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THE DAY AFTER
16. The departure.
[AMY, Sean Catlett]
". . . . . . tails?"
"What?"
". . . . . nothing."
How long have I been out?
"What do you want?"
". . . . . ."
"Look, I'm a little busy right now . . ."
"sandra's dead."
". . . . Oh. Right. That."
Where the hell am I?
"Wait, who?"
"sandra."
"I can't keep track of all your clit-clique friends, Amy. You'll have to be a little more specific."
When did I wake up?
"i . . . i just thought you'd want to know who's doing it."
When and how did I make it back to the apartment?
Who the fuck am I talking to?
"You know?"
"i have a really . . . really . . . really good idea."
"How could you possibly know?"
Don't say. Line tapped. They're listening.
". . . robots . . . robotosized . . . two of them . . . red and black . . . they attacked us, killed her, left me alone . . ."
"Eggman?"
Click click click.
They're listening.
Give him the facts.
"yeah. eggman."
"Well, gee, as though the thought hadn't crossed my mind already." Sigh. "Are you sure?"
Did I call him or did he call me?
"i don't have proof."
"That doesn't do me a fat lot of good then, does it? I told you to only call here if it was an emergency."
Angry. Frustrated. Is that usual for him?
"well . . . now you know for sure."
"No, no I don't know, Amy. All I have to go off of is the word of some whacked out, dick-hating broad that has issues with sexuality. I'll be laughed right out of the precinct, after, of course, the ten year incarceration."
Did that hurt?
I'm not sure.
"you don't care, do you?"
In a rush it suddenly all makes sense again. The apartment walls come into focus. The call . . .
"You don't even care, do you, you obnoxious little puke! I'm helping you and you don't even give a shit!! Fuck you!"
Funny, you'd think that would feel good, but really I feel like I just swallowed more vomit rather than spew it. My face pulls tight and my eyes squint. I grip the phone so tight that I hear it crack.
"This is so typical, you little cunt. Only thinking about yourself, about your little problems with your release valves. Well, excuse me, but your little lesbian BITCH isn't on my list of priorities right now! Family comes first!!"
Great. Perfect. Fine.
These tiny trails of hot liquid start running down my face. I close my eyes and force out an apology.
Sigh. "Accepted. I'm sorry too."
"Who . . . ?"
". . . . . . sis."
"I see."
"She was on the news . ."
That comment is so odd that I can't think of what to say next. The silence is suffocating. I can barely push any coherent phrase out, so what I end up saying is something like: "You have a plan?"
"For?"
"Safety. In case Eggman sends them again."
"And the FBI?"
"Tame. Tame compared to what lies ahead." I'm choking on syllables.
"If they're listening, then they know the task. Is Rouge still there?"
". . yeah."
"Get her out of there. Take her anywhere in the city just for the night. Is there a friend's house you can stay at?"
"of the living persuasion, no. but i guess i can manage something."
"If they come after you . . ."
Click click click.
" . . . don't get caught. don't give up. i know."
"I'm liking you more already. Call me tomorrow from a payphone, alright?"
"i-i-if….. i'm ….. still alive…."
"You'll be fine."
"okay. thanks. bye."
The phone doesn't even hang up before I start to sob.
________________________
The tenants upstairs are taking a shower. Lucky me.
It would make a funny police report if the FBI storms into the apartment right now, guns raised and shouting orders to each other, flashlights arcing in the dark, snipers on the building across the way from mine, and they find me in the shower, covered in nothing but soap and completely willing to cooperate. In fact, this is their last chance.
Any minute now . . .
The superintendent usually empties testicle fluid on his floor around this time of night, and you'd think that would make him less of a prick, but no, his stamina is amazing. It could be him that's pounding at the door right now, or it could be . . .
Come on. Get in already.
None of the lights work here. Neither does the plumbing. Air conditioning is a joke. But I can't complain because it'll get us evicted.
I keep seeing shadows move. Tricks of my mind, I know, but every time I jumped and cried some more. I haven't left the apartment yet because I'm scared out of my fucking mind. I can't tell if it's night or day because the windows are boarded up. I don't have a watch anymore. I lent it to someone . . .
By the time I reached the shower, the comforting, confined, claustrophobic slab of a white, linoleum tomb, I didn't care any more. The FBI can have me. Robotnik's freaks can come in and kill me. That jerk-off can go ahead and throw us out.
I give up.
You can only take a shower here if the tenants upstairs are as well, since we're stacked on top of each other like a newlywed couple. The ceiling is water damaged, and loud noises leak through. Sometimes a fight. Sometimes the television. Sometimes . .
Nothing works, and I can only hope that my coffin is really, really thick, so I don't have to hear the neighbors scratch and crawl at theirs. I would just want some rest. But no, even then I'd probably be cheated out of it. Downsized and crammed into the anchovie afterlife. Everyone wants a piece, and if we don't give up a little of our own, if we don't share, then none of us get anything. As the years pass more and more will be stacked on top, and all hope for rest will be lost.
But anyway.
The door pounds louder and louder each time, but I close my eyes and drift, concentrating on the noises from above. The already-soapy water runs down the entire length of my body, washing Sandra's caked blood off of me. I don't bother to scrub. I just stand still, letting the water pound away at me, the oil and blood mixing and disappearing down the drain. A giant black and blue bruise radiates from my shoulder, a giant black hole of a tattoo. It hurts to move it. It hurts to touch it. When I feel my face there are all sorts of tiny cuts in it, raw and exposed, just beginning to hurt and heal themselves. I'll probably end up with scars that look like the ones on my back. Above me, over the sound of the water and the door, I can hear voices.
About fifteen or twenty minutes ago, I remember someone walking up to the counter, covered in blood. I remember someone staring blankly at the superintendent, who also stared back, but in surprise. I remember this someone flipping a soaked wad of cash onto the counter. I remember the excess dripping onto the floor. I remember the someone saying: "I told you." and then shuffling to her room three or four or whatever flights up.
He shouldn't complain. He probably gets this all the time. But the grudge remains, and now he's pounding on the door.
"Take it, yeah, take it, bitch, uh!" "Oh god, oh yes!"
Why the fuck was I spared? Why didn't they kill me along with Sandra?
Flash, flash, flash. Click. Click. Click.
Click.
Oh.
"Fuck me!"
Forget trying to find a decent place to live anymore. They're all taken already.
Hmmm. Maybe mass destruction is a good thing…
Pound, pound, pound. Rouge is being unusually quiet. I wonder how she'll take the news…
"Yeah, you like it dirty, don't you?" "You like this cock? You want me to fuck you with it?"
They only attacked me when I was in their way. I was pinned to the floor so they could take Sandra only. They wanted her blood . . . . why?
I'm almost clean, my legs being the last that need rinsing. My clothes lay heaped in a bloody pile in the corner, next to the toilet. The screams and shouts from above haven't ceased.
In the shower with me, the gun and the knife. One is broken, empty, and slick with red chrome, the other is bent in half, dull, gnarled, and shining black. The bat is still in pieces at the apartment . . .
One at a time.
Robotnik is killing us one at a time. The methodical, retarded bastard.
I get out of the tomb, not bothering to dry myself off. I walk into my room, the window still busted from when whoever decided to break in, and I pick out new clothes. Something colorful. Something stylish. I want to make a good corpse.
They missed their window.
Even Mr. Super has given up. The apartment is so quiet I can actually hear the couple's labored breathing.
When I reach Rouge's room, to tell her that we have to leave, she's already dressed, the gun in her left hand and the closet door wide open.
Empty.
"I want to leave."
". . . Good idea."
I lower my eyes to the floor, so she won't see how glad I am to see her again.
"You okay?"
"Funny, I'd ask you the same thing."
No one stops us on the way out, not even the superintendent, who just wedges himself as far away from us as possible on the ground floor.
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