THE PHOEBE YEARS
Author's Note/ To those of you who commented on me getting the names wrong (in the first chapter I mistook the name of Phoebe's mom to be Ellie, and in the second chapter I allegedly misspelled the last name "Buffay" as "Buffet") I have two responses. As far as Lily goes, I had trouble remembering her name, but knew vaguely what it sounded like. As for "Buffay" and "Buffet", when have you ever seen Phoebe's last name spelled? It might be spelled B-U-F-F-E-T, for all we know. However, I'll use B-U-F- F-A-Y to avoid an argument. As always, I don't own Friends, and there is enough angst in here that make Pee Wee Herman depressed. Also, please review. Hey, I review when I read YOUR fics!
Chapter III: New Life
If you have the right means, New York is a great place to live, filled with glamour and scenery. But, if you're poor, it is a wasteland. This was a fact that Phoebe Buffay knew quite well.
She was certainly an attractive girl. Her blonde hair and rounded face gave her a sense of childlike sweetness. That is, they would have, if she weren't baring that 'mad at the world/don't mess with me' scowl. Phoebe had been living on the streets for six months now, and she had grown so that she tolerated it. Never loved it. Her life had no beauty in it. She had only one shirt and one pair of pants, both too big for her small frame. Her home was an old Ford that had been vandalized and worn down to such an extent that even the crooks that prowled the streets didn't want it. Phoebe's days were often spent crawling along the gutter and looking pathetic to get pity money.
A dollar fluttered down in front of Phoebe. She took it and thanked the old man who had given it to her. The money this man gave away without a care was lifeblood to Phoebe. A dollar, if used wisely, might someday save her from starving or getting pneumonia. A young couple walked by Phoebe. She was kneeling down by the street, holding out her hands and forcing tears into her eyes as she looked on, pleadingly. The man and woman, probably without even knowing it, averted their eyes and walked past her.
On most days, this happened to Phoebe at least a dozen times. The fact was: successful people didn't want to look at poor people. Maybe they didn't want to believe that something existed outside their cozy, little, middle-class world. Maybe they felt guilty for not giving to charity. Maybe they were afraid that poverty was catching, and that eye contact could give them the "gutter-trash bug".
Sunset. Phoebe didn't want to be begging after dark. There wouldn't be many people out, and getting exposed to the cold when you didn't have a heated home to crawl into was dangerous. Therefore, Phoebe left the street and went down an alley, carrying a few more dollars with her then she had before.
Phoebe walked past vandalized walls, passed out drunks, overturned garbage cans, and had a close call with a big man carrying chains. She had to be careful. There were people in the darker side of New York that would rape her without a thought to decency. But Phoebe was careful. On her way through the alleys, she stayed to the shadows and little traveled portions. At last she reached the car.
It was abandoned in a dead end alley, missing its tires and engine, as well as being beat up to the extreme. Despite all this, the Ford was her home. As Phoebe approached the car, she heard somebody talking in it. When she opened the door, she saw Sidney.
Sidney was worse off than Phoebe had ever been. He had been born into a poor, drunk/junkie family. He had been living by his wits for the past six years. His body was thin and pale from never getting enough to eat, and he twitched from some unknown disorder. But Sidney's experiences had affected him in a way that could not be caught at a first glimpse. He was insane. On a regular basis, he talked to his hand. During these one sided conversations, Sidney tuned out the rest of the world. He talked to that limb, sometimes is English, but other times with a strange, almost autistic series of grunts and odd noises.
Now was one of those times when Sidney was communing with his hand. Phoebe brushed past him and climbed into the Ford's backseat. A somewhat moldy apple and half a box of KFC were waiting for her there. Phoebe ate ravenously, devouring half of the remaining chicken and the entire apple. Her meal gone, Phoebe decided to sleep. The Ford's actual seats were vinyl that had many, many rips on it that exposed the stuffing. To compensate with this, it was covered in newspapers that Phoebe used as a blanket.
Memories came back to Phoebe in her sleep. She felt large, greasy hands pulling away her clothes and fondling her. She felt Creepjob, her former stepfather, squeezing her breasts. She smelled his potato chip breath. She experienced disgust once more as Creepjob exposed his erection to her. She saw his throbbing organ. Nausea and cold shivers swept over her.
The shivering wasn't just from the memory. It was cold inside the car, and the newspapers offered little protection. Phoebe woke up to darkness. There weren't any streetlights around here, so it was a truly impenetrable cloud of darkness. How did I come to this? This isn't how my life was supposed to turn out?
Phoebe heard a voice. It was Sidney's. Usually when he talked to his hand, he spoke in an invented language so strange that Phoebe only understood a single word now and then. But tonight, for some reason, he was speaking in English.
"She says there was blood. Lots of it. Weren't pretty, from what I here. Yeah, I agree. Horrible thing to lose her. Yep, you're right. Yeah, that's probably true."
Phoebe tuned out Sidney's one-sided conversation. It made her sad to hear it; it reminded her of how truly wrong his mind was. If he and Phoebe hadn't been working together to survive, she doubted he would survive, and Phoebe wasn't all that sure that she would live if she didn't have Sidney.
Sleep comes. But it is never a sweet, peaceful sleep for Phoebe Buffay. It hasn't been for a long while. No, she is right there, in the kitchen. She's wearing the coat and gloves she had worn that December day. But she didn't run away this time. Her mind told her body to run away from the horrible sight, but the body wouldn't respond. At least turn away! Why can't I move? Why do I have to look at this?
Lily Buffay rises from the floor, her eyes dead and blank white. Her fingers curl like a bird's talons around the bloody knife. Her blood gushes onto the tiles. As Phoebe Buffay sees her mother's blood fall, she knows that life as she knows it is spilling just as chaotically. Phoebe wants to scream as she sees Lily's corpse take a step towards her. Phoebe's voice seems forever in coming, but at last it escapes.
"Why did you do this to yourself? Why did you do this to me? Don't let yourself die?" Phoebe shrieks angrily, but her voice switches to a sobbing grovel, "Please, please, don't do this. Mom, you're – you're dying."
"I am dead," says the blood soaked body.
The warmth and humanity of Lily Buffay's voice is gone. It is a mechanical sound, devoid of emotion. She is dead, even though she walks. The body approaches Phoebe, who can't move, no matter what she commands her flesh to do. Then, the blow comes. Phoebe is knocked to the floor with stunning speed. Her mother – no, her mother's empty carcass – beats her again and again and again.
"WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS!" shouts Phoebe inside her own head, "YOU'RE KILLING MY ENTIRE LIFE! IT'S YOUR FAULT! IT'S YOUR FAULT THAT I'M MAKING MY LIVING THROUGH BEGGING! IT'S YOUR FAULT I LIVE IN A CAR! MY WHOLE MISERABLE, ROTTEN, HOPELESS LIFE IS YOUR FAULT!"
Phoebe woke up. Dawn was here. Despite the cold of the night, Phoebe was covered in sweat. Sidney was gone, most likely to find food. She didn't want to get up. She wanted to lay beneath the newspapers forever. As long as she was here, she wouldn't feel the blows given by her mother's death. The moment Phoebe went out for another day of crawling through the gutter, Lily's death would begin hitting her down to the kitchen floor again and again. She couldn't fight a corpse. She couldn't fight death. Phoebe couldn't fight at all anymore. Instead, she cried. She cried and cried and cried until there just wasn't enough water in her to cry anymore.
She needed water. Literally crawling along the pavement outside the car, Phoebe came to a puddle left by a drainpipe. She lapped up the water like some pathetic dog. Phoebe tried hard not to think about it. She tried hard not to think about a lot of things. A person could only endure so much before they forced themselves not to think about everything wrong with their lives. But, in dreams, you can't help but think. Not bothering to think philosophy, for there was none which could uplift her spirits, Phoebe stood up and went out to beg, grovel, and debase herself for money. No, don't think, Phoebe. It will only upset you. Don't think. Don't think. Don't think.
Author's Note/ To those of you who commented on me getting the names wrong (in the first chapter I mistook the name of Phoebe's mom to be Ellie, and in the second chapter I allegedly misspelled the last name "Buffay" as "Buffet") I have two responses. As far as Lily goes, I had trouble remembering her name, but knew vaguely what it sounded like. As for "Buffay" and "Buffet", when have you ever seen Phoebe's last name spelled? It might be spelled B-U-F-F-E-T, for all we know. However, I'll use B-U-F- F-A-Y to avoid an argument. As always, I don't own Friends, and there is enough angst in here that make Pee Wee Herman depressed. Also, please review. Hey, I review when I read YOUR fics!
Chapter III: New Life
If you have the right means, New York is a great place to live, filled with glamour and scenery. But, if you're poor, it is a wasteland. This was a fact that Phoebe Buffay knew quite well.
She was certainly an attractive girl. Her blonde hair and rounded face gave her a sense of childlike sweetness. That is, they would have, if she weren't baring that 'mad at the world/don't mess with me' scowl. Phoebe had been living on the streets for six months now, and she had grown so that she tolerated it. Never loved it. Her life had no beauty in it. She had only one shirt and one pair of pants, both too big for her small frame. Her home was an old Ford that had been vandalized and worn down to such an extent that even the crooks that prowled the streets didn't want it. Phoebe's days were often spent crawling along the gutter and looking pathetic to get pity money.
A dollar fluttered down in front of Phoebe. She took it and thanked the old man who had given it to her. The money this man gave away without a care was lifeblood to Phoebe. A dollar, if used wisely, might someday save her from starving or getting pneumonia. A young couple walked by Phoebe. She was kneeling down by the street, holding out her hands and forcing tears into her eyes as she looked on, pleadingly. The man and woman, probably without even knowing it, averted their eyes and walked past her.
On most days, this happened to Phoebe at least a dozen times. The fact was: successful people didn't want to look at poor people. Maybe they didn't want to believe that something existed outside their cozy, little, middle-class world. Maybe they felt guilty for not giving to charity. Maybe they were afraid that poverty was catching, and that eye contact could give them the "gutter-trash bug".
Sunset. Phoebe didn't want to be begging after dark. There wouldn't be many people out, and getting exposed to the cold when you didn't have a heated home to crawl into was dangerous. Therefore, Phoebe left the street and went down an alley, carrying a few more dollars with her then she had before.
Phoebe walked past vandalized walls, passed out drunks, overturned garbage cans, and had a close call with a big man carrying chains. She had to be careful. There were people in the darker side of New York that would rape her without a thought to decency. But Phoebe was careful. On her way through the alleys, she stayed to the shadows and little traveled portions. At last she reached the car.
It was abandoned in a dead end alley, missing its tires and engine, as well as being beat up to the extreme. Despite all this, the Ford was her home. As Phoebe approached the car, she heard somebody talking in it. When she opened the door, she saw Sidney.
Sidney was worse off than Phoebe had ever been. He had been born into a poor, drunk/junkie family. He had been living by his wits for the past six years. His body was thin and pale from never getting enough to eat, and he twitched from some unknown disorder. But Sidney's experiences had affected him in a way that could not be caught at a first glimpse. He was insane. On a regular basis, he talked to his hand. During these one sided conversations, Sidney tuned out the rest of the world. He talked to that limb, sometimes is English, but other times with a strange, almost autistic series of grunts and odd noises.
Now was one of those times when Sidney was communing with his hand. Phoebe brushed past him and climbed into the Ford's backseat. A somewhat moldy apple and half a box of KFC were waiting for her there. Phoebe ate ravenously, devouring half of the remaining chicken and the entire apple. Her meal gone, Phoebe decided to sleep. The Ford's actual seats were vinyl that had many, many rips on it that exposed the stuffing. To compensate with this, it was covered in newspapers that Phoebe used as a blanket.
Memories came back to Phoebe in her sleep. She felt large, greasy hands pulling away her clothes and fondling her. She felt Creepjob, her former stepfather, squeezing her breasts. She smelled his potato chip breath. She experienced disgust once more as Creepjob exposed his erection to her. She saw his throbbing organ. Nausea and cold shivers swept over her.
The shivering wasn't just from the memory. It was cold inside the car, and the newspapers offered little protection. Phoebe woke up to darkness. There weren't any streetlights around here, so it was a truly impenetrable cloud of darkness. How did I come to this? This isn't how my life was supposed to turn out?
Phoebe heard a voice. It was Sidney's. Usually when he talked to his hand, he spoke in an invented language so strange that Phoebe only understood a single word now and then. But tonight, for some reason, he was speaking in English.
"She says there was blood. Lots of it. Weren't pretty, from what I here. Yeah, I agree. Horrible thing to lose her. Yep, you're right. Yeah, that's probably true."
Phoebe tuned out Sidney's one-sided conversation. It made her sad to hear it; it reminded her of how truly wrong his mind was. If he and Phoebe hadn't been working together to survive, she doubted he would survive, and Phoebe wasn't all that sure that she would live if she didn't have Sidney.
Sleep comes. But it is never a sweet, peaceful sleep for Phoebe Buffay. It hasn't been for a long while. No, she is right there, in the kitchen. She's wearing the coat and gloves she had worn that December day. But she didn't run away this time. Her mind told her body to run away from the horrible sight, but the body wouldn't respond. At least turn away! Why can't I move? Why do I have to look at this?
Lily Buffay rises from the floor, her eyes dead and blank white. Her fingers curl like a bird's talons around the bloody knife. Her blood gushes onto the tiles. As Phoebe Buffay sees her mother's blood fall, she knows that life as she knows it is spilling just as chaotically. Phoebe wants to scream as she sees Lily's corpse take a step towards her. Phoebe's voice seems forever in coming, but at last it escapes.
"Why did you do this to yourself? Why did you do this to me? Don't let yourself die?" Phoebe shrieks angrily, but her voice switches to a sobbing grovel, "Please, please, don't do this. Mom, you're – you're dying."
"I am dead," says the blood soaked body.
The warmth and humanity of Lily Buffay's voice is gone. It is a mechanical sound, devoid of emotion. She is dead, even though she walks. The body approaches Phoebe, who can't move, no matter what she commands her flesh to do. Then, the blow comes. Phoebe is knocked to the floor with stunning speed. Her mother – no, her mother's empty carcass – beats her again and again and again.
"WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS!" shouts Phoebe inside her own head, "YOU'RE KILLING MY ENTIRE LIFE! IT'S YOUR FAULT! IT'S YOUR FAULT THAT I'M MAKING MY LIVING THROUGH BEGGING! IT'S YOUR FAULT I LIVE IN A CAR! MY WHOLE MISERABLE, ROTTEN, HOPELESS LIFE IS YOUR FAULT!"
Phoebe woke up. Dawn was here. Despite the cold of the night, Phoebe was covered in sweat. Sidney was gone, most likely to find food. She didn't want to get up. She wanted to lay beneath the newspapers forever. As long as she was here, she wouldn't feel the blows given by her mother's death. The moment Phoebe went out for another day of crawling through the gutter, Lily's death would begin hitting her down to the kitchen floor again and again. She couldn't fight a corpse. She couldn't fight death. Phoebe couldn't fight at all anymore. Instead, she cried. She cried and cried and cried until there just wasn't enough water in her to cry anymore.
She needed water. Literally crawling along the pavement outside the car, Phoebe came to a puddle left by a drainpipe. She lapped up the water like some pathetic dog. Phoebe tried hard not to think about it. She tried hard not to think about a lot of things. A person could only endure so much before they forced themselves not to think about everything wrong with their lives. But, in dreams, you can't help but think. Not bothering to think philosophy, for there was none which could uplift her spirits, Phoebe stood up and went out to beg, grovel, and debase herself for money. No, don't think, Phoebe. It will only upset you. Don't think. Don't think. Don't think.