I'm back again. This fic is inspired by the Headstones' songs 'Heart of Darkness' and 'When something stands for nothing'. Again reviews are encouraged and keep the constructive criticism coming.

Track Records

'God loves me

God loves you

God loved Hitler and those six million Jews

We do a death dance, he does a body count'

It was blood, the same blood that flowed through my veins, but I'm betting it was more flammable by now. I bend down and touch my fingers to my mother's carotid artery relieved to feel a beat beneath my fingers. It was thready, but it was there none the less. I dug in my pocket for my handkerchief, the one my granddad gave me, and hold it to the gash on her scalp trying to stem the bleeding. I dial 911 on my cell phone; sometimes I really don't like my instincts. At least I get to talk to Doris the dispatcher again, which in and of itself signifies a problem.

I am on a first name basis with all the emergency personnel of Arcadia dispatch, which testifies, to my mother's solid record of success with her scotched earth policy toward sobriety. The good part about it is that I never have to explain my situation and they already know her medical information, the correct spelling of her name, and our home address.

It doesn't take long the ambulance and my two favorite attendants Brett and Elliot rush into the house and begin administering to my mom. Brett takes the handkerchief off her forehead, it is covered in blood and the embroidery on the corner is half-red, looking more like a laceration that actual lettering. She is getting a banana bag for the alcohol, oxygen to get her blood pressure and stats better, and a butterfly bandage to keep the wound from getting bigger or dirtier on the way to the hospital.

I try to remember where my dad is and pick the most likely out of a list of his possible hiding places.

"Hello, and who the hell is this?"

"Genteel Dad, get your ass to the ER." I have no patience for this and he used to call me immoral. Putz.

"Why?"

"Why do you think? Just haul your ass out of Mrs. Lowenstein's bed and get over to the hospital and deal with your wife." Then I hang up and follow the gurney out of the house. I'll have to clean up the puddle and broken glass later. So much for the hope she'd pull herself off the kitchen floor and make those damn pancakes.

'And this one's for the silence

And the questions that it brings

And the smell of time and the reverence

And the possibilities'

The ride to the hospital is relatively quiet apart from the siren. We have this down to a science that conversation isn't really required anymore. I just fill out the forms like I always do and hand them back over to Elliot who is keeping a careful eye on my mother's heart rate, which has a tendency to spike or drop depending on the street taken by the ambulance. I almost used this phenomenon for my science project last year. I even had the title thought up, "The Crossroads of Jose and Morgan Street, a Study in Alcoholic Heart-rates during Emergency Treatments," but my dad nixed it right out of the gate when he saw the book of stats I keep on my mother. The funny thing in that title is that the intersection between Jose Avenue and Morgan Square is where my mom likes to nearly die. Even worse is that it is the same intersection I sat at after hearing about Elizabeth's death, named after my mother's favorite drinking companions.

'You double up the foreground

You put it on a slide

Inspect it with your perfect ways

Until it burns your eyes.'

I stopped crying over my mother's fate about the second time that I had to ride in the ambulance beside her, after a night of dancing unsteadily on the Broadway stage she conjured with amber hues every night. I stopped trying to understand how she could keep doing this whole process day in and day out. I stopped calculating her chances of surviving cirrhosis if she stopped, because I knew she never would. I learned that the funny thing about alcoholics is that they will never admit to what they truly are until they hit rock bottom and drag along it for a number of years. Personally I know my mother has been yo-yoing into the same patch of granite reality for years, but wills herself to take one more leap toward it for old times' sake, and then be dragged back out of the hole once more. Maintaining herself as a veritable pinball between reality and a stone wall.

'And this one's for nothing

And this one's for fun

And this one's about

Rock n' roll and comic books and bubble gum'