So, I love Lindsey. I really do. I am very upset over how he actually wound up, I think that it is wrong and bad and I have dealt with it in other stories that will eventually probably be posted here. I also love angst with a passion. So, here is angsty Lindsey who I have tortured nicely.
So, I tried to write something in French, but since I don't actually know French (yet) I had to guess at the spelling. If anyone knowsthe spelling for au contraire, please share. (aha! I rhymed!)
Tell me in a review if this thing should continue.
Lindsey sat on the floor in his flat. It wasn't that he didn't have furniture, au contraire, he had nice, comfortable, expensive furniture. It was just that he bought the furniture, the clothes, the paintings, the art, the liquor, the sunglasses, even rented the apartment with money he got by lying, cheating, murdering…Now he sat on the carpet, the room around him was in a shambles, the liquor bottles were smashed around the room, their contents were not always completely drained, so the room reeked of alcohol. The paintings and the art had been the main targets of the flying bottles. The furniture had also been 'rearranged'.
Lindsey sat in the middle of the room on the floor. His left leg was pulled up so his chin was resting on his knee. His right leg was crossed in front of him, behind his left foot. His feet were bare, he was only wearing his bracelet and watch, a wife-beater and a pair of dress pants. Both items of clothing were stained with blood and liquor.
His forehead was resting against his knee, his eyes shut tight.
After awhile Lindsey raised his head up. He looked around at the apartment. Well, at least no one would doubt what kind of state of mind he had been in.
Lindsey pulled the knife from the sheaf it constantly occupied at his left ankle.
He never learned to use the knife for defense or offense. He had never even thought of it when he was in danger.
The knife served another purpose.
It was a cheap knife, simple stainless steel, a short, chipped blade, with a tarnished, vinyl wrapped handle. Lindsey had owned this knife for a very long time. It was, in fact, the only physical artifact left from the pre-eviction days.
Lindsey took the blade and carefully examined it. It was sharp and shiny, with visible chips and scores.
Lindsey laid the blade, sharp side down, open his wrist, the pulled it quickly and sharply off his arm. At first only shallow red line appeared, then the skin welted up and a small amount of blood welled up to the surface.
Lindsey stared thoughtfully at the blood.
Blood was such a large part of the world. Aside from the more obvious part as an essential but invisible factor in life that blood served, in Lindsey's world blood had two entirely separate meanings; food and injuries.
The first was something Lindsey had tried not to personally acquaint himself with. The second was, and always had been, a very familiar occurrence. The latest trick was throwing him into walls, especially if he could slam into something and then have objects fall on top of him. Strangling and choking were also popular. Of course, all three had been favourites since Lindsey was…young. One couldn't say small since Lindsey had never really gotten big.
Lindsey sat fascinated by the blood until the edges had started to dry up, then he quickly made three more lines.
The lines got progressively deeper until Lindsey decided that enough was enough and switched hands. Now he was working with his right hand. The evil hand.
The line marks on both wrists were clear, deep, and deliberate. The right hand Wolfram and Hart gotten for him was perfectly adapted to Lindsey's motor function muscles.
Lindsey looked at his wrists, both covered in thick, sticky blood, and more was continuously pouring out.
"Mmm." Lindsey hummed to himself. He was feeling very dizzy and very lightheaded. Things weren't focusing so well right now either. He supposed severe blood loss was probably to blame…And maybe all the alcohol he drank… "Hmm." Lindsey was fascinated by the darkness starting to gather at the corners of his vision.
Lindsey stood, grabbing the edge of a chair, then a table to keep himself vertical. Both pieces of furniture were covered in shattered glass.
Lindsey carefully made his way to the phone, blood dripping all over the carpet and leaving bloody handprints on everything he touched.
He picked up the phone. It wasn't his cell phone, that had been thrown across the room and shattered on impact. Instead he picked up the house phone, the phone he almost never used, the phone which he only had installed for Internet access.
He dialed the number from memory and listened while it rang. An rang. And rang. The answering machine picked up.
Suddenly Lindsey was glad. They must be out. Or maybe asleep.
Lindsey checked his watch but it was coated in blood and had stopped.
He spoke to the machine after the beep. His words slurring together slightly. He didn't really pay attention to what he was actually saying, something about haw he had really enjoyed working for and against the whole gang.
As Lindsey was talking to the machine his knees started buckling. Abruptly he was sitting on the floor again, and he pulled the phone after himself and the base knocked him on the head as it fell.
When it hit him he grayed out. When he snapped back he picked up the phone and furniture. "Well, I guess I should go."
Lindsey looked down at himself, noting the large amounts of red life fluid covering himself and most of the floor around him.
"You know, it's really getting dark out and my blood is…all over the place, y'all know?"
The phone slipped out of Lindsey's slick handhold and dropped on the floor, pulling the cord out of the wall and hanging up the phone.
Fin (Or is it?)