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Part 2: Dark Creatures
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It was the year 1978; and he stood on the threshold to a thousand thoughts - shadows falling on the ground before him. Escape was a much sought treasure. Sometimes it crept into his arms and enveloped him in sanctuary – mostly its evasion was an illuminate color that lingered somewhere beyond his fingertips. A thousand thoughts – small little prickly creatures that rushed around in perpetual disagreement inside his skull. A thousand thoughts of discontent.
He was a creature of habit.
It was comfortable for him to be submerged in a thousand thoughts; it was the nature of his being to rely on the familiar. He felt safe in this skin albeit how grisly it gnawed into his soul.
He was a lonely creature.
A skeleton clothed in a familiar skin. A solitaire creature, his silhouette a winged beast that seemed intent on following him; his heart a drab thing that hung in a chest that gave him the impression of hollowness and emptiness – empty but for the thing that thudded and thudded inside him, vigorously trying to bring life into every limb, every little nook and crevice of his body.
He felt as if he trudged through his existence, the world a solid soup of mud: he was being dragged down – further and further into the stench of the mud. In the end it would seep into his mouth, into his nostrils – suffocate him from the inside out – slip into that hollow chest of his, seep into the organ that insisted on beating. In the end he would transform into the same god-awful mud.
He took it all in a stride; with a cheeky grin on his face.
The world felt raw and rancid; his life felt bleary and old – even if a mere twenty-eight was nothing in comparison to centuries worth of torment. He did not care much for that context though. A mere twenty-eight and his life was already a mess; a big gaping hole that seeped and seeped more of his blood while he trudged through another bank of mud.
Thousand thoughts; he contemplated it with ironic distance and a small touch of laughter.
It was the work of a police officer; the work of a homicide detective that drove him into this dark muddy world. There was no denying it; the seedy underbelly of crime had a tendency to eat you alive and then spit you out. He felt as if something had chewed on his soul and then decided not to eat him after all; spat him out, half broken bones and ripped flesh. It amused him; it was the core of his life.
If only he could pretend this world of crime was a novel world; maybe he would be better qualified to see a green lush forest. If only he could pretend he had never imagined the world was this cruel, this sinister. It was nothing new; it was the same mud he had trudged through in his teenage years; the streets lined with thugs and small time crooks – the back alleys alive with trafficking of whatever the heart desired.
It was the essence of the thousand thoughts in his mind; the reason it drew him into this life, the reason he might begrudge his existence but never his resolve. Determination had never been a doubt; it was a fortified creature inside him – made him strive through the mud, grin alike that of a wolf.
He sighed; he was plastered – drunk to the brink of his toes, to the ends of his black hair.
He grinned in spite of himself; sometimes he felt his existence was a big fat joke the universe had decided to play on him. He was so drunk everything turned to mud in his head, so drunk he started contemplating everything in that darkly despaired mode of humor that he found morbid when he was sober.
If only he lost the faculty of his mind and his body when he drank too much; but no. No, he remained articulate – he remained able to saunter up to the bar and order another glass; never once swaying, never once betraying his alcohol-doused brain. Sometimes it was a blessing – sometimes it was dangerous.
If only he did not feel overwhelmed by both despair and lust the moment his consumption reached a certain mileage. Steadily drinking was easily managed but consuming more than necessary turned that hollow chest of his into something entirely different, turned his silhouette into another creature; creatures liked company in the dark sometimes. He could almost hear his own hollow chest howl.
He had roamed through the ballroom twice now; the gait of a stealthy wolf – too engraved in habit to not thread without this stride. He had left the pack of brethren wolves back at a table; left his partner and other detectives to stare into their own drinks as they contemplated going home. Usually this little event brought the bigger wolves out – there was nothing better than to watch the fresh-faced, new-coming rookies upfront; laugh at their ignorance, impress them with rogue tales of heroisms.
There was not a lot to pick up from this sad bunch of rookies, however. The majority was male; he had yet to see one new officer that resembled a female being. However drunk he might be there was always a certain degree of callous smugness in him; he craved challenges and not easy pickings. He was choosy, his comrades would say.
He sighed; the ball room was as empty as his chest; nothing to bring forth any kind of flames within him.
Grudgingly he went outside; a sight on fresh air and a clear head. Clarity would maybe convince him to just go home and sleep.
He stumbled across her quite by accident; she was standing with a bottle of wine in her hand, drinking from the neck, unsteady on her feet – high heels looking dangerous for her balance. Someone had draped a LAPD police jacket across her shoulders and she stood out in the rain, hovering and trembling.
The sight of her was in stark contrast to the drizzle of rain; alone by the light of a lonesome streetlamp. Her figure cast a thousand small shadows, dancing and light on their feet. Mesmerized he watched her lift the bottle and sip – her pale face was hard to distinguish from marble.
Senses suddenly heightened he approached her, interest piqued.
Her eyes were encased in smudged mascara, her hair hung in wet dark tresses that were slick against her neck, against her cheeks – tumbling into the collar of the jacket. Her lips were painted red. Her lipstick was the only thing on her that seemed to be still immaculate; not smeared but still perfectly applied to her lips.
Her eyes were opaque; surrounded by so much darkness – the makeup framing them. If he had been sober he would have likened her to a raccoon but in his addled mind she looked like a familiar creature; another silhouette that seemed weary of the world. A lonesome wild creature.
Wild indeed; her eyes lightened upon him like thunder the moment he came into her view. He would not have been surprised if she had bared her lips and flashed sharp teeth at him. Gray eyes set in stone regarded him almost with an undertone of boredom; a little insect fluttering past her existence – his presence did not warrant much consideration.
But she kept her gaze on him, followed his movement with a precision that spoke of something calculated. She sipped from the bottle neck again; eyes unfazed by the rain. She was still shivering he noted; up close he saw how it was an uncontrollable reaction. That shiver you try to put a lid on, that shiver that has a heart of its own and slips through your body without consent.
Up close she appeared a bit wilder, more dark. Up close he was able to detect the small flickers of unrest in her eyes; the minute tightening of her lips, pressing together. The tremble of her fingers around the bottle, pale as they went around the flask green, the hesitant tilt to her head. The scuffle of heeled feet, shoulders trying to crawl further into the protection of the jacket.
Up close he recognized the bare naked distress she was trying to hide.
He lit a cigarette, blew out smoke and watched the tendrils of the white vapor curl around in front of their eyes.
He slid his lips along her cold jaw, felt the anticipated tingling skin beneath his mouth, wet and cold. He whispered a few words into her ear, his voice a rumble.
He heard the small intake of breath, stepped back and surveyed the slightly parted red lips – the surprised look of awakening in her eyes. Congratulated himself as he saw that little tint of boredom be replaced with interest; saw as the small annoying insect transformed into an entirely different creature. Sometimes predators hunted together; he smiled at her.
In a short moment they were in the back of a cab; her small form nestled into his side – still shivering as he ran his hands up and down her arms, trying to bring forth some warmth – trying to bring forth some kind of connection by way of touch.
Before long he had them booked into a hotel; the fluorescent sign outside detailing the exact dingy context of their room – the rough wooden bed, the lumpy mattress, the walls where painting peeled and looked ghastly. The weak light bulb on a rickety nightstand; the room was bathed in the glow of faded night, shadows everywhere his eyes wandered. It had a dreary sinister hue.
Her eyes danced with shadows as well.
The LAPD jacket fell to the floor the moment they crossed the threshold; he closed the door behind them – deadlock on. Somehow she managed to stagger backwards; his eyes were locked on the small ankles in the high heels, they still seemed so unsteady. It garnered his attention, pale legs and black heels on the route to the bed further inside the room.
Looking up he caught the glint of dare in her eyes; the shadows filled with amused observance. She was drunk; he knew that from her walk and the precarious hold on the wine bottle but she seemed poised and alert. However drunk she was there was still an air of precision and design to her.
Grinning he shed his own jacket, kicked his shoes off and stalked towards her – they tumbled unto the bed; the hard compact of the thin mattress unnoticed – clothed and wet as they grounded against each other, impatient mouths lacking technique, their hands cold and unsteady as they tried to roam across the span of unfamiliar bodies.
Her dress was mocha colored, wet spots of rain on it – the texture felt too soft beneath his fingers; expensive. It was inconsequential; a mere thought in the back of his mind as he ripped the zipper in the back down, possibly grazing the metal of the zipper into her skin as he forced it down. He threw her heels down onto the floor, flung the dress as well.
She was breathing heavily; small body seeming even more fragile beneath him.
Her fingers forgone unbuttoning his shirt; instead she ripped it apart; her teeth shining as she ripped one button and then the next.
His hand reached out to the bottle of wine on the floor; drowning the last remnant.
Her underwear matched; lavender border in between deep marine. It felt too soft between his fingers as well; usually underwear never registered in his mind, usually it was never in color. It was always black, white or some shade of brown. It was another little tidbit that he catalogued in the back of his head.
Her hands flitted to his belt, quickly undoing belt and button, pants pushed down before he could think about removing her fancy underwear.
Everything felt like a rush; a rush of lust, a rush of dizziness; a rush of existence.
He was aroused; he wanted to fuck her – only his cock was severely behind his brain, severely behind the rest of his tingling body. Her hands slipped around his limp cock; warm but not eliciting anything but embarrassment.
Shit.
The problem when he consumed just more than necessary; it was like playing roulette with his cock. Sometimes it worked; most times it lagged behind. Sometimes he only needed a little time to catch up. He gripped her wrists and pulled them away from him; one hand almost easily fitting around her two small hands – the other went under the band of her underwear; no foreplay before he plunged two fingers inside her.
It was a rush as well; a rush to simply feel and simply explode. It lacked the defining quality that would have made this anything but awkward; lacked an air of subtlety and suave persuasion.
He let go of her hands and tried to push her underwear down but suddenly she slapped his hands away, a knee lodged into his abdomen and shoved him into the mattress. She bolted from the bed and ran into the toilet. He had but a second where he wondered; then he heard the sounds of retching.
He flopped back down unto the bed, heaved his boxers up and stared at the ceiling. A ceiling not unlike his state of mind; holed and cracked – painted in different shades of brown. It looked ghastly.
"You alive in there?"
There was no answer.
He cursed – now he felt obligated to go check on her. He hated the stench of vomit. He pushed up from the bed and stumbled to the door into the bathroom, not too steady on his own feet. He clenched his jaw as he approached the opening; tried not to breathe.
She looked pathetic, hanging over the probably less than clean toilet seat, hair a mess of strands, small naked body only covered in her underwear. She seemed to be alternating between crying into the toilet and dry heaving; he stepped a little closer. If the roles were reversed he would've liked the other person to make sure he didn't pass out and drown in his own vomit.
"Hey," he paused; he had no clue what her name was.
She hiccoughed; a thing caught between a half pathetic laugh and a sob.
He knelt next to her, cautious. He rubbed her bare shoulder blades, the skin felt cold. He noticed the raw mark along her spine; where the zipper had grazed along in a line of redness. Her skin felt soft; softer now than before.
"Don't… worry…," she managed to say, her voice raspy in between heavy inhalations of air, "I'm – I'm alright," her voice broke.
"Sure, doll," he rubbed circles on her back, thinking a little warmth to her skin would do the trick. She had stopped vomiting; which was a good sign – not only for him but for her as well.
"I think I had too much," she said, her forehead leaning on the toilet seat, face obscured by the dark hair. It was still wet, he noticed – maybe she should towel it dry before she caught a cold.
He stood up, wet the end of a towel and approached her. He managed to lift her head from the toilet seat, the wet strands in between his fingers; he had a thought he was on the course of uprooting the hair from her scalp but it was a bit difficult getting her head turned up without manhandling her somehow – that he was still plastered did not help in that department either.
She immediately crashed into his chest and he quickly slung an arm around her waist. He managed to wipe her mouth; fortunately there was no vomit on her jaw or in her hair. He sighed. He threw the wet towel down; pushed up and hauled her now nearly lifeless body with him – quickly getting another arm around her.
She mumbled something into his chest; lips wet – breath hot.
He rolled his eyes.
He stumbled back into the room, her limp body not making it any easier; finally he managed to put her onto the bed – hastily threw a blanket over her. She was too cold.
He found a glass on the nightstand; it looked somewhat clean but for a small smudge there and here. He filled it with water from the bathroom; sauntered back into the room.
"C'mon sit up, doll."
"Stop calling me that."
"Oh, you're conscious – could have fooled me."
"Idiot."
"Hey-hey – don't bite the hand that comes with water."
He sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping at his weight; gravity pulling her small crumbled body closer to him. Eyes peeked out from under the blanket; a bit more alive than before. Eyes that seemed even more vivid than possible; he had a nagging thought it was the blasted black smeared mascara around her eyes that made her irises seem so bright in contrast.
"You'll feel better," he negotiated, holding up the glass of water in her eyesight.
She grudgingly sat up; holding the blanket tightly around her before an arm slipped out from between a crack and took a hold of the glass. He watched her take a little sip, then another little sip – before she started gulping down the whole glass.
She trust the empty glass back into his hands and glided back into a curled position.
He went to the bathroom again, filled the glass and drank it himself. Better to somehow prevent a hungover headache from becoming too heavy tomorrow, he thought.
He slipped onto the bed with her, looked around for another blanket. There was only one though, the one blanket curled around her still form. No sheet or extra linen. He sighed.
He tried to gently pry the blanket from her grip but he failed; she had it tangled in limbs and under her body. Deciding to try another tactic; he was freezing in nothing but his boxers and felt too tired to put on his clothes – he tickled her till she relented and let him under the blanket.
It was wonderful; the heat of her body albeit cold had begun to warm the underside of the blanket and he was instantly enveloped into the warmth. He curled the edge of the blanket around his body, mindful not to jostle too much. There was only one pillow but he put his head on it, staring at the ceiling again; she had no use for a pillow all bunched into a ball – her spine felt cold against the side of his abdomen. He did not mind though; in a mere minute the skin would be warm and hot.
"You're not of those chicks who blacks out and wakes up all bothered, are you? Cuz I don't enjoy waking up with a bloody nose."
"I'm not that drunk."
Her back pressed further into him; he imagined he was a furnace compared to her skin.
"You don't hold your liquor; who am I to tell whether you'll remember me or not when you wake."
"You're a riot," she mumbled.
"Sure am," he retorted.
He reached a hand out and turned the little light on the nightstand off. The change was almost miniscule; the room became but a bit different. Light from outside gleamed in through a small window; curtains old and see-through. If anything; shadows seemed even more inclined to dance, flickering as his gaze swept across the ceiling again.
"Why the rain?" he asked her; he could tell from her measured inhalation she had yet to fall asleep. Her spine was pressed against his side but there was still a tense vibration to her skin that belay her consciousness.
"Why what?"
"Why were you standing in the rain?"
"I felt like it, you know," she answered, a faint brogue of something distant in her voice. He found himself nodding. He did not voice his agreement though.
"I figured no one would bother me," there was a slight edge of annoyance in her tone now. He was about to reply in an equal annoyed tone when he realized the edge was merely a cover for suppressed amusement.
He felt her move a bit, heard her small sigh.
"I guess I just wanted to be washed away. You know? Disappear into the rain."
Her voice sounded hard edged now; he had a thought she was talking to herself as much as she was talking to him.
"Stupid, really," he told her even if he felt he could relate to the exact same sentiment. Would there be a more calm existence than to be washed away in a drizzle of small water drops, feel your mind being washed away till nothing remained but rain. He paused, caught her perturbed breath of ire. He continued,
"There are easier ways to catch a cold you know."
"Oh really."
He liked the way she drew the syllables out.
"You could have kissed me a week ago. I practically had snot in my brain."
He heard her small answering smile.
"What's your name?" her voice seemed like a strange element; it did not strike him as weak or timid but more like a low burning ember – a kindle of a flame. A little undertone of sleepiness in it. Muffled under the blanket, or maybe muffled into the skin of her arm.
Her hair was still somewhat wet, tendrils tingling his arm.
He smiled, "Andrew."
Somehow this seemed even better than sex; somehow merely lying in a bed on the brink of sleep – another human being warm next to him - was better than a pitiful attempt at drunken sex.
She hummed; a raspy little sound that made him feel even warmer. He imagined her voice could lull him into sleep.
"I think I'll call you Andy."
"My mother's the only one who calls me Andrew."
She went silent; he could feel the vibration of her breathing; it seemed steady. Cold fingers suddenly touched his arm. Hesitant fingers that slid down the length and wrapped around his wrist – fingers softly tangling with his. He followed her grip and slid his arm over her waist, his body following the motion till he lay on his side.
He didn't mind.
"You seem different," she stated, the tone soft and – if possible – even more sleepy now.
"Different, how?" his voice was low, a mere whisper.
"You just seem… a bit broken."
He tightened his hand around hers, afraid to answer, afraid his voice would break.
"I feel broken," she whispered, this time her voice seeming even softer than before.
He squeezed her hand again.
He felt her move closer, the warmth of her skin enticing. He edged closer himself, feeling comfort at her back pressed firmly into his chest.
"What's your name?"
"Sharon… ," she paused in between a little yawn,"…. just Sharon."
He hummed.
He could pinpoint the exact moment she fell asleep; he felt her fingers become soft and weak in his hand, felt every little notion of tensile impression leave her body – seeming to form around the shape of his own body. There was barely any tone to her breaths; he would have panicked were it not for the little movement of her chest that signaled the slow rise and fall of her lungs.
He followed her soon after, cocooned into her warmth and the scent of her; it reminded him of wild flowers and rain in the spring.
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