Hey again. I will address my lovely reviewers at the end of this chapter. Sorry for the update gap, I had moving issues, and a lot of school things to sort out. Oh, this chapter deals with disease and peoples aversion to it. I in no way feel this way. But it is a fact of life that some people aren't very tolerant.
"We are, perhaps, uniquely among the earth's creatures, the worrying animal. We worry away our lives, fearing the future, discontent with the present, unable to take in the idea of dying, unable to sit still."- Lewis Thomas
Finally entering his modest home, Erik flung himself down upon the couch, trying in vain to get rid of a migraine. His day had been horrid. It was his turn to do HIV testing, and it made his skin crawl to have to touch soiled people. His logical side told him they wouldn't pass on their potential infection by touch. However, his other side, the one older then time, which was primitive and usually accurate, told him that touching the disgusting gamine was potentially the most idiotic thing he could do.
It had been a month since he had seen the girl, Christie? Or some such thing and he hardly remembered her. It was just a fleeting thought, feeble at best in his mind. It amazed him that he could recall random people he met during his day, because of one small trigger. For the girl, it was surgical thread. All he could remember was her nonchalance at the whole ordeal. Besides that, she had been sincere. And it did help that she hadn't let curiosity get the better of her, and ask about his mask.
He banished thoughts of her from his mind, glaring across the room at the drawer of his desk, the drawer that held his escape. It had been so long since he had felt the warm embrace of his morphine, but he couldn't afford to make another mistake.
He had been a very influential doctor, working in the best hospital in the state. But he had let his addiction get the best of him one too many times. All he had wanted was a release from the pain, but could the others understand that? They didn't know what it was like, having his hideous secret.
They thought he was some sinister ghost, some disgusting spectre. They thought his mask was a joke, or an oddity to be whispered about.
He didn't use the morphine to escape the scrutiny of the people; at least it wasn't just that. The sunlight scoured his pale, translucent skin, bubbling it away. His mother had locked him out of the house one day. It had been a hot summer, and she didn't open the door until she smelled burning flesh. Well, his screams were also a good indicator as to his condition. She had obliged him to wear a mask, so she did have an once of pity in that black heart she reared within her.
Contrary to anyone's belief, he didn't use the drug to relieve himself of memories, but to relieve the pain his disfigurement caused him. It had been a daily torture since the moment of his birth. He often wondered if life would have been any different if he had been born normal. He doubted it though. Fate had a horrid way of twisting things to her will.
There was no operation to help him, for who would think of a remedy for the living dead? The excuse he was given as a child what that his important veins were so close to the surface that, if the risk was taken, he would most likely die. The translucent layer of flesh that barely covered his muscle, vein and bone, was a curse he must bare forever.
Forcing himself to bypass the morphine, for the sake of the drug test that was scheduled for the next weekend, he stalked off into his bedroom, not even tossing a thought toward the lost, little girl who had looked up at him in acceptance.
The bright fluorescent light of the clinic shined before her, as she waited for a doctor to take notice. Needless to say, Joseph hadn't been to happy about her abandoning Meg, and had sought retribution. She hadn't been tricked out yet, as he put it, so he wasn't damaging his own goods. He had shown her how he punished the girls who didn't look out for their sisters.
The result was Christine, bloody and bruised beyond all recognition, waiting for someone to give a damn. It had been a month since she had been here; a month of hiding from Joseph, Meg... and her own guilt. Her swollen eyes were trained on that ever-ticking clock.
She was admitted to a room, where they took her blood pressure, made sure she wasn't bleeding too much, and told her to wait for the doctor. She clutched her stomach, the clenching in it scaring her to the point of panic. She had always had a small constitution when it came to fright, and had suffered panic attacks most of her life.
She felt the room get blurry, as the walls started to closing in on her. She tried to breathe deeply, but it hurt so much, and her palms were sweaty as she gripped the dirty table in front of her. She felt the telltale beat of her heart, which was going so fast she might as well have been running.
Her legs buckling beneath her, she was astonished when an arm gripped her, supporting her back and helping her to the examining table. The shock had brought her out of her terror driven attack. It was the same doctor as before. Dr. Devereux.
"I see you are a glutton for punishment, Miss Daae. May I ask what happened to you this time?"
He examined her thoroughly, ignoring the fact that she hadn't responded. She had a broken rib, a severely bruised stomach, a large blacked eye, and to top it all off, a rather large cut on the side of her face. It was shallow, but long, so it didn't require stitches. He applied some butterfly bandages to it, after swabbing it down with alcohol.
He asked her if she had been sexually assaulted, a routine question, to which she replied no. After he fixed her up a bit, he realized that she was quite upset. He tried, for the sake of his fragile mentality, to keep out of the affairs of the women who came through the clinic. It was easier to pretend they were his mother, and it helped keep him cool and indifferent to them.
"Is there a reason why you look like you were hit by a truck? Or am I to assume you were robbed?"
She stared at the floor, answering in a edged voice. "I did something stupid, and I got in trouble for it, that's all. Not that it's your business. "
He had been examining the bruises on her wrists, and tightened his grip when she spoke. One of the few times he decided to show a little compassion, and this girl was rude? What else could be expect though, from a life like his. Well, fuck her then. He hoped she was afraid of him, that she would cower when he stared at her.
She didn't seem affected, besides trying to remove him from her person. He let her go, watching as she left. Damn that selfish girl.
She let the dark streets guide her, hiding behind rotting dumpsters and slimy passageways. How dare that man ask her about something so personal! She crawled through a tiny hole in a grate, sliding into her little hiding place. She had found it two days ago, when one of Bouquet's guys tried to chase her. It was dank, smelly, and had a small rat problem, but a little bit of liquor and a lighter had changed that.
She shuddered, the chill in the air torturing her. She deserved it though. She had left Meg to her fate, without showing an ounce of courage. She deserved this life. She deserved to sell bad, to feel like a piece of filth, to be beaten and degraded and hated and laughed at. She said a prayer to her father and mother, and tried to rest.
She just hoped Joey got over his fit soon. She didn't think she could survive another beating like the first.
She cursed her father as she drifted off. Damn him. Damn him for making her an innocent, and damn her for being so gullible.
Hey again. Yeah, I love you guys.
Kagome, E.T.A , Amariel, and Ashley! You all rock. I am glad you liked the way I started it off. I hope this chapter isn't too redundant, but I needed filler. Next one will rock.