* * * *

* * * *

"We've waited so long for someone to take us back home
It just takes so long
And meanwhile the days go drifting away
And some of us sink like a stone
Waiting for mothers to come"

* * * *

I'm sitting on my bed.

There's a TV screen sending flickering images of a black and white movie across my face. The actors are wearing too much make-up and the plot's wearing thin. She's dating her sister's ex husband, the one she had a baby with. Someone wants to shoot someone. They keep saying so as they wave a gun around in one hand. So much for subtlety.

He's asleep next to me. His back rising and falling with every breath. I can see all the spokes of his vertebrae as his lungs inflate within him, and then the creases of his shirt as he lets it all out. He doesn't snore.

My shift ended an hour ago. First thing I did was to come in here and watch him. And then I boiled some water and made some tea and then I sat here and didn't say anything.

It's becoming a routine.

I could tell you how many times I've kissed him. How many fingers he has on each hand. And I could tell you that he doesn't snore.

I'm not sure if this is good. For me. For him.

All I can see from here is his profile. The rest is snuffed out by the pillow. He has an amazing nose. It's perfectly symmetrical with the rest of his face. His face is amazing. He has cheekbones that would make any Greek god green and bitter. Like every gene was there at the right place at the right time. Sometimes that the only thing that gets me to sleep. Counting the lines of symmetry in his face. He's a photographer's wet dream.

I don't know whether this is working out. Is it?

He's lonely. He doesn't say anything. But you can see it. His eyes don't know who they can turn to. I wonder if I'm helping.

The gun is still being flaunted about as the brother's sister's father's ex-something or other decides if he should commit a serious act of cheesiness. How many times can a brother's sister's father's ex-something or other kill that guy with the dodgy hair? It's a Bible thing. It's been done.

But he wonders if this is the best thing to do.

* * * *

"There has to be a change, I'm sure
Today was just a day fading into another
And that can't be what a life is for
The only thing she said was she feels a lot better
And that's all that really matters to me"

* * * *

The coffee is insanely bad.

Somebody used four teaspoons instead of two and it's ice cold.

I drink it anyway.

The taxi driver keeps looking back at us, me, in my bloody nursing scrubs, Maggie, in her charity merchandise pajamas. She isn't saying anything. Which could mean one of several things.

One; the pills are having the desired effect and she's in a 'normal' mood. Manic depressives are never one hundred percent normal.

Two; this is a 'down' episode of her cycle. Manic depressives are supposed to keep a little journal on their mood swings. Almost like how young girls are told to keep note of their menstrual cycle with little red dots, manic-depressives are told to keep a timetable of their mood changes. Gives them some kind of stability.

Therefore, hypothetically speaking, if she decided to go out and buy a liquor store, she could consult this little diary of hers first, and if the day happened to fall on a red dot, she would be able to debate with herself whether being a manic drunk would really be that much fun. Hypothetically speaking of course.

So, she could be in a 'down' spell.

Or, three (my personal choice); she hates me. She doesn't ever want to see, speak, or look at me again. She had to pee in front of fifteen other women, and, therefore, me being the responsible party seeing as she was completely smashed, I'm not her favourite person.

But, with my luck, it's probably all of the above.

I drink up the last few drops of the cheap coffee, before sighing and glancing back at my mother. Her eyes are focused on to some imaginary fixed point far off into the horizon, and her face is a strange shade of calm.

The taxi driver's giving us another curious side ways glance. I don't think he's that interested in us. I'd doubt he'd care if we were escaped cannibals so long as we kept our feet off the upholstery. He's lucky she's not on one of her little red dot days.

After many a call to many an estranged family member, I finally managed to get my brother to agree to come down here to Chicago to pick her up. I told her this as she made lude remarks to the officer in charge of her release. Apparently he was too much of a 'red-necked-pig-fucker.' He was charmed as well.

The train station is too far away I decide with frustration, as I sink back down into my seat.

I turn to face Maggie who has taken to muttering stuff about the sites that we pass by, like an inquisitive five year old. She mostly comments on all the 'pig-fuckers' that are busy taking their evening strolls. Her pajamas are old and tatty, and I sigh again as I remember trying to coax her out of them before we left my apartment. Apparently, she's a grown woman, and she'll wear whatever she goddamn wants. Especially if it pisses Abby off.

And in an hour one mess in my life will be making her way to California. If only I could do that with all my other messes. Send them packing off to distant and hard-to-reach corners of the universe accompanied with little black lies about going to visit them some time soon.

And I'm hoping that this will be it.

I'm living with the fact that it probably won't.

* * * *

Epilogue to this chapter

* * * *

I'm not going to let it get away with it.

Another kick.

Bastard.

Another kick.

Just what does it think it is?

The heel of my boot this time.

Bastard.

I shove my fist and make a growl of frustration.

This is punctuated with another of my dazzling displays of self-restraint.

Bastard.

Somebody's laughing. Somebody, some sadistic little bastard thinks this is funny.

"What did it do to you this time Abby?"

I pull a face at Carter. This isn't funny. That's what my eyes are telling him. He sees this and hides another grin.

"I think you can get arrested for that."

Don't push your luck Carter, you could easily be victim number two.

He's trying not too smile again. I can hear it in his voice. "Coke machine abuse. And I'm a witness, you think that's assisted manslaughter?"

I refuse to give in to the enjoyment he's obviously deriving from this.

Bastard.

I slam my foot against the coke bottle picture, my shoulder following quickly behind.

"It-" kick, "-stole-" shove, "-my-" thump, "-fucking-" knuckles, "-dollar."

He's leaning against the wall beside my target. He's smiling, his white lab jacket matching with his blue tie. I bet he did that on purpose. He's that kind of perfectionist. And he's smiling, I mean I can see his eyes glisten with pleasure. He thinks that this is cute or something, doesn't he? Bastard.

Another heel of my boot.

"I'll give you a dollar if you want Abby."

I give him an icy glare as the side of my body slams against the metallic prison for bad coke cans. "It's not the same thing."

He raises an eyebrow at this. I bet he wants to know why Abby is venting pent up kicks and shoves and bitter words at this innocent and twisted and sadistic but innocent piece of machinery. Well. I can't kick Weaver. I can't kick the people responsible for blood. I can't kick the people that keep breaking my heart. I can't kick hurt. Not my hurt anyway.

So –kick- that's why –two knuckles- Abby's doing this.

He makes a hum of understanding. "Oh, I see, so you want to teach the coke machine a lesson, huh?"

I succumb to smiling this time, and I can see him smile at this smile. And then I stop for a second to laugh. I bet I look really stupid. I bet he knows I look really stupid. He saw how stupid I looked and didn't tell me anything.

Bastard.

He's still smiling at me, and I'm still pretending that I wasn't smiling when he says, "You OK Abby?"

I sigh and nod my head. "Why does everyone keep asking me that? Like I'm about to burst into tears at any second."

He nods, and I'm leaning against my former nemesis, and he's leaning against a poorly painted hospital wall. He's looking at me, and then at the desolate night hallways of County. I can see exam room two several doors down. Everything's in a serene silence. A hot day and nothing to do silence.

"So, I shouldn't ask you if you're OK?"

I smile, "Not unless I'm about to burst into tears."

He nods with another smile, slightly looking away. "So, are you done with the coke machine?"

"I am getting a coke if it's the last thing I do."

I give him a playful cold glare, and with one last ounce of frustration and hurt and need, aim a kick at the buttons.

The machine gives a whimper and stutters. Nothing comes out and I groan at this and begin to slam my fists in the most ungraceful display of self-restraint since my last one. Slam after slam punctuated with his good-humored laughter. Yep, he's getting some twisted kick out of this. Pervert.

-Kick-

Bastard.

He makes a sound to gain my attention and then when he has this, he leans forward, his breath only seconds away from me, raises a suggestive eyebrow and gently presses one of the buttons.

We remain as we are as the machine moans, battered pieces of metal resuming work, and then, I can hear a coke can pop out the other end. I watch this, and then return my gaze to his seconds' away eyes, "How did-"

He gives me a smile before shifting away from me. He's at least ten seconds away. Too far. He shrugs and begins to walk away, to continue with whatever it was that my entertaining anger had interrupted.

"Practice."

I pick up the coke can, it's cold and perfect, and pull the tab off. Taking a quick sip as I watch him walk away slowly. Each step another ten seconds away.

"Thanks, Carter."

Good boy scout that he is, he just raises a shrugging hand. That shrug says that it was nothing Abby. I was scared for the machine Abby.

Anytime Abby.

* * * *

"The only thing she said was she feels a lot better
And that's all that really matters to me"

* * * *

* *

Continued...?