A/N: Hi folks! Sorry, I missed last Friday, I had a lot of things on my mind. Anyway, business aside, here it is! Part 3, Autumn! We're now getting really Gothem-esque (full blow in Part 4), and I still have just review. To be honest, I'm low-key sad, this story means a lot to me...But whatever. Part 3, here we go!
Heinrich rubbed the kitten's scrawny back as it wrapped around bony ankle. Straightening up, he resumed his task, summing up to carrying the frying pan into the living room, or at least the surrogate of a living room.
"Here you go, lad. Fried potatoes enough for both of us."
The young man sitting across the old, wooden, round table lifted his eyes on him and didn't say anything. Simply pulled Heinrich's worn shirt closer over his bare chest. Heinrich eyed the small washtub standing in the corner of the room. A bloodied, grey shirt hovered in it. Heinrich looked back at the young man and placed the pan on the table. The young man still didn't take the dirty fork next to him. Despite his horrid appearance, he was polite. Good boy. Heinrich chuckled and, sitting down, took his fork and sent the charcoal potatoes into his mouth. The young man's rigid shoulder muscles slightly loosened, and he too took his fork and pinned a piece of potato on it. They ate in silence. Heinrich quickly chopped the potatoes with his teeth, occasionally glancing up at the young man. The scars on his cheeks eerily moved in rhythm with the moving of the jaw, wrinkles tearing through the wounded flesh.
"Who decorated you like this?" Heinrich asked, pointing at the scars with his fork. The brown eyes quickly darted upwards, before lowering back down again.
"Not want to speak?" Heinrich smirked. The little kitten rubbed against his leg.
"What do you want, Lena? Here, eat, you tiny beast," Heinrich tossed the little kitten a piece of the potato. Len nimbly caught it and gnawed it with her tiny teeth.
"Lena?"
Heinrich looked up in surprise at the coarse voice. The young man was looking at the kitten, before shifting his gaze at the Heinrich. A small light of curiosity shimmered in his eyes.
"Short from Magdalena," the old man pointed out. "My son wanted to call her Maggie, but I thought it was more of a dog's name, and Lena ain't a dog, ain't she?"
The young man didn't answer, quietly calling the kitten with a whistle. The kitten, Lena, ran up to him, quickly shifting her small paws, and jumped into his cupped hands. The young man picked her up, stroking her between her ears. Lena lowly purred in satisfaction, cuddling in his warm hands.
"I don't have the money to pay you for the night," the young man said in his strange voice, bordering low and high pitch at the same time.
"Only for today's day."
"Will you be able to go out for work soon?" Heinrich raised his eyebrows. The young man's eyes shifted from the frying pan's handle, to the singed stain on the wooden table, before resting on Lena's forehead.
"I can't guarantee anything."
Heinrich thought for a second.
"Listen, boy, I need a worker for my job. How about you work for me without pay, and I'll provide you with a room and food?"
The young man wordlessly stroked the kitten.
"Sure."
"You're not even going to ask me what's my job?" Heinrich asked in surprise.
The young man shook his head. Heinrich shrugged and finished the remaining potatoes on the pan.
"Very well," he stood up. "Follow me."
Lena jumped from the young man's arms as he shoved back the chair, holding on the shirt over his shoulders, and followed Heinrich. That one squeezed in through the packed hallway and opened one of the two opposite doors.
"Here you go, a room for rent as you asked for. Bathroom at the end of the hallway," The young man slanted his eyes towards the door at the opposing wall,"everything you need is inside the closet. Make yourself comfortable."
The young man silent turned around. Heinrich startled in surprise, but the lad was back in a moment, the bloodied washtub in his grip. He wordlessly walked into the room, slightly glancing at Heinrich. That one took the hint and quickly closed the door behind him. Slightly chucking and shaking his head, Heinrich walked back to the living room and began cleaning off the table.
Heath's eyes traveled around the room. The wallpaper was crackling of the uneven walls, the furniture cramped together. The small, round carpet gave off a faint odor of cat waste. However, there was a narrow, glass balcony with escape stairwells. Heath lowered the washtub next to the wardrobe, then pulled off the man's shirt. Placing the shirt on the wardrobe, Heath walked around and looked into the mirror, a whole, actual mirror, not some glass shard of a broken Heineken bottle. His scars grinned back at him. Heath tasted bitterness on his tongue and turned away. His eyes spotted a pen and some pieces of paper on the nightstand. Heath crouched down on his knees and, hunching his shoulders from the uncomfortable position, gripped the pen. It immediately became layered in sweat. For a moment, Heath stared at the paper with blank eyes, a vein pulsing on his temple.
Dear Freddie,
I'm alright. How are you? Do you know what I was thinking in the courtroom? I was thinking how surreal it all looked, I caused everything myself. Myself. Pretty astounding.
Where's Jack?
I'll come back.
Heath paused, fingers thoughtfully tracing the deep cut on his left cheek. Should he tell her? Heath pressed his lips and lowered his hand into his pocket. His fingers felt the pack of cigarettes. Interesting. At least they left that intact. Heath took out a cigarette and placed it in his mouth. He swiftly clicked his lighter, lighting on the cigarette. Instantly, piercing pain sliced through the corners of his lips, followed by an acidic taste in his mouth. Heath immediately spat out the cigarette, saliva streaming down his chin. The cigarette dropped on the paper, scattering ashes, the tiny fire extinguishing, then rolled off the desk. Heath, trying to ignore the jerking, hurting lips, kneeled down on the floor. His fingers feverishly tore the cigarette apart, scattering the nicotine on the palm. It wasn't nicotine. White powder seeped though Heath's fingers, along with some shreds of nicotine. Heath stared at it, before jerking out the cigarette pack out, spilling all the cigarettes on the floor. His eyes madly darted from one cigarette to another as he ripped them open, scratching off the wrap. In a minute, all the cigarettes were destroyed. Heath silently stared at the shredded pieces, white powder glistening on the floor. His scathed flesh twitched in agony. Heath angrily crumpled the two halves of the last cigarette in his fist, muscles pulsing through his flesh. Those sons of bitches tried to poison him with cyanide. Heath furiously grabbed the torn cigarettes from the floor, not even trying to get all of them, and tossed them out the window. Heath slowly turned to the mirror. His scars were swollen, even more distorted then before. Heath sighed and lowered down on the bed, dropping his head into his hands, clutching his hair with his fingers. The unfinished letter lay on the night table, forgotten and unwanted.
"So, Miss Lewly," the doctor glanced at her above the papers. "Take aspiprofen every time you have an attack. Or else I am not aware of the effects."
Winnifred picked her gaze up from her hands, clenched on her lap.
"Is it really that bad?" She quietly asked.
"I'm afraid so," Doctor Collins sighed. "Your genetically distortion was in norm for a while, but I'm afraid it passed the line. Nothing much. Just bite the pill down."
Winnifred nodded, then stood up.
"Thank you. Is intern Crane here today?"
The doctor glanced up up back at her. A slightly visible smirk sprinted across his lips.
"No, he's in city today."
"Alright. Thanks again." Winnifred tightly smiled and walked out the room, holding the door out for Collins to pass. He quickly followed her out, but walked in the opposite direction. Winnifred tucked her her hands into pockets, feeling the box of medicine he gave her. Her eyes apathetically drifted on the walls. A small crease formed above her eyebrows, and she halted. Winnifred slowly read the direction sign. Medical wards. Third floor, rooms 307-365. Winnifred thoughtfully passed her tongue over the right side of her gum, then abruptly turned around, pace increasing as she hurried up the stairs. She slowed down when the desired numbers appeared before her. Winnifred bit her lip, glancing from one side to the other, trying to catch the familiar name. 307. Lyman. 308. Cartwright. 309. Golden. Irritation involuntarily pushed her pace to a higher degree, forcing her eyes to search faster. 310. Norton. 311...312...313...this is so stupid, is she seriously going to go through all three hundred sixty five wards, well, of course, let's just hope Browning is in 324 instead of 364...Winnifred harshly stopped. 318. Browning. Winnifred chewed on her crackled lips, before quietly knocking on the door and looking inside.
"Excuse me..." her voice trailed off as a blonde nurse looked up from her desk. Jack, lying in the bed, silently raised his eyebrows.
"Yes?" The nurse asked in amusement. "Who are you?" Winnifred glanced at Jack.
"I-I'm to Mister Browning, if it's okay?" The nurse opened her mouth to obviously object, but Jack hastily interrupted her.
"It's alright, Gladys, I'm fit to handle visitors. You may go." The nurse shrugged and stood up. Winnifred wordlessly backed away from the door, letting her pass. Then, she walked in and, not looking at Jack, closed the door behind her. For a moment, she studied the round, gleaming door knob, choosing her words. Her fingers slipped off the knob and maneuvered into her pockets as Winnifred silently walked up to the bed. It was strange seeing Jack confined, dependable on medical instruments and nurses' attention. He was examining her too, clearly aware of his unusual condition, yet that did not stop the usual overconfident tone in his eyes. Winnifred's lips slightly tensed.
"How are you feeling?"
Jack slightly moved his shoulder, eyes flickering away from her face.
"Getting better."
Winnifred pursed her lips, thinking something to herself. She glanced behind her shoulder, spotting a chair next to the wall. Grabbing it by its back, Winnifred dragged it over to the bed and sat down, elbows slightly resting on the white linen.
"Jack, we need to talk."
"About what?" Jack turned his face to her, amusement splattered on his features.
"If you would mind clarifying yourself, please do."
Winnifred held herself from snapping back.
"Jack, where is Heath?" She quietly asked, hunching her shoulders, leaning in.
"And how am I supposed to know?" Jack hissed, moving his body to get a better position. "God, Winnifred, you're asking such things that are obvious to an eight year old."
"Because eight year olds don't doubt things," Winnifred retorted. "They start doing that at eleven."
"So you mean to say that you don't believe what I said to the police?" Jack sarcastically grinned.
"No," Winnifred sharply answered, keeping her voice low. Her fingers clenched the white sheets as she tried to hold in her irritation.
"And given your record of lying to the law, I have a valid reason of doubting you."
"Listen," Jack's eyes furiously drilled into hers. "I told the truth. The van crashed when we were passing Warren Street, I knocked out, and then I woke up already in the hospital. Does that convince you?"
Winnifred leaned back, her narrowed eyes skeptically searching Jack's face.
"Well?" He asked in irritation. Winnifred suddenly smirked.
"I do wonder what the thugs did to you, Browning. You really don't seem to mind that you're talking to a person who messed up your cards."
For a moment, Jack looked startled, before his lips sliced into a dangerous grin.
"I'm just being polite. After all, this wasn't the first time we messed up each other cards."
Winnifred wordlessly stood up and made her way towards the door.
"Get better," she shot on the way. Jack's barely audible chuckle followed her out. Winnifred closed the door in frustration and fast-walked down the hallway. She stopped in the middle of the staircase. Browning said Warren Street. How the hell would he know the street name if he was always inside the truck. Winnifred tilted her head as she slowly resumed down the stairs. Very strange indeed. She should ask Margaret to maim her a bit. Maybe she'll start remembering things she never saw.
"Did you ever handle weaponry?" Heinrich asked, tossing a pistol to Heath. He nimbly caught it, quickly looking it over with his eyes.
"Yes."
"What kind?"
Heath glanced up at the man.
"Knife."
Heinrich smirked and took out a rifle, loading it with patrons.
"Knife, you say? Is that why you're so fancily cut out?"
Heath's eyes darkened, but his swollen lips formed into a crooked smile.
"Close, but not quite."
Heinrich quietly chuckled, amused by the young man's incredible patience and sat down in front of him, taking the pistol out of his hand.
"So. This is a 9mm pistol. Explaining the main principle. See this button over here?" Heinrich pointed to the button on the side of the handgrip with his coarse, worn off middle finger.
"This ejects the magazine."
Heinrich pressed the button and the magazine nimby popped out into his hand. The old man searched in his pockets, before taking out a few golden bullets.
"Ammunition, bull, cap, whatever you want to call it, but flat side in." Heinrich quickly loaded the magazine until it was full. He glanced up at the young man.
"Re-insert the magazine." Heinrich briskly moved the magazine upwards back into the gun. There was a clicking sound.
"Your pistol won't shoot unless you disengage the safety." The old man slid down the safety lever next to the upper rear of the gun.
"Pull the slide to its rearmost end with your palm," Heinrich swiftly jerked the slide, "That will release the chamber a round." Heinrich flipped the gun, now holding its muzzle and handed it over to Heath. The young man thoughtfully took the weapon, jerking the safety back up then down to understand the concept. He lifted his brown eyes on the old man.
"Do you want me to work as a sniper or something?"
Heinrich laughed, Magdalena purring at his feet.
"Close, but not quite."
Johnathan was staring back at the brick wall. There was something more to it. Johnathan looked around, eyes searching the shivering houses stretching their crackling limbs into the sky. Heath could not have gone far. He couldn't have. Johnathan's eyes fell on a shaggy poster hanging from one of the balconies on the second floor. ROOMS FOR RENT SECOND FLOOR APARETMENT 14. Johnathan's eyes traced the sign down to the rusty door with a cat trap on the bottom, swinging loosely on its hinges. Johnathan slowly walked over to it and warily knocked it forward. The door creakily swung open. The lower floor was damp, saturated with the stuffed, polluted smell of burnt oatmeal. The lamp weakly blinked in the darkness. Johnathan passed his tongue over his teeth, taking in the surroundings, and, unimpressed, quickly ran up the stairs, stopping at the second flight. He did not even have to read the fading numbers on the doors; the poster ROOMS FOR RENT told it all. Johnathan eyed the shattered glass over the doorbell and knocked. The door creaked open. A medium height, scrawny, man in his fifties, face infected with stubble, looked back at Johnathan.
"Yes?" He gruffly asked.
"The sign said you had rooms for rent?" Johnathan inquired, eyes traveling behind the man's shoulder.
"Not anymore." The old man was about to close the door, when Johnathan's hand firmly grasped its side.
"Then I would like to meet the person renting the room."
The old man clearly did not like his tone, nor the firmness of the fingers tightly clasped around door. He wordlessly stepped aside, letting Johnathan through. His blue eyes wandered around the apartment. It was stacked with rubbish of varying degrees: metal crates, wooden carts, fishing hooks, scattered newspapers, trash sacks, a broken canoe along the wall, badminton rackets, a few bowling balls, empty cigarette packs, a cabinet with broken, glass doors, tightly sealed boxes, sowing kit, dusty porcelain figurines squeezing off its shelves. A torn magazine page shivered under Johnathan's feet. He warily walked down the narrow hallway, carefully avoiding the kettles stacked on top of each other and knocked open the door on the left. The room was bare. White powder glimmered through the wooden planks. Moth eaten, grey curtains slightly shook in the smoke-ridden breeze. Heath was hunched
on the bed, back to Johnathan.
"Heath?"
Heath turned around. Johnathan's hand, resting on the door knob, slightly jerked. Raw, swollen flesh, messily scathed on the cheeks widely grinned back at him. Heath clicked his tongue.
"Why so serious?"
Johnathan raised his eyebrows.
"You have cyanide on the floor."
The distorted corners of the lips crooked into a smirk.
"Always so diligent."
Johnathan silently took the invitation and sat down next to Heath on the bed. That one tensely rubbed his palms together, looking down.
"How did you find me?"
"I would a pretty bad psychologist if I can't use my logic to find the missing piece in my client's story."
Heath leaned back, staring at the billowing curtains. Johnathan slightly pressed his lips together. His eyes fell on the letter, neatly sitting on the night table.
"May I?"
"What? Yes, of course."
Johnathan took the short letter, eyes quickly skimming the uneven words. To a simple reader, it was just a quick jotting down of reminders. To a psychologist, it was just a quick spilling out of helpless, not fully opened anger. Johnathan glanced at Heath.
"To answer your question, Jack is currently in a hospital, severely drugged and maimed."
"What?" Heath jolted. His eyes scorched into Johnathan's face. "Maimed?"
"By the thugs," Johnathan inaudibly sighed. "They numbed his senses with heroin, broke his ribs and sliced his chest, and placed on a relatively close difference from the hospital. A young lad, probably also a thug, caught the police's attention-"
"And?" Heath coarsely asked.
"And Jack gets a compassionate release."
Heath stood up, walking over to the balcony. Johnathan observed how the muscles on his neck violently pulse against the skin in an abrupt rhythm. Heath looked down.
Heath passed his tongue over his teeth, sensing the cool, inner surface of upper lip. Lena shyly trotted into the room. Warily looking at Johnathan, she jumped over to Heath and curled her nimble body over his leg.
"Those guys decided to make me more happy than I already am," Heath quietly commented, muscles slightly tensing from the tickling fur against his ankle.
"Then they switched my Marlboro on to cyanide-coated, Falcone produced Marlboro."
Johnathan stood up with a sigh, tucking his hands into his pockets.
"Will you stay here?"
"For a while." Lena curled up on Heath's boot, little tail covering her pink snout.
"Earn some money, then I'll see what I can do."
"What do you want me to tell Freddie?"
"I already told her everything she needs to know," Heath glanced down at the letter, then at Johnathan over his shoulder. He smiled, wrinkles tearing the flesh.
"Won't I make a great psychological experiment? How a person recovers from a...an unusual experience?"
"Oh yes, the patient playing with the doctor cat and mice," Johnathan sarcastically retorted. Irony seeped through his tone.
"Thanks, but I'll pass. I have enough freaks to deal with right now, " Johnathan shrugged, trying to hold back the bitterness. Heath's shoulders straightened, yet he did not turn around. Johnathan sighed and made his way towards the door.
"Get better. You know, you're always welcome in our circle."
"I am not a freak."
Johnathan turned around. Heath glanced back at him, anger twisting in the wrinkles. This sincere, frank anger over a word seemed almost childish. Johnathan suddenly felt like laughing.
"Never were, never will be. You know what I meant."
Heath watched Johnathan leave, before looking down at the bed. He knew what Johnny meant. And yet the word scorched him to the core, eating away the newly forming blood crust until fresh, scarlet blood drops dripped down.