Chpt. Four: (Sine of Struggle)

"Music?"

"Are you enjoying yourself?"

Peter smiled, "A bit."

Olivia looked over at him, at last breaking her stare from the road ahead, through the fog, "I'm serious as a damn heart attack. If you try anything, you'll be in worse shape then when I found you."

There was silence in the cab of the Rubicon for a few minutes.

"Where are we going?" Olivia asked at last.

"I don't know," Peter answered, "But I think I have more to question about you than you do me. What kind of girl goes off on a road trip with a man she believes to be a zombie?"

"A crazy one," she sighed.

"I've been around a lot of crazys. You don't seem the type."

She glared, "Says zombie boy."

Peter laughed, and again Olivia was astounded with how strangely charming he seemed to be, at times. And how quickly that attitude could change to something far darker, "You're awfully moody, for a cop," he said in jest, and he began to poke around in the assortment of Cds displayed on her blind, "Evanessence? Creed? Kings of Leon? A little emotional, I should think."

"I'm not a cop," Olivia said, slightly offended, "and I don't need Mr. bullet-for-brains critiquing my choices in music!"

"You're not a cop?" Peter questioned, seeming curious and slightly confused.

"I'm Homeland Security," Olivia said, crossing her arms across her chest, "turn on the lights, it's starting to get dark."

"Oh? So you're BP?" Peter questioned., obliging her request. The wet, black asphalt became visible under two twin rays of light.

"Customs, dick."

"Interesting," Peter mused, still in a cheerful mood as he selected a Cd, passing it to her, indicating that she should put it into the player mounted low on the dash, "so I guess you wouldn't have anything useful in here, like, say, a police radio?"

"Why?" Olivia questioned suspiciously.

"No reason," Peter murmured.

"So you get to ask me questions, but I don't get crap for answers from you?" Olivia snapped, irritated at his dismissive demeanor.

"It's not my fault that woman like to talk about themselves," Peter professed, and Olivia felt heat fleck her features. He smiled at her, "besides. I'm a much more interesting person when you don't know me."

"And yet I somehow doubt that," Olivia muttered, at last inserting the disk into the player and pressing play. Shortly, Franz Ferdinand began to emerge from the speakers. Immediately, Olivia ejected the disk, throwing it into the glove box and slamming the compartment door, her breath short.

"Is there a problem?" Peter questioned, arching a brow.

"No."

"You just went caveman on Franz Ferdinand. You didn't offer up any music suggestions, so I wanted to listen to that."

"No. Shut up." Olivia shut her eyes to calm herself, swallowing back a panic attack that was already threatening to burst out.

Frowning slightly, Peter released one hand from the wheel, reaching across the console to open the glove box, "I don't know what your-"

"I SAID NO!" Olivia snarled, slamming his hand in the small door sharply. He was retracting with a gasp of pain as she drew out her pistol, blasting a shot into his leg.

"WHAT THE FUCK?!" Peter yelled, the jeep swerving sharply as blood spurted from the wound.

"Ohmigawd!" Olivia cried, dropping the gun and raising her hands to her mouth, "ohmigawd, Peter, I am so sorry-!"

"You just kneecapped me, you crazy-!"

"I know, I know, I'm sorry! I-I just, I got carried away-"

"Jesus H. Christ!" Peter boomed, his voice squeaking slightly as Olivia tried to put pressure on the rapidly expanding spot of blood on his leg, and he aimed the jeep back onto the road, "Don't touch it! What the fuck is wrong with you, crazy lady?!"
"Come on, it can't hurt that bad…" Olivia started.

"WHAT?!"

"Peter, we need to stop so I can bandage you. This is bleeding a lot- you need to calm down, or you'll go into shock!" Olivia said.

"Stop?! Why, so you can finish me off with a shovel an leave my body in the woods?! Yer a god-damn psycho!" He gritted his teeth as he reached down to clamp off the artery on his inner thigh, just below his groin, "Oh my fucking god, Misery!"

"I didn't mean it, Peter, and I'm really sorry," Olivia insisted, switching on the overhead light and delving into the glove compartment for some napkins as she flushed red, "But I can help you, if you let me!"

"Alright, alright, we'll stop," Peter said, wincing as she pressed the paper napkins over his leg, "and no Franz Ferdinand, I get it."

Olivia was slightly confused, but said nothing as they pulled into a private drive just off the highway, and in a few minutes arrived at a small house just below the timberline, "Let's go," Peter grunted gruffly as he shut off the engine, kicking open the door.

"Is this your place?" Olivia questioned at last as she helped him limp his way up the small garden path to the steps to the porch.

"Nope," he responded.

"Are you staying with friends?"

"Nope. Come on, let's just get inside before I bleed out, 'kay?" he smiled at her warily, returning a hairpin to his pocket as he pushed the door open and shuffled inside.

Olivia was quick to note the dust covers over the furniture as she hurried to the bathroom for what she could find along the lines of a med kit.

When she returned, Peter was shuffling around in the cabinets and refrigerator. He brightened as she entered the kitchen, "We've got a lovely assortment of cup-o-noodles and tinned green beans," he offered, his face unhealthily pallid, "oh, and butterscotch pudding. But I don't know how old it is."

"Sit down, you anemic bastard," Olivia said, pulling a tall backed, wooden chair away from the sheet-covered table for him, "I got what I could to patch you up. Though, you probably could have managed with a heated spoon or something, huh?" she attempted a weak smile, to no avail.

"I've lost more blood this week than I had originally intended," Peter mused as he sat, the effort slow and stiff with discomfort, "but hell…" he shifted a bit as Olivia set to unbuckling his belt and pulling his slacks off, leaving him in his under shorts, and a small smile tugged at the sides of his mouth, "I guess it could be worse."

xXx

If you would…

The sticky sap that oozed from the wounded end of a freshly cut sunflower stalk.

If you would, Walter…

The fresh smell of cold lake water in the reeds, the rush of lake grass against the cuffs of his jeans and the firm prickle of Russian thistle at his elbow. The brilliant sparkle of the morning sunlight off of his glasses as she pulled them from his face, discarding them into the grass with the sunflowers and her blouse.

If you would, Walter, simply kill her…

Her weight on his chest and the soft feel of eyelashes against his neck; the bitter, dusty taste of wine on her lips. The beautiful realization that this woman was flawless in every way, even as her skin burned at his touch and she trailed her fingers down his chest. The dark, circular mark on his forearm, as he raised a hand to touch her hair.

If you would?

xXx

Walter woke with a start, his head striking the wooden paneling of the dark closet interior, and he issued a short curse. He lay curled on the itchy carpet in breathless silence for a few moments, listening alertly as he nursed his bruised cranium mutely, until at last he issued a sigh, finding himself alone.

He wrapped his arms around his drawn legs, nestling his sweating face in his warm knees. His hands tightened into fists, and even after so many years, he was surprised not to feel the smooth slip of a ring between his fingers. His eyebrows dipped as he shut his eyes tightly.

Walter sighed again, pushing himself to a sitting position and scratching at his lower back, where the artificial fibers of the carpet had touched his skin. At last he pushed open the closet door, emerging from his warm hiding place and into the cold of the rest of the hotel room. He inhaled the dark deeply, brushing the sweat away from the sides of his face with his fingertips as he crossed the room, his toes finding the cold steel threshold of the bathroom, then the slick linoleum tiles within.

He squinted and grunted in discomfort as he flicked on the lights, blinking as his irises readjusted themselves to the bright atmosphere. His hands clumsily found his black leather handbag in the sink, and he stooped to rummage about inside. He knew that alcohol wouldn't work anymore, nothing lesser than absinthe, anyways, nor did any of the regular-grade psychotics, legal or otherwise. His readymade remedy would have to do, it seemed…

He tugged out a long, thin, white strip of surgical rubber, wadding it in his fist as he searched out a small, zippered case, opening it on the lip of the sink. It was a small display of sterile syringes, and he selected one, tearing it from the plastic wrapper and arranging it on the counter. He fished out a small, dark brown bottle carefully wrapped in cotton and settled in a side compartment of the bag, and he pulled it from its nest as if it were the egg of a rare bird. Pushing off the wax seal on the vial with his thumb, Walter readied the syringe, poking it past the rubber stopper to measure out his desired dosage carefully. He tossed the empty bottle back into the bag, taking the syringe and settling, cross-legged, in the empty bathtub.

Walter pushed up the sleeve of his shirt, tightening the tourniquet around his bicep with his teeth as he repeatedly slapped his inner elbow until it was red. Flexing his arm stiffly, the needle found its mark on an a dark, pulsing artery. Walter took a deep breath, and squeezed.

His eyes seemed to roll back in his head as he let out a quiet moan through clenched teeth, his veins feeling as if burning metal were coursing through them. The cold of the porcelain against his body felt amazing as he slipped lower into the tub, the needle creating a long, deep tear as he was unable to withhold his gleeful, distant laugh.

Jesus, that kick just never got old.

His mind was burning, now, with thoughts and questions without answers. It was nearly maddening, as all he found himself able to do was lay in the amazingly cold, amazingly smooth bathtub.

At length, he emerged from the bathtub, his movements slow and cautious, as his body still buzzed and quaked slightly with the aftershock of his elation. The syringe clattered in the sink as he passed, emerging into the room where he could breathe. The air in the room felt thick and fake, and at last he made his way to the window, seizing the blanket that covered it and wrenching it off, along with the entire curtain fixture. He threw open the wide, tall window to let in the night air and the brilliant light of a sliver of moon, low in the sky and nearing the horizon.

A small breeze touched his face, and he shut his eyes as it felt like chilled fingers along his jaw. The scents on the wind seemed to change with each passing moments as he inhaled the night air, at times hinting of rain, of pine, and of… lake.

His hands gripped the window sill as he felt dizzy, and he stabilized himself, opening his eyes to look out over the back lot of the motel, a long, brown strip of barren earth backed by a tall, chain-link fence. It looked dark and unwelcoming, at night, as most places did anyways, but he knew that when the sun touched the fence, there were small, white daisies poking up from the edge of the lot, with a possibility of wild strawberries.

A familiar feeling overtook him, one that had been growing increasingly stronger, as time was passing. This was a kind of place where he wished he could stay… where perhaps he could visit the small shops when he felt the need, stop in at the local café for coffee and maple syrup, or simply wander a place called home in search of a sunny place to read and take a nap. Where nothing changed and he could always see the world in the light. His were such simple wants.

He guessed that he was just tired.

Movement grabbed his attention, and he immediately retracted back into the motel room, watching suspiciously. A figure emerged from a back door some place, keys jingling distantly as they carried a bag of trash along, toward the dumpster. His thoughts jumped about in his paranoia, until he at last recognized the form as the girl from the desk, and the restaurant, the one that had been asking so many questions about September… what was her name? He thought hard, despite his drug-induced haze, drawing an inconclusive blank.

She reached the dumpster and gave a soft call, several small, fast forms of stray cats darting out to meet her. Looking around cautiously, she stooped, pulling open the bag to retrieve a bottle of milk and a saucer.

Walter smiled, propping his elbows on the window sill, resting his face on the heels of his hands to quietly watch from the dark, "Feeding strays," he murmured softly, shaking his head.

xXx