I live by a hospital
And every day, I go out walking past its sickly windows
I see people dying there
But my tender age makes it hard to care
The incinerator and a big smokestack
It's a phallic symbol and it makes me laugh (Makes me laugh)
All I need is a heart attack, c'mon
Humble my bones with a cardiac (Humble my bones with a cardiac)
Verbatim/ Mother Mother
The first thing I became consciously aware of was that I was still intoxicated (a hearty task for me, but Jack had insisted on shots, and I was never one to balk at a challenge) and the knowledge it was too early to be awake, followed swiftly by a faint rustling in the room. Fuck, rats again? I'm gonna crawl up that landlord's ass and bite him.
With a sigh, I sat up, gripping my head with one hand and reaching for the bedside lamp with the other. As the light clicked on, I was shocked to see Jack Ryder hopping up and down in the corner of my room to put his jeans on.
"Oh!" I averted my eyes, only now noticing my own state of undress. "Shit."
The rest of the night quickly returned to me, drunken kisses the entire walk back to my place- barely making it into the apartment before I broke the zipper on his jeans.
He laughed from the corner, drawing my eye again. "You're kind of a mess, huh?" He said with a boyish smile.
My eyebrow lifted, and he pulled a face before retrying the thought. "I just mean- well- you have so much going on; sometimes, when I'm with you, it's like you just got dumped into the room with no context." he shook his head, buttoning his shirt. "It makes me wonder what it's like in your pretty head." He finished with the shirt, running his hand through his hair.
I snorted. "You must not wonder too much; you seemed in an awful big hurry to sneak out of bed when I was sleeping."
His smile dropped comically fast, his head shaking very fast, as he walked back towards my bed. "No, no, no, no, no-" he sat down, looking directly into my eyes earnestly. "I have to be at work in a little over an hour, or else I wouldn't be leaving, I swear.
I considered him for a moment before laughing. "You may need to take a sick day."
He looked at me blankly before stepping to my mirror and taking in the image. Stains from my lipstick colored his mouth and the area surrounding it. His skin was coated in sequins, sweat, and even a bit of blood (I really needed to clip my fingernails.)
Then his hand traveled to his collar, extending the button up away from his skin, exposing several dark, angry hickeys and bites on his neck. "Damn. You Mauled me." He grinned.
"So, call your boss and tell him your great-great aunt Lacy died or something, and lay down, you dork." I rolled over, snuggling deeper into the comforter, not really caring if he followed my advice.
When I woke up again, the sun was just rising, and upon checking the time, I noticed that I had plenty of time to get to work; carefully easing myself away from Jack's still sleeping form, I stood, looking at him over my shoulder as I did. His face was still serenely peaceful, though my lipstick still showed faint stains surrounding his mouth, and his neck and chest were marred with bruises and scratches. In that moment, I was reminded of a Quote from David Foster Wallace that I had always resonated very deeply with: "Everything I've ever let go of has claw marks on it."
Why is it that my passion must be so crushing in its absoluteism? Looking down at Jack, I felt no guilt, but I knew I should. I had injured a man I had intended only to bring pleasure. And not just him. From my very first drunken fumblings in the backseats of cars with men old enough to know better, I had always been too rough. I could not hold anything gently, and for a moment, I wondered what it would be like to softly love the man lying in my bed, to touch him in ways that would not turn his skin a plum purple within a matter of hours. And while I tried to find pleasure in the thoughts, in the softness of his hands, I knew that I would never be satisfied by a man who treated me like I was made of fresh, white, thin porcelain.
He had tried, of course, to be a good lover to me. To satisfy. I had no doubt, looking at the man, that he would continue trying despite it not at all being his style. I let out a silent laugh as I remembered how he urged me to go slower, to savor.
But I didn't know how. I don't know slow, and I don't know that I want to learn. So I brought him to my speed, which he seemed to enjoy enough—and then, getting up (still half drunk!) to go to work this morning? Hilarious. Maybe I underestimated you.
Unfortunately, turnabout is Fairplay. I grabbed an outfit and silently made my way to the shower.
Tim was an Orderly at Arkham Asylum, and he hated his job. He hated that he had to stay sober to work it. He hated that his ex-wife was getting most of his checks because of alimony, just because of one mistake with an escort. He also hated his asshole shift leader, who always scheduled him on Mondays, even though he knew Tim hated Mondays. Mondays were cursed for Tim. Sure, a terrible thing could happen any day of the week, but for Tim? It was always Mondays, like a warning or something. Maybe it was superstitious, but Tim spent most Mondays in his house behind a locked door. But Tims's Shift Leader was a bitch who was insistent that no one else could take this particular shift on this particular day.
Right now, He was Performing his midday duties, including delivering Lunches to the patients in the most secure hall of the Facility. D wing, It was called amongst the orderlies or The Damn Wing. Tim hadn't been through D wing in months; it gave him the heebie-jeebies. The fact that he was here on a Monday was not lost on him, and he was determined to act as naturally as possible, hoping that if he kept the nervous energy inside, maybe he wouldn't get himself into trouble.
Sliding each of the meals through the thin slots, Tim hardly breaks stride as he continues down the hallway until he hears a voice coming from the clot ahead of him.
"Hi." The voice was a rasping low tone that vibrated in Tim's Jawbone as he stared into the room, making eye contact through the bulletproof glass with The Joker.
Without thinking, Tim responded. "I'm not supposed to talk to you." Tim groaned internally at his faux pas.
The Joker smiled in a friendly way as he responded. "Since not talking to me is out the window, can I ask you a question?"
Tim was shocked but mutely nodded, afraid of refusing the clown. Joker leaned forward conspiratorially before continuing, even quieter, in a tone that made Tim lean forward as well to hear him.
"How the hell can you work here? This place is terrible!" Joker shook his head as if amazed at the idea anyone would stay at this hellhole.
Tim sighed lightly and almost even smiled, happy despite himself at making conversation with anyone since usually, the other guys at Arkham looked at him funny.
"Ehhh… well, it pays well. And usually, the hours aren't too bad." Tim slid The Jokers Meal through the slot and began to lift his foot to move to the next cell when the Raspy voice spoke up once again.
"I can tell they don't pay enough," Joker said, shaking his head as he uncovered his fruit cup. "I mean, you've lost weight since I've been here. How sad is that? Arkham provides better living conditions for people like me than well- guys like you." Joker shook his head, seeming disgusted by the unfairness of the situation,
About time someone gets it. Tim thought with an eye roll. Maybe this Joker guy isn't so bad.
"Out of the Question." Dr. Arkham said with an air of finality. I was expecting this initially, so I took a deep breath before moving to my next point.
"Dr. Arkham to have Patient 4479 filmed is on the same level psychologically as letting Mr. Lynn's play with matches!"
"Dr. Quinzel, I cannot approve an exception on this case. I am a major proponent of your more unorthodox approaches on less public cases, but I cannot allow you to discontinue the video sessions."
"Then I am no longer comfortable treating the patient," I said, my mouth a straight, matter-of-fact line.
Dr. Arkham deflated, turning back to me with a face of pure hopelessness. "Jesus." He dropped his head into his hands, no doubt wishing he had partaken in his usual Whiskey lunch. "Shit."
He sat at his desk, shaking his head, before looking up at me with resigned eyes. "Fine. You've twisted my leg. But." He lifted a finger, looking at me earnestly with wide eyes. "If I become concerned for your safety, I will pull you from the case. I don't care if the clown never has another doctor; we cannot afford another incident."
I nodded solemnly, "I agree entirely. Do not believe that I came here without thinking through the best course of action for me as well as the patient, Dr. Arkham."
"I hope that is true, Dr. Quinzel." He sighed, defeated once again.
J hummed lightly in his seat. His doctor would be here soon, and he was dying to see her. The night before, he had been treated to a dream of her gyrating and undulating above him while she played in his blood. It had been a long time since J had been gifted a wet dream by his subconscious, and he was pleased to see his sense of humor was still intact.
Within a couple of minutes, the door opened, and J knew by the floral-induced migraine he was developing already that his doctor had arrived. But he was surprised when he didn't hear the now familiar sounds of setting up and turning on the camcorder. Opening his eyes, he realized there was no camcorder. Her striking, pensive eyes were measuring him from her seat.
For a moment, they watched each other, a nearly visible current of communication between them.
He knew that she was able to make their little playdates a private affair. She knew that he had his own ideas as to why she would do something like that.
"Hello, Mr. J."
"Hellllllo, Dr. Quinzel."
"How was your weekend?"
J ignored the question, cocking his head at her inquisitively, and for just a moment, he resembled a suburban family sheepdog with his shaggy hair and deceptively innocent expression.
"You remind me of one of those Jewel tone frogs from South America." He smacked his lips at her, shaking his head suspiciously.
"Oh?" She said flatly, not expecting this.
"Yes, or a particularly intelligent corvid."
She didn't seem to have a reply for that, blinking her too-big blue eyes at him once before they flicked back down to the notes in front of her.
"Would you like to expand on why?"
"Not particularly."
"I didn't think so." Her hand came up as if to run through her tightly bought hair before dropping limply, uselessly.
J watched that hand with curiosity, a small smile forming as he shifted his eyes back to hers. Maybe more of a rabbit. Nature documentary stills flashed behind his eyes, the coyotes' teeth crushing the fluffy bunny's skull.
J wondered briefly how their story would end- was she a Frog or a rabbit? He giggled quietly, looking up at her questioning eyes, but offered no explanation, as that would take the fun out of everything.
"Once upon a time," J started, and Dr. Quinzel sat up straighter. "There were two angels arguing, and one of the angels looked to the other and sneered, 'Oh, what shame you bring, showing your sinful face and tattered wings- evidence of your sins against our Father Almighty!' and the second angel got a very sad look on his face" J leaned back in his seat, eyes miles away, "'Oh, Brother,' the second angel cried- reaching out for him- 'How can you not see our sins are reflecting within each other eyes- you disavow me, brother- you disown me for your own sins?'" J leaned forward and looked into his doctor's eyes, "'Do not abandon me to what you to fall to temptation to='"
The door closed behind her before J could process she had left the room.
My front door felt unnaturally heavy today, but perhaps it was the weight of the day still hanging on my shoulders.
Mr. J had been particularly violent in his ramblings today, which left a heavy copper flavoring in my mouth and a tightness in my shoulders and hips that I knew I would need to hit the gym to work out, but was also intensely helpful in understanding his reasons for violence, multifaceted and complex as they are. Not singularly sexual- though he can see the eroticism of violence, not entirely rageful, though he did have a particularly nasty temper.
An artistic psychopath. Like Hannibal Lecter. Does that make me Clarice? I shivered at the thought. Actually, I think that makes us Dr. Chilton.
Suddenly, while slipping off my shoes, I became aware of the smell—garlic, Onion, and tomatoes. Someone was cooking.
My body tensed, and I slid myself along the wall, gripping my keys between my fingers as my head whipped around the corner just once.
Before my eyebrows drew together and my mouth opened without meaning to.
"Jack?" I stepped around the corner in time to see his jolt before he turned with a guilty smile.
"Hi," He smiled. "So, I know it's super weird that I'm here, but I remembered what you said last night about never having homecooked meals anymore, and I wanted to change that."
He stepped aside, revealing a pasta dish and garlic bread, ready to be plated at my stove.
"Where did you get the ingredients?"
"Oh, the grocery store around the corner delivers."
"Oh, cool."
"So?" Jack smiled.
"So?" I questioned back with a nervous smile.
"May I serve you?"
"Oh!" I stepped forward, sitting at my shitty kitchen table and lighting a cigarette. "Hey, Jack, I got a sweet tooth tonight. Can you grab me a Dr. Pepper?"
He shook his head in disapproval while retrieving the can, setting it in front of me, and cracking it open before smirking at me.
"I don't need to tell you that you only have these, ice, liquor, and ice cream in that refrigerator, right?"
I smiled up at him before lifting the can, "Nope."
As the night continued, I let myself consider life with Jack and what it would be like. Italian food after work, shoulder massages, and cheesy jokes. Concerned looks when I smoked, eventual fights over my drinking-
That couldn't happen. The monotony that Jack offered was almost charming when I drank, but the idea of facing it sober at all times is an exhausting notion.
He, of course, was utterly smitten. I wouldn't have to do a thing to keep the man, and it was clear he would do anything in his power to make me happy. It was utterly tragic that his wants in the matter did not affect the outcome.
After the pasta was eaten, we stood at the sink, washing dishes while he played music low on my lone speaker.
Eventually, his hands ran out of dishes to wash and found my waist, spinning me carefully before starting us in an easy, slow dance.
My head laid on his shoulder. And internally, I screamed.
AN: Hey, Pretty please review. Thanks!
