A/N: Sorry for the short length. The way I have the chapters mentally separated, it just happens.
Enjoy~
Chapter 2: A Good Pounding
I awoke the next morning to something licking and nibbling on my upper lip. The first thought in my head was something like, 'man I wish I had a grapefruit.' Followed up by a series of thoughts pertaining to whether or not I actually I liked grapefruits, and why they were even called such in the first place.
My next thought focused on the absolutely horrid pounding that drummed around my skull. A dragon had awoken in my head, and it was liberally pissed off. Crashing and bashing, it rounded my thoughts in destruction.
"Siberia." I felt the groan gladly exit my mouth. "Cut it out."
Siberia purred, her peculiar method to waking me had stopped as I requested. 'I'm hungry,' she had been saying. "I have a massive headache," I replied. 'Too bad,' she retorted, heartless.
It was a dawn not too long ago, only a few years, when my room mate had still been alive. There was a scratching at my door, the most irritating noise. "What," I said, "the hell is that." My room mate, an elderly lady, glared my way. "Language." She scolded, rising from her spot on the couch. Her creaky bones wheezed as her old body made its way to the door, shoe in hand to defend the apartment. I stood in the background, silently cheering on my hero. The door creaked open, revealing none other than a pesky, too-cute kitten. I had to stop the crazy woman from batting the poor creature half to death, as it was only her nature to go on the offensive before all else. Cradling the tiny creature, I adopted her, making the worst decision of my entire life.
And now, as I struggled to stand and follow my queen's command, a few things dawned on me: I was not draped over my bed. The bottle of liquor I had been drinking the night before was no more than a puddle on my floor; it had not been taken. There was nothing on my nightstand. My door was locked.
More importantly, my intestines had begun to throb. I had an infestation of dragons in my body. And that good sleepy feeling I always got when I woke up didn't last. Neither did my upright position.
Oh. Gosh.
...
When I was younger, I broke my arm. It was a few months after Pops kicked the shot gun. I was angry at the world. My mom had turned into a reclusive drunkard, who screamed at the dog to shut his stupid trap, who shattered her mother's favorite China, who shoved me out of the house so that she could drink her whiskey in peace.
I grew up in the "Dark Corner" of South Carolina. Called such because it was full of inbred murderers who married their nearest cousins and hissed at the sight of any technology beyond a horse drawn buggy. I am, thankfully, not one of these people, not by blood anyhow. I am of Russo-Slavic descent, and somehow, my family ended up in the obscure bastard child of the palmetto state. Perhaps alcohol so purely flows through my bloodline, my ancestors couldn't handle prohibition, therefore hiking up into the moonshine laden hills of the Blue Ridge mountains. It's my best guess on the matter.
It was a late day, upon those same mountains, that I had an accident. Fall had arrived. The bodies of fallen leaves piled up on the ground, scarring those leaves that remained steadfast on their branches. I, being quite the pretentious youngster that I was, had decided to hunt deer. With nothing but my bare hands, I also decided.
"Shotguns are for people who make Swiss cheese!" I declared, tromping into the woods.
Off I went, scoring a path through thick leaf litter, observing the yellows and browns and reds with a meticulous pair of snakes. I was searching for tracks. When the sun had just begun to set, found some. They were long and deep, surely meaning that I had found the biggest buck to have ever lived. "Gotta get into a tree," I said. "Gotta find out the deer!"
Of course, twelve year olds are easily distracted. As soon as I discovered how fun jumping on the branches of trees were, I abandoned the idea of taking down a filthy, stupid old deer. I'd find an unlucky branch, swing on it, yank it around, eventually break it, then rinse and repeat. Until I was met with the challenge of a perfect branch, just a little bit too high above my head. Oh yes, this long, unscarred scepter of pure wood was my next target.
Up the chosen tree I went, digging my fingernails, which were in desperate need of a trim, into the bark of the poor forest soul. Finally, after such a struggle, I reached my target. And there I went, thoughtlessly having what equated to a dance break party on this limp tree branch. Emphasis on the 'break'.
Only after about thirty seconds of abuse, the branch broke beneath my feet, and down I went, the mighty king falling to his mighty death. I landed with a sharp crack, and a pause of silence. My brain asked my arm, "What... Was that?"
"... Nothing..." My arm lied.
"I can tell you're lying. Cough it up before I disown you." My brain threatened.
And under all the pressure of my body and my brain, my arm finally snapped.
I was caterwauling within five seconds. That's it, I've done it this time. If these leaves don't strangle me, or this arm doesn't kill me, I know momma will.
But before I could beg the leaves to end my misery, a neighbor was rushing over. He had probably been after me for a while now, only just having caught up to me. I would've guessed that he as originally going to bitch about me 'intruding on HIS property, dammit! Curse you commie bastards, and your witchcraftery!' Now that I was screaming and begging for death, he couldn't cuss me out to the extent that he desired. Instead, he had to carry me back to my house, to my drunk mother, to my elderly Nana, and cuss them out instead.
We waited until Bubba wrapped up his rant, and then I was packed in the car, hurriedly driven to the family trusted physician, who was only an hour away. As I came to find out, my break was absolutely horrendous. I had bits of splintered bone puncturing the skin, and I was in 'deep shit, boy,' as my mother had told me.
I don't remember much after that, honestly. Sad to say, the clearest recollections are of the sickly scent of blood, and the nauseous taste of anesthesia. It is a taste I could compare to food poisoning.
I say this because, two weeks ago to the day, I was poisoned. Only two weeks ago, I experienced what wasn't real, I curled in on myself and pleaded for my blood to finally curdle. I saw broken bones and smashed bottles. I felt teeth across my skin, and my ears ached from the screaming that plagued them. Then, it faded with the next dawn. Then, I heard a knock on my door.
And now, today, at 1:34 Ante Meridian, I was staring at the popcorn ceiling, gazing at the grey walls, drinking in the sweet moonlight. Today, at 1:35 Ante Meridian, I was listening to the snoring of cars and people alike, playing voices and songs in my head, wishing for something I can't quite imagine. Today, at 1:36 Ante Meridian, I'm awake, and I'm writing. Because, just a day short of two weeks ago,
I think was poisoned again.
