and she was the one holding the club. Biting down on her lip for a moment, Izzy let out a heavy sigh. "It's none of their fucking business," she replied with a shrug. "Hell, it's none of my business either. Your shit is your shit. Nobody's got to smell it but you. And hey, at least it's roomy. Good acoustics."
Irish cocked his head to the side, surveying her curiously. "I never did catch your name, love."
"Yeah, that's because I never gave it to you," Izzy smirked back.
He let out a groan and collapsed back on his makeshift bed. "Oh, come on, man," he whined. "I'm only tryin' to be friendly. You don't want me to keep callin' you Ginger, do ya?"
"Not particularly, but I'm less comfortable with you having any of my personal information."
"And what, your name is personal information?" He shoved himself up on his elbows and pointed to himself. "Alright, I'm Nathan. This is the part where you tell me your name."
She ground her teeth together for a moment before reluctantly letting the word out. "Izzy."
"Now that wasn't so difficult, was it?" he drawled. Finally getting to his feet, he stretched his arms over his head, displaying about 50% of his chest whilst letting out a theatrical yawn. He cracked an eye open and smirked widely at her. "See something you like?" he demanded, planting his hands on his hips in some bastardization of the superhero pose.
Izzy stared back at him evenly for a moment. "I am quite fond of those Superman sheets," she deadpanned, her eyes flicking down to the mess of sheets on the floor. "My nine-year-old brother has a set of those. Loves 'em."
"Well what can I say, love?" he declared, shooting her a wink. "I take the ladies to infinity and beyond."
"That's 'Toy Story', you over-sexed chia pet," she said in disbelief.
Irish—Nathan—blinked stupidly in response. "Is it?"
Her mouth hung open like a fly trap. It was far too early in the morning for her brain to be able to process this mountain of idiocy standing before her. "Go take a shower, you prick," she muttered, spinning on her heel and marching down the stairs. "You smell like shit."
"That's the pheromones, love!" he called after her. "You can only resist 'em so long!"
She shook her head, turning down the hall and heading for the rec room. "Un-fucking-believable."
Letting out a whispered prayer, Izzy checked her watch one more time. 7:48 a.m. Fuck. She was cursed to live an eternity within every minute she spent in this fucking community center. Shoving her earphones back in her ears, she turned into the rec room and marched straight for sofa beckoning to her. She flopped onto the scratchy, crumb-dusted pillows and extracted her book, leaning her head on the arm rest as she cracked it open. Her eyes slid over the words, reading but not absorbing. She felt herself sinking lower in to the pillows as the sleep that had eluded her all night caught up. Eyelids drooped, the book slid from her hands, falling on her chest, and sleep claimed her.
The dreams she had were of the usual sort, despite the less than typical experiences of the previous day. Oceans, sea breezes, the odd cackling seagull—that sort of shit. Quite nice, actually. Which, of course, meant it couldn't last very long. Next thing she knew, a bomb was going off next to her ear.
"WAKE UP!"
Izzy jolted into consciousness, flailing wildly and careening off the sofa. She landed hard on her ass, pain blooming at her tailbone and shooting up her spine. Her bag toppled over as well, spilling its contents. "Motherless son of a whore!" she exclaimed loudly. Her eyes flashed in anger as Irish—Nathan—leered over her, bent over at the waist and laughing so hard she was surprised he didn't cough up a lung.
"You should've seen your face!" he forced out through his guffaws of laughter. "Classic!"
"Was that really necessary?" she grumbled, hauling herself back to the sofa as she collected her things. She shoved them hastily into her bag, snatching her backup tampon out of his hand as it was apparently an object of great interest to him. He ignored her evident frustration and redirected his attention to her book, which had also fallen to the floor.
"'Crime and Punishment'?" he demanded, opening it up and flipping through the pages like he expected a comic book to fall out. Disappointed, he snapped it shut and tossed it at her with decidedly more force than necessary. "Why on earth are you readin' somethin' like that? I'm not bein' funny—why would you do that to yourself?"
"It's topical," she snapped back. "Didn't your mother teach you not to take other people's shit? Or did you miss that day of kindergarten?" She shoved the book away, and glowered at him. "Why did you wake me up?"
He straightened to full height and flashed her a toothy grin. "Time to repay our debt to society. You an' me Ginger—we're gettin' rehabilitated."
Izzy snorted bitterly before collapsing back on the sofa, sinking back into the pillows. "Well, fuck you too, then," she muttered bitterly.
Nathan just shrugged and spun on his heel, hands in pockets and whistling a jaunty tune. Christ, the bloke was practically a cartoon character. Grumbling to herself, Izzy grabbed her bag and trailed after him to the front of the community center via a route which, for some bizarre reason, involved climbing out a bloody window. By the time thy got to the front, the others were already there, Runner-boy, Twitchy and Chav all staring at the graffiti in disbelief while Diva texted away on her mobile, earphones in and generally dead to the world.
I'M GOING TO KILL YOU. No points for artistry, but at the very least it was a unique one. Izzy squinted at it, realizing the word 'kill' had been underlined three times. Alright, file that shit under 'vaguely worrisome'.
"This is a joke!" Runner-boy Curtis exclaimed. He rounded on the rest of them, jabbing his finger in each of their faces. "Did one of you do this?"
"Don' look at me coz I didn' do it," the chav snapped.
Curtis rounded on Izzy next and she shot him a withering look, slapping his hand away. "Why the fuck would one of us drop by the community center—after hours—and paint some bullshit threat on the wall? I think it's safe to say none of us gives enough shits to put in this degree of effort."
"I'll tell you who did it," Nathan interjected eagerly. "It was that Banksy prick. There's a hidden meaning."
Izzy rolled her eyes and readjusted the strap of the bag on her shoulder. "I think the meaning is pretty explicit. Seeing as someone has literally spelled it out for us."
"Nah," Nathan replied, reaching out and wrapping an arm around Twitchy. "It's like the monkey policeman with the banana and the Tesco's bag. Hidden meaning."
"Maybe someone wants to kill us," Twitchy said in a small voice, his eyes darting around frantically to the point that they almost rolled to the back of his head. Could he see through this skull? Survey says…more than likely. The chav—Kelly—seemed to be of her frame of mind, looking at him like he was completely mad.
"Uh, why would anybody want ta kill oz?" she demanded.
Izzy had half a mind to start prattling off the list she had begun to construct the previous morning, but before she got the chance the probation worker waltzed up to them. He seemed to be in a better state than the day before—the lanyard holding his badge remained untangled and he was no longer spasming uncontrollably. His mood however, had not made quite as complete a recovery. "Okay, come on you lot," he snapped. "Let's get changed."
"Have you seen this?" Curtis demanded, waving a hand at the wall. "Someone's taking the piss."
The probation worker let out a sigh and planted his hands on his hips, regarding the wall with an expression made up of equal parts frustration and vindication. "Yeah, it's terrible," he sneered. "All that anti-social behavior."
"Oh!" Nathan gasped theatrically. "Is he havin' a dig at us?"
The man seemed about to let that one comment slide, but suddenly Diva's phone rang. Again. Because apparently she was the sun at the center of her own personal, completely self-involved galaxy with any number of people orbiting around her. Which, though mildly irritating, Izzy didn't really give a shit about. Until it started affecting her personally, which would be starting now. The sound was like the opening bell at a boxing match. Immediately, the probation worker gave a sudden, violent twitch of anger and advanced on them. "Right! That's it!" he growled. "All of you—give me your phones. Nobody's making any more calls today! Now. Come on."
"Are you allowed to take our phones?" Diva smirked, snapping a photo of him.
His jaw twitching in anger, the probation worker snatched the phone out of her hand, turning to Runner-boy Curtis, hand outstretched. Reluctantly, he handed the phone over and the probation worker continued on down the line, collecting the phones with varying degrees of force. When he held his hand out to Izzy, she just stared back blankly causing him to seethe. "Phone. Now."
"Don't have one," she quipped back. "I was raised in one of those cults. Luddites, they called themselves. Don't believe in technology."
"I can see that," he said, angrily yanking the earphones from her ear.
"I've got some tin cans and string back at my flat, if you'd like me to get it," she continued, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. "I can chat with people the next building over with that thing. Reception is shit, but I do what I can."
"Give me the fucking phone."
Izzy sighed loudly, rolling her head back on her shoulders. She fished around in her bag until she found her blocky mobile that looked like it was from 1998 and tossed it at the probation worker. He caught it easily, sending her a contemptuous glare before moving on. The lot of them broke ranks, trudging towards the changing rooms. As then marched through the doors, she did a quick headcount. They were one less than the day before. Wannabe had skipped out. As far as she was concerned, he had the right idea.
Having quickly dressed herself, Izzy found herself lying back on one of the benches waiting for the others. They seemed to be wasting as much time as possible, as delinquents were generally expected to do. By the time they managed to get their shit together enough to leave the locker room, the probation worker appeared to have fucked off to some unknown location, leaving behind a pile of buckets and brushes next to a giant can of industrial strength cleaner.
Buckets and brushes. She should have known from the minute she passed that stupid graffiti that this was how she would be spending her day. The universe had a way of making her pay for other people's fuck ups. At least it was better than scraping up dog shit. Even if she did have to listen to Curtis and Diva—whose name was apparently Alisha—verbally shagging. Alisha was failing to contradict all of Izzy's first impressions—lounging with her top off and bikini-clad tits pointed at the sky, determinedly making bedroom eyes at Curtis over the rims of her sunglasses. And Curtis? He was proving himself to be a bloke, leering back at her with equal determination. And somehow she had ended up with a front row seat to all of it.
It was the literal invitation to stare at her tits that tipped the scales towards completely unbearable. Letting out a long, frustrated sigh, she jammed her headphones in her ears and cranked up the volume on her phone to drown it out. Yanking the marigolds down to her elbows, she dunked her brush in the sudsy water and began scrubbing at the wall with increased vigor. If you had told her a month ago that she'd find herself held hostage to other people's aggressive flirting, she would have laughed, but now she was slowly sinking into a depressive acceptance.
Izzy violently scrubbed the wall, a light mist of backspray hitting her in the face and making her cough. The paint was slowly being stripped, mixing with the soapy water and pooling on the floor in a puddle of red and dirt. It kind of looked like blood. Izzy shook her head, mentally berating herself for being so morbid when her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by Kelly.
"Ya know, afta the storm," she announced to the group, "did any o' yous lot feel dead weird?"
Izzy felt her muscles clench, her sudden cessation of scrubbing broadcasting her discomfort to anyone in thirty meter radius. Luckily she was surrounded by people with the observational skills of a sponge with old food stuck to it. Except for the twitchy one, but he was being all stare-y and distant. And for that she was grateful, because her mind suddenly found itself back in that alleyway. But that was a one-off. That was just residual static electricity left in the air after that storm combined with irregular wind patterns or some other meteorological bullshit. Izzy kept her head down and continued with her work, but another quite unexpected voice chimed in.
"I did!" Nathan said in a loud voice, making Izzy pause yet again. "Yeah," he declared. "I had a strange tingling sensation in my anus."
Izzy let out a bitter snort and rolled her eyes. "I believe that's called hemorrhoids," she said, flicking some water at Nathan. "You should probably schedule yourself some sort of appointment."
"Did ya feel weird?" Kelly persisted, turning towards the creepy kid. He glanced back hesitantly, like he wanted to say something but wasn't sure if he should. His head gave a small shake with all the skittishness of a scared, wounded animal.
"You mean you don't want to hear about my anus?" Nathan demanded in a highly scandalized tone.
"I think that's something you should keep between yourself and a medical professional," Izzy shot back, cranking the volume on her iPod up even higher to block out the antics unfolding around her. Curtis and Alisha, Nathan dicking with the weird kid—antics to the right, to the left—it was fucking inescapable. They were a bunch of teenagers starting shit and she was the old man who calls in a noise complaint. Then they spray paint the old man's house, and the old man breaks out the shotgun..…Maybe this was hell.
All of the sudden a solid mass collided with her, knocking her off kilter. Her foot caught on the nearby bucket, making her fall hard on her arse for the second time in a single day. The suds slopped over the side, splashing all over her and soaking through her jumpsuit. "What the fuck, man?" she demanded. She jumped back up to her feet, glaring at the solid mass—who also went by Nathan—accusingly.
"Wha—don't look at me!" he whined petulantly, waving off at Kelly's back as she stalked off in the opposite direction. "She shoved me, man. Domino effect. I am just a young, handsome victim of youth violence that is completely uncalled for!"
"Well what the fuck did you say to her?" Izzy demanded.
"Ugh, why does everyone always 'assume' I 'said something'? he groaned, using air
quotes.
Izzy stared back at him, her brow creased into a frown. "That's not how you use air quotes."
"I—" Nathan declared, pointing at his own chest "—I am a free citizen of the United Kingdom and I shall use air quotes any way I so choose."
Izzy's mouth hung open, waiting as her brain strove to find any words that might be comprehensible to both herself and the tower of human idiocy standing across from her. Alas, she came up short. "Whatever," she muttered, jabbing the brush in his direction. "You just stick to your panel and stay the fuck out of my personal space."
She shoved the earphones back in her ears and continued on with her work, but Nathan continued to stare at her in what she thought was indignation, but might have just been gas. "Women," he finally scoffed, slopping some more sudsy water onto the walls. "I am not equipped to deal with this much estrogen in such a concentrated area."
Naturally, Izzy felt obligated to flip him the middle finger. This was slightly hampered by the marigolds yanked down to her elbows, but she managed well enough.
Kelly never came back. Wannabe never showed. Alisha did fuck all. So in the end there were just four of them scrubbing at the walls, doing a shitty job of their work. That is until they realized the probation worker—Teddy or something—was doing an even shittier job of his, having fucked off to God knows where. And being the incompetent young offenders that they were, the rest of the group saw fit to fuck off as well. Alisha splintered off, migrating over to the locker room, presumably to find her phone or fix her hair. The blokes crowded around the foosball table in a pack while Izzy collected her book and flopped back on the possibly flea-infested couch, dangling her legs over the armrest and kicking them back and forth like a kid.
As Izzy turned the page of a finished chapter, Nathan's voice drifted over the clanking of the foosball game. "It's a shame more women don't commit crime—why do you think that is?" he mused absently. "We did get lucky, though."
"How's that?" Curtis asked, his voice distracted with most of his attention focused on the game. Izzy, on the other hand, had her curiosity piqued. She flipped down the cover of her book and peered at the gaggle of them. Nathan and Curtis were all invested in the game and Twitchy watched. That one always seemed to be watching.
"We've got three blokes and three girls," Nathan barreled on. "The maths work out perfectly. That's one for each of us, like Noah's Arc. Which is lucky for you, weird kid 'cause I don't see the situation workin' out that well otherwise. Plus I was hopin' to get in on some sort of group scenario. Not that either of you are invited."
Izzy let out a disgusted scoff and pushed herself up on her elbows to glower over at them. "You do realize that I'm right here?" she called out giving them a wave. "I've not gone invisible have I? Because I'm pretty sure I'm here, visible, and completely without the desire to have sex with any of you."
The clanking of the foosball stilled for a moment as the three of them stared at her. All of them. In unison. Like meerkats in a nature documentary. Nathan simply made a face and shrugged, yanking on the bar and spinning the little football dudes. "Anyways," he declared, breezing past her like she hadn't said anything at all, "three for three—who're you goin' for?"
"There used to be four of us," a small, timid voice said. Izzy blinked at the tone. Of course twitchy one's only contribution to the conversation would be vague, morbid, and creepy. But what made her more uncomfortable was that the guy had a point. What had happened to Wannabe?
"Ooh, that's too bad then," Nathan said, patting creepy kid on the shoulder with a pitying look. "I guess that means you'll be goin' without. I'm not bein' funny, but I think out of all of us, you're the one drawin' the short straw." With one particularly violent move, he made a shot only to have the ball hit the side of the table and project itself into the air, hit the table, and roll back into his own goal. "I mean come on, guys!" he declared loudly, smacking his hand against the table. "I'm talkin' about gettin' laid. So how're we gonna do this, man?"
Curtis stared back blankly and gave a shrug. "Do what?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Izzy called out from her seat. "How are you going to divide us up. Because you know all a girl looks for in a bloke is proximity."
"Exactly!" Nathan said, snapping his fingers and pointing at her. "You, runner-guy, you can have the one with the frizzy hair. I don't exactly see me and her gettin' it on."
Curtis let out a heavy snort. "'Cause she's beautiful?"
"No, because she'd be way too much effort," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "She looks seriously high maintenance. You'd have to treat her really well, but that one over there—"
"Izzy," the quiet one supplied.
"Again," she said, spreading her arms wide, "I'm sitting right here."
"Yeah, Izzy. She's pretty enough. She may be all sarcastic and hostile and shit an' her face kinda looks like someone's disapprovin' nan who just caught you wankin' off, but that probably just means she's good in the sack. It's the repressed one's that'll surprise you. Plus, you know what they say about redheads. All that fire." He blew a kiss in her direction, which she returned with a prominent display of her middle finger.
"Fuck. Off."
Nathan's face broke out in a wide grin. "See that behavior is borne out of sexual frustration, a problem I'd be plenty happy to help you out with."
"I would rather shave my head."
"Whatever," he said, waving her off. "If that one doesn't work out, there's always the other one. A couple of Bacardi Breezers and I'd reckon she's good to go. My mum always told me it's good to have more than one iron in the fire."
Rolling her eyes, Izzy clapped a hand on the back of the couch and shoved herself to her feet. "On that note, I'm gonna go get a drink."
As she marched out of the rec room, she could still hear Nathan prattling on. "I bet she's one of those feminists. You know, the ones that don't shave their legs—"
Izzy kicked the door open hard, letting it slam closed behind her with a loud crash. The hallways were completely empty, save for a few stray wheel chairs. She hopped in one of them, wheeling herself towards the vending machines near the back entrance. Rolling up to the the it, she stared yearningly through the glass. Why didn't vending machines dispense alcohol? That felt like a hideous oversight.
Shoving a pound fifty into the machine, she collected her drink and rolled off down the hallway. This way was better. Alone was better. It wasn't that she hated people per se. It was just that 90% of people were horrible, so there was a statistically high probability that getting to know any one of them in particular would end up being a giant waste of time. Plus the small talk was just so boring. You have a dog? Oh, well color me fascinated! I have a cat named Mr. Boots, and he's just like people! Honestly, who gives a flying fuck?
Half-empty drink sitting in her lap, Izzy rolled through the hallways of the community center. There was the odd chance that she'd run into the probation worker and he'd do something drastic like make her actually do community service, but she was willing to risk it. Pop a few wheelies, marinate in the boredom and general ineffectiveness of the correctional system. Good times. She manage to make one full tour of the community center before she happened upon the lot of them again.
The curious thing about people is that they always manage to find their way into packs. As if some magnetic force of twatitude managed to draw them together. Izzy typically avoided them at all costs. Which wasn't that difficult. Back in school she just existed on the periphery, and all the twats were so focused with their own groups they didn't notice the unaligned girl floating between them. At least they usually didn't. The interactions never ended that well when she was noticed. But this time there was just the one group, so her odds of not being noticed and going about her own day were pretty much fucked from moment one.
The others had congregated around the snack machines, remaining close to the food source. Alisha had reappeared, sprawling herself across one of the couches like a grecian statue—fully dressed this time—the twitchy kid was curled against the wall bearing a striking resemblance to a frightened hamster, and Curtis was sulking in a corner. Nathan, meanwhile, had managed to get his hands on a second wheelchair and looked pretty fucking smug about it. Izzy's face went slack as she noticed them and tried to propel herself down the next hallway, but before she got the chance, a voice called out at her.
Nathan spun the chair around to face her. "Ah, Ginger, welcome, welcome. Mr. Olympics over here was about to tell us how he ended up amongst the mere mortals."
"Don't call me that," Curtis spat.
"Aw, come on man," Nathan whined as Izzy reluctantly wheeled her way over. "We've got weeks of this shit—we're gonna find out sooner or later. Just tell us."
"I heard he was dealing crack," Alisha announced through a smug smile.
"What?" Curtis protested. "I wasn't dealing crack!"
"No, no, no," Nathan corrected. "The papers said it was steroids."
Alisha let out a low hiss. "That stuff'll shrivel your dick."
"It wasn't steroids!" Curtis insisted. "I'm not a cheat. That stuff in the papers was bullshit."
"So you're not a cheat and you're not a dealer," Izzy announced. She opened up her drink and took a long slug, draining the can before continuing. "So what are you, then? Innocent? Wrongly accused? A Capricorn? What?"
With four sets of eyes fixed on him, Curtis shifted uncomfortably. He exhaled sharply, his head sagging on his shoulders, before he started. "I got caught with a little bit of coke, alright? I messed up one time."
"You mean you got caught one time," Izzy replied with raised eyebrows, earning herself a hostile glare. "What, I'm not judging—not much," she said, throwing her hands in the air. "I'm just saying the odds of that being the one and only time you did coke are pretty low. Am I wrong?"
"That's bullshit," Alisha drawled from her sofa. "Noone gets community service for possession."
Curtis let out a derisive sigh, and shrugged his shoulders. "If it was anyone else, they'd have got a caution. I get two hundred hours of community service and a two year band from athletics. They said that because of my profile they need to 'send a message'."
Nathan wheeled himself forwards, a grin on his face that was most likely seconds from getting smacked off it. "You let yourself down," he said in a mocking tone.
"Can you please shut up?" Izzy groaned, throwing her empty drink can at him. "Just because you have the ability to speak doesn't mean you should be using it constantly."
But, the twat that he was, he ignored her, and all evidence pointed towards this little exchange not ending well. The levels of anger and frustration behind Curtis's eyes were ticking upwards, not that she could blame him. Apparently there was no way to restrain the jackass commentary. "You let the kids down," Nathan continued with that sly smile. "You let your parents down!"
It was as if a small explosion went off. It was inevitable, really. The internal pressure builds to the point it can't be contained any more. "Shut the FUCK up!" Curtis shouted, advancing on Nathan. He grabbed the collar of the orange jumpsuit, jabbing an angry finger in the face that still, somehow, managed to retain its smug smile. "All I ever did was train! You know nothing! I shouldn't even fucking be here!"
"You can't hit someone in a wheelchair!" Nathan exclaimed, chortling lightly.
Curtis shoved him backwards, causing the wheelchair to roll backwards, wheels squeaking lamely, until it hit the wall behind. "I shouldn't even be here," he muttered. "It's not fucking fair."
At the word 'fair', Izzy couldn't repress the derisive snort. Curtis spun to face her, arms folded across his chest and eyebrows raised pointedly. "You got something to say?"
"Yeah, yeah I do," Izzy replied. She straightened herself in her wheelchair, a move that would have been slightly more dignified had she not started rolling backwards, and fixed him under her stare. "Life's not fucking fair. We learned that much in primary school. You fucked up. Sure, maybe you didn't fuck up as bad as the rest of us, but that doesn't change shit. So stop bitching about your situation, because it sure as hell isn't helping you. Or anybody, for that matter."
"Fuck you," he replied contemptuously. "You don't know anything about me."
Izzy made a face and shrugged, unfazed by his hostility. "You're right, I don't. But ultimately none of that shit matters. Something happened. It sucks. You're not the only one in that fucking boat, so why don't you stop drilling holes in it and start paddling instead."
He blinked and turned away from her. "Whatever," he spat, slamming his hand against the wall.
A bit of an awkward silence filled the room. Izzy gnawed on her lip and began drumming her fingers against the armrests of her wheelchair. She has probably overstepped with the life advice, but it wasn't like she was wrong. The guy was a parade of self-pity. Pride goeth before the fall and all that crap, and apparently a shitload of whining followed said fall. Eventually it was up to Alisha to break the ice. "You want to know what I got done for?" she asked, her eyes flicking around the room for an audience.
Nathan blew out a long breath and jerked his head to the side noncommittally. "Not really."
And as it turned out, the fucker was right. What followed was something Izzy didn't really care to remember. The gist of it was that the girl got caught driving over the limit—simple enough in itself—but for some reason Alisha saw fit to throw in some very graphic demonstrations involving her mouth and a soda bottle. Cue drooling males…
Finally she withdrew the bottle from her mouth and gave a flirtatious smile. "Now I don't know if this cop is gay of what, but he tells me I'm four times over the limit! It's bullshit."
"Maybe he didn't take kindly to his breathalyzer being molested," Izzy deadpanned.
Alisha narrowed her eyes at Izzy, clearly none too pleased with the snarky commentary or the diversion of attention from herself. "What about you, then?" she demanded icily, nodding in Izzy's direction. "What did you get done for? We've heard from everyone else—what's your deal?"
Izzy shrugged and sat back in her seat. "I nicked some pills from a pharmacy."
The admission was met with dead silence and the general appearance of shock on each of their faces. Hell, the twitchy kid's eyes went so big she was surprised they didn't pop out of his skull, dangling towards the floor from the optic nerve. Nathan's face was the first to lose that slackened look. "Damn," he said, nodding slowly. "That's impressive, man. High five." Izzy ignored the hand being waved in her face, but he was a persistent little bastard. "So what did you take?" he pressed. "Oxy? Vicodin? Ooh, no. I bet it was one of them studyin' pills that make you test well an' shit. You strike me as one of those over achiever types."
"It was called Fycompa," Izzy muttered.
There was another short pause before Alisha finally piped up. "What the fuck is that? Some kind of psychotropic shit?"
Izzy sighed and fiddled with the chain around her neck. In for a penny, in for a pound. Now she was stuck telling these gits her life story. They would manage to wrench it out of her at some point over the next few weeks—might as well rip the stitches now.
"Fycompa is an anti-seizure medication," she explained. "My brother has epilepsy and he felt an attack coming on. He was out of his meds, so we went to pick them up…." She sighed and scratched at the back of her neck uncomfortably. "Turns out his guardians forgot to renew the prescription. Things get bad when he's like that so I nicked them and ran. It wasn't like it was hard for them to find me—they had my name on file."
Curtis let out a low whistle. "Jesus. That's—that's—"
"Yeah, I know what it is," Izzy interrupted. "The worst of it is that the bastards are trying to file a restraining order against me, saying that I'm a 'bad influence' or some bullshit—"
"That's a load of wank," Alisha said, smacking the gum she was chewing. "How can they file a restraining order to keep you away from your brother?"
Izzy sighed and ran her hands down her face in frustration. She had managed to avoid this conversation for all of a day and a half. Top marks. "Well…." she muttered, "the thing of it is that we're not actually related. Allan's my foster brother. I used to be able to look after him, but I aged out of the foster system a few years back. The family he's with—they're not ideal. I've threatened to report them to child services a few times, so they were looking for a way to screw me over. And now here I am."
Great. Fan-fucking-tastic. She had just managed to share her life story with cabal of young fuck ups. The lot of them were staring at her with differing degrees of pity and apathy. The apathy she was fine with, but fuck the pity. When life kicks you in the balls, you get up and keep playing. Maybe buy a cup, though. It really was just that simple.
"So now we've finished with the 'sharing circle' portion of this team building exercise," she drawled. "What's next? Trust falls? Do we hold hands and sing kumbaya? Do we start putting names in a hat for Secret fucking Santa?"
If anybody was planning on answering the question, they didn't have the opportunity to. A loud crash echoed through the entryway and the doors flew open, allowing Kelly to collapse through. She looked up at them, makeup smudged, eyes wide with fear, and breaths coming out in panicked pants.
"'E's goin' ta kill os!"
Izzy blinked in shock and stared at the mess of a girl who lay at her feet.
What the actual fuck?
SOUNDTRACK
1) Waking up and getting ready for community center, dealing with the events of the previous day.
-~-~-~-I'm Alone - Bushwalla
2) Finding Nathan and inappropriate conversations.
-~-~-~-Summer Cutting Kale - The Pica Beats
3) Washing away creepy murderous messages.
-~-~-~-Once Upon A Time - Chinese Man
4) Foosball and misogyny.
-~-~-~-Reactor Party - Shitdisco
5) Kelly makes a dramatic entrance.
-~-~-~-No Hassle Night - The Dead Weather
Thank you to everyone who reviewed this chapter: AlfieTimewolf, Persephone Price, Meep, and DWillis96. Thank you so much guys. It's very much appreciated.
PS, I'm also updating the soundtrack! I hope you guys are enjoying the new groovy tunes.