Long chapter. A lot happens.
John has always thought that there's a lackadaisical air to the last days of the year. He has felt it before he had a calendar to look at like he does now. Yet he works diligently on the farmhouse like it's any day of the year. The ground floor of the building is fully livable, and the staircase is complete. Which means they can begin upstairs. That would be nice so they wouldn't need shoes whenever they need to take a bath or use the restroom.
Progress is slow, however. For whatever reason, Mitch frets about doing the floor by hand and it's only a few days before New Year's when John finds out why. At midday, the truck pulls to a stop outside and it's followed by another car. Not a police car at least but John can already feel his nerves pinch up – especially when a fellow deputy steps out. He's not in uniform but John recognizes him anyway as the man who tried and failed to take his fingerprints.
What was his name again?
The two deputies make their way around the truck and together lift a floor sanding machine off the pickup bed, carrying it to the house. John is standing by the fireplace and watching. He could scoot over and open the door for them but his body turns so stiff, joints included. His jaw clenches, his face steels and he shoves his hands down the pockets of his pants while the door is opened – after some struggling from Mitch.
The deputies enter and clamber about with the machine in the foyer, eventually taking their jackets and shoes off and carrying the machine further inside. Mitch turns his head and spots John, flashing a wide, exhausted grin.
"Hey, look what I got!" he announces and doesn't quite notice the sullen look on John's face because he's too busy maneuvering the floor sanding machine up the stairs. The other deputy shoots a side glance at John that lingers until his attention is diverted to the staircase.
Noise and chatter come from the upstairs floor before Mitch skips down the stairs moments later and heads for the cabinet next to the phone where all the householding items are. He takes a mop and a bucket alongside some liquids and vinegar, then stops when he's about to head towards the sink. It's only now he really gets to look at John and note how thoroughly uncomfortable the man is. His smile falters while John silently, unintentionally, glares at him for an explanation.
Not that he's owed one, but it occurs to him that he doesn't know a soul in Hope aside from Mitch and those he has met he quite honestly dislikes.
"Figured it'd be easier with the rooms and the hallway if we got one of those fancy sanding machines," Mitch slowly pads towards the sink to fill the bucket in his hands with hot water and cleaning solution. Well, that would explain why he's been fretting about sanding the floors. "Ward's father is a retired carpenter, so he let me borrow one of his – again."
He gestures to the wood of the floor on which they stand as if to indicate it has been used here too.
"Wanted to keep it as a surprise. You've been doing so much on your own so I thought giving you a little break would do you some good. Although if you want to help out, you can take the vacuum cleaner and get rid of the worst of the dirt afterward," he adds and John is momentarily blindsided by the generosity. Bless Mitch honestly but he's clearly not aware of how quite lifesaving this mindless labor is.
It's hard to be dissatisfied with him when all he's doing is to act in good faith.
Despite being on edge, John's nerves stir alive. He heads to the cabinet for the vacuum cleaner and follows Mitch upstairs. The plan is to take one room, then the other, and finally the hallway. Ward stands in the middle of it with a weird expression on his face. He keeps staring at John while he's plugging in the vacuum cleaner and takes the room facing east, then moves to the room facing west. There's no conversation, not that there'd be any room for that while the vacuum cleaner fills the silence.
Only the continued weight of a deputy's stare and John going corner to corner while he listens to the deafening vacuuming and the subtle sounds of Ward attaching sandpaper to the floor sander. The vacuuming ceases and the machine ends up in the hallway before Mitch takes the mop and bucket to the rooms afterward.
Liquid splashes about for a little less than twenty minutes before he pops into existence again and trades places with Ward, who has plugged in the sanding machine and directed its buffer into the room. He sticks his head out, eyes locking onto Mitch, and asks; "Did you use vinegar in the solution?"
"Yes, I did, Mr. Ward," the younger deputy answers and stays by the doorway to watch the sanding as Ward turns on the machine. An ear-piercing sound fills the entire first house and while it doesn't come as a shock to Rambo, he can't quite help but be put off by the noise. It's like an audible representation of Ward's intrusion.
He can stand to watch the process. He can't quite stand to watch the man doing it.
So he takes the vacuum cleaner and skips down the stairs. It doesn't quite do much against the volume but the sentiment is felt. It ends up bleeding into white noise while John heads for the dinner table and just listens, lets his mind wander, ponders on what Mitch and Ward talk about because most of it is in quiet tones and muffled behind walls.
Time crawls to a slow pace when John's on edge. It's funny; it moved exactly like that in 'Nam. Dragging in moments of tension before it flew like a bullet train in the heat of battle. Now, in the free world, it drags. Long days on the road. Long days in the woods.
Short days on the farm.
The stairs creak with the weight of a fully grown man and John looks up to see Mitch skip down the stairs with some pep in his step. His eyes light up a little when he reaches the ground floor. "We'll be taking a break before we start on the hallway. Figured we might need the restroom. It might be that we'll continue come nighttime."
"Right," John nods.
"You need help, Ward?" asks Mitch as he turns around towards the stairs.
Ward's answer comes quickly. "Nope."
"You want a beer?"
"You got those?"
"Yes, Mr. Ward. I do. I am of legal drinking age," Mitch says as he heads towards the fridge. It's easy to forget that when he looks so youthful. But indeed, he opens the fridge and pulls out a few beers before heading for the dinner table. "Which of the rooms do you want?"
"Why does it matter?" John quirks a brow. "It's your house."
"Yeah, but you're here more often than I am."
"…It's still your home."
Mitch smiles with innocence as he sits on the table. "Well, the bed that's gonna be in there doesn't care about that. And I have the couch. Or the Teasles."
Shrugging, John lets the deputy have his way and picks the room facing west. He quietly accepts the beer bottle that is put in front of him alongside an opener. It has been so long since he has consumed alcohol, that he can't remember where his tolerance is.
"What type of bed would you want then?" he asks after a sizable sip. "We got a lot of two-by-fours. I think I can build it."
"I can always drop by the carpenter's for them wood pallets. I hear the hippies build beds with them because it's easy. But for the record, something bigger than a twin bed. Please?" a smirk crosses Mitch's face as he gestures with his arms as if to illustrate a massive frame. "I like the space."
"You don't look like someone takes a lot of it," notes John and gets the delight of watching a blush creep over Mitch's face. It's fascinating how easily he gets flustered. Or, more likely, John just brings that out of him.
"Easy for you to say because I'm pretty sure you could twist me like a pretzel with how bulky you are, partner," the young deputy clears his throat and runs a hand through his hair. "I'm glad that appearances are often deceiving."
Often but not always. Still, John appreciates the positive assessment over that compliment – as backhanded as it can be misinterpreted.
Seconds later, Ward stalks down the stairs. He's wiping sweat off his brow and his eyes fixate on the beer bottle waiting for him. He snatches it alongside the beer opener and drinks half of it in one gulp. If Mitch is to be believed, Ward is the heavy drinker at the police department.
He sits across the table, on the spot where Mitch usually is with a musing look on his face. "So all you two do out here is to play handymen? You're not queers?"
Something flashes through Mitch before he answers.
"Gross. No, it's just handymen," Mitch says and turns to look at Rambo as if a random, more pleasant thought just appeared in his head. "But do you want magazines or something? Or boardgames? Maybe I can get a television out here."
Suppose some board games would be nice. It's not every night, there's a mood for poker and the tiny library Mitch has could use an expansion.
"Television? And finally, watch the game, yeah?" Ward interjects with a smirk across his face that only widens when Mitch sours.
"You and I both know I don't care about sport."
"Yeah, you always get so dense whenever the Super Bowl begins."
"Because you get so annoying. I mean, I join you on your sports bar tours. Ain't that enough?"
"No, because you've only been going with us for two years."
"Didn't stop Shingleton from trying to sneak vodka out to me at age seventeen behind Teasle's back. At least you guys can take me to bars now without getting busted by the doorman."
Something slightly unsettling passes in Ward's eyes and he leans forward, his grin taking a weird turn that makes John's stomach churn. "…Well some of the boys have been talking about going somewhere special come New Year's Eve. Lots of drink and lots of fun."
"Define special."
"Not a sports bar. It's uh…more exotic. But I think you'll like it. Maybe you'll get some hairs on that chest of yours, ya pansy."
Mitch bristles and huffs into his bottle as his accent slips through. "…Fuck you, I'm ain't no pansy."
"Yeah well, if you behave on our trip, you won't be."
They talk some more, situated between banter and bickering while John quietly sits and observes as the third wheel. It's hard to feel upset by this when he doesn't like one half of the equation. It's hard to not feel uncomfortable when he's observing the other half be so casual without even a hint of fear. Temporary, he has to remind himself before he tunes in on the conversation. It's only temporary.
Ward has said something that annoys Mitch enough for him to hop down from the table and storm towards the staircase.
"I'm gonna take a piss before I vomit all over you with the shit that comes out of your mouth," the bite in his words doesn't match his tone or the ease of his movements. He vanishes upstairs and John sits alone with Ward.
Ward who's now staring at him, drinking the last drops of his beer before he speaks. "Mitch sure calmed around you, huh?"
Debatable. He's not looking like he's moments away from dying anymore. He's more – well, less jittery now. Still, John doesn't answer the prompt and quietly sips his beer while Ward continues.
"Kinda shocking considering he knows what you are. I mean, we were all kinda scared you had skinned him alive."
Of course. John feels his insides clench. He swallows a growl and tries to respond calmly. "He's fine."
"He sure is. Even after hearing you're a war hero. He looked like he could shit bricks when he read the file though," the deputy's grin falters a bit when he looks around the room – either for beer or a way out in case he's attacked. Fear is radiating off him with a dose of maliciousness like Galt.
"He'd find out sooner or later," John points out. "He's a cop."
"So am I," Ward squares up.
Good for you. And it doesn't say much when Mitch is the most level-headed of them all.
"But uh just between the two of us. Do Mitch a favor and uh let off on him come New Year," Wards stands up and sticks his hands down the pockets of his jeans.
"I won't get an answer if I ask why, will I?" John steels himself. The pride in Ward's eyes is unmistakably ignorant of the sardonic bait thrown his way.
"Well, it might be the beginning of him bringing a girl or two over. You know how it is; he's a grown-up. He's a young guy. Young guys love women. There ain't a lot of them here in Hope who's also single so I'm giving him a chance to become a real man. Hey, he might bring a girl to you too. Would make this a little less…suspicious. No offense."
Ward gestures to the entire room with his arms and finishes with an amending smile but the dissonance between his friendly attitude and the antipathy in his words and implications is as bright as a full moon. Suppose John now knows what special refers to. It does make him wonder briefly about what else has been said at the police station. If Mitch gets the fleeting dread passing over him as he did just earlier. But his love life is never a point of discussion; they never talk about women or love or relationships.
It could suggest a whole host of things. Maybe most of which John will never get an insight into.
By New Year's the upstairs floor is completely finished. Done on the final day of the year. It almost feels like a race has been won and the prize is an easy stroll to the bathroom while a man can watch his own reflection on the floor. Mitch has taken one of the rooms, the one facing east with the mattress and everything. And John remains on the couch despite claiming the westward room. It makes it easier for him to go outside whenever his mind compels him.
Around midday, John sits by the dinner table with a pen and a piece of paper, trying to conceptualize the process of making a bed out of pallets. It sounds easy but he has the feeling that it's a layer of deception. Outside, the distant sound of an engine rolling closer grows slightly louder and a truck appears amidst the snow. Moments later, Mitch hops out with shopping bags in both his hands, using his elbows to open the door and scurry inside the warmth.
"Got the gear, partner!" he announces while loading the fridge with food from the bags, pulling out two silver party hats. He puts one on and hurries to John's side, leaving the other on the table. "Are you sure, you just wanna stay here at home?"
"Yeah," John nods as he looks up from the paper. He can't quite unsee the way Mitch's shoulders slump in defeat
"Right," he nods and sits on the table directly. "Got any New Year's resolutions?"
"Has anyone ever followed through with those?" asks John.
"Good point. No," Mitch smiles in the face of logic. "But I'd like some resolutions for myself."
He says it with such youthful optimism it's almost infectious. But the smile fades as he stares down his lap with such seriousness that rarely crosses his expression. "I think…I'd like to feel better about myself. Somehow."
He smiles again but it's marred by bitterness and tragedy. It's not exactly the vibe, a man of his age should give off. It suggests something different, for lack of a better word, about him. Something that makes John mildly curious.
Of course, it's not his place to ask and he has a feeling that it won't matter when he's done here – probably sometime in the new year. Asking is a sign of goodwill, which he has been granted in abundance. So, he returns it with a compliment. "If it helps, I think you're good as a cop. The sheriff could learn a thing or two."
Some relief returns to Mitch's eyes as he lifts his head and tilts it just slightly. "And Galt?"
"There's no hope for him," John shakes his head, his lips twitching to a hesitant smirk that makes Mitch chuckle. It's about the only thing they can do in light of Galt's authority. Morbid, yet it feels right to crack a joke after all this time.
John finishes the drawing of the bedframe, headboard, and all, while Mitch sets up for lunch – and drops a few books on the table next to peanut butter sandwiches with jam. How to Stop Worrying and Start Living, Psycho-Cybernetics, The Orchard Keeper, Cannery Row, and a short story collection by some author, John has never heard of before. He can't say he's familiar with Walter Macken.
"Thought you'd like some literature," Mitch says with half his mouth full of peanut butter and jam.
"Thank you," John looks up and quirks a brow. "But self-help books?"
He's not offended. Just mildly curious about the gesture. Mildly amused by the blush that crawls over Mitch's face again.
"It's the new fad…I think?" he utters into the sandwich, his shoulders rolling into a shrug. "Besides, one of the pastors from the local church recommended the books to me once."
Right. It feels a little odd being reminded of the church. Little communities like these tend to be close-knit and tied together in tradition – subsequently religion. Living on the outside for so long, makes him think of the Navajo elders, of his mother's stories, of the rough survival on the reservation.
One of these days, he'll probably tell Mitch a story or two.
From then on out, the day passes pleasantly – slightly marred by a sense of urgency. Mitch has no idea what is in store for him, but John has his suspicions. As the afternoon sky darkens, he wonders if the young deputy has been informed about what is in store for him. While he rants and packs a bag, it becomes clear that he in fact knows nothing. All Mitch knows is that he won't be driving, and this lack of independence annoys him.
Still, his youthfulness begins to spike as the evening draws closer. It has been dark for a while when the headlights of a car move down the driveway and its motor fills the dead silence of winter. Mitch looks up from and drops the cards in his hands. He has a full Royal Flush. John watches him jump from the chair, fluff the collar of his shirt, reach for his wallet, style his hair in order, and doesn't do much else before there's a knock on the door, uttering a few sentences of an enthused soliloquy.
"I'll give you the scoop when I get back," he says while John gathers the cards.
"And a call?"
Mitch hums with wonderment as he puts on his jacket and reaches for the door handle. "Uh, sure if I can find a payphone. If not, Happy New Year!"
John doesn't get the time to return the goodbye before the young deputy is outside, conversing with a man carrying a mustache over his lips. Before long, the doors to the car open, then close, then the vehicle drives off and John sits alone in the silence.
He sighs deeply through his nose and stands up to pack the cards away. He could start reading some of the books given to him with some beer or tea. The house falls quiet like the many hours when he's alone. It's familiar in a homely way but pleasant for the time he gets for himself.
A few hours later, John expects the night to fizzle out like this – perhaps interrupted by a phone call from Mitch when he hears something outside. Distant. Not inching closer.
It starts with a few pops and flashes of light across the sky. Then it becomes like a machine gun; bangs, howls, explosions, sizzles. More flashes; red, green, yellow, white. Endless. It's distant yet it feels close. Too close. John continues to remind himself that it's just fireworks. It's just festivities. There's no danger ahead.
He has a hard time.
John's entire body grows stiff. His breath hitches. His heart starts racing. Images flash before his eyes. Fading out the farmhouse for the jungles of Vietnam. Landmines. Body parts. Blood. Gore. Entrails. He breaths in, counts to five in the hold, releases, then tries again. His body trembles. He feels sick. He can smell the gunpowder. He can hear the screams of his comrades. He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, presses the flashes away.
He has a hard time anyway.
It's bad. It's really bad. It's awful how John hasn't considered how bad it would be. He walks around the house in circles while splashes of color paint the night sky. He opens the kitchen window because he feels like choking on the air inside and regrets it immediately. The air that drifts in smells of sulfur. Gunpowder smells like sulfur.
Why? Oh, why? Why this? Why now? Why again?
John finds himself upstairs in one of the empty rooms. One of the rooms which Mitch has scarcely begun painting. Newspapers lay scattered over the floor. It's-
Another series of fireworks explode above the house. He's losing his mind.
John struggles to steady his breath, trying not to claw his own skin off out of agitation, trying not to get furious with Mitch – for no reason. It's not the kid's fault. He doesn't know. He has no way of knowing the nature of the darkness in John's mind. He knows it's there, he just doesn't know the forms it takes. Yet he left John here.
It's an embarrassingly irrational thought and the destruction in its wake is like thunder on the horizon. It's stupid. It's awful. Yet anger still burns in John. He draws a shuddering breath through his nose and collapses into a graceless heap of himself with his back against the wall.
Hands pressed against his temples, falling into pieces. Thoughts in a flurry, the darkness taking over. He smells paint, he smells blood. He sits on the floor, he sits in a prison cell. He hears his labored breathing, he hears death. He pulls his knees to his chest and locks his arms around them, to the point where his joints crack.
To the point where his mind cracks.
Fate has a funny way of being cruel. Mocking. Testing. Merciless. Mitch realizes this as the car drives through the bustling streets of Seattle, through districts he hasn't been in before. He neglects to ask where exactly they are and goes with the flow. Goes with Balford and Ward who are the leaders of the operation, tentatively sticking to an equally reserved Lester, who is just as blind to the whole surprise. They check into a cheap hotel, rent two rooms, and split the bill amongst each other.
And then they hit the streets.
Fireworks bloom across the sky and the air is thick and hazy, reeking of sulfur. City dwellers pour into the street and it's beginning to feel choking, and claustrophobic. Mitch swallows and sticks to Lester like a spider monkey while they traverse past endless masses of adults setting off fireworks. It's not even midnight yet and the sky is brighter than it has ever been before.
Mitch would like to stop and find a quiet vantage point to admire the display but Balford and Ward move like a synchronized machine with purpose, taking the group down a few nondescript alleyways until they stop outside a nondescript building. No signs to show what type of establishment this is, just a glowing neon sign with a martini glass. A weird feeling creeps over Mitch as he stares at what he assumes is the entrance.
"Is this it? Looks like a drug den," Lester huffs, not eased by the laughter that comes from Ward.
"Nah, no drugs here."
Balford punctuates that point by spitting out his chewing tobacco onto the pavement but Mitch has a hard time believing it. They enter and little by little, it becomes clear to him why the only single men of Ligget County Sheriff's Department– and Ward are the ones on this trip.
And in that realization, active fear shoots up his spine.
The location looks like any other bar although less packed than usual. Here are men with their wives or girlfriends, eying the crowd like wolves. Here are people alone moving between each other and striking up conversation when the opportunity arises. If they are lucky, they disappear to a hallway by the end of the room together. Music plays at a tasteful volume, poppy and energetic to get patrons dancing.
Some do. Mitch prays that he won't. He follows the group around the dancefloor and takes a seat by the bar. It's him and Lester, ordering beer and feeling quite out of place. Balford joins them shortly after and Ward has gone off somewhere, vanishing in the crowd.
"What the hell is this place?" Mitch asks while he clutches his cup tightly. He feels as if he might regret it for how different this place feels.
"It's one of those underground sex clubs," answers Balford as he orders a drink from the bartender, he seems overly familiar with. Suppose that'd explain why he sometimes has that weird secretive look with Ward after some weekends out.
Lester visibly swallows and has to take a sizable mouthful from his drink before he responds. "The ones from those magazines at the gas station?"
"Yeah."
"…Are you for real?" Mitch sours.
"Look you two are single and you're not seeing anyone. I know for a fact neither of you are getting anything on the side. Lester, your softness is a repellant for women, and Mitch, you're a virgin who spent more time running around making trouble than chasing girls. You're probably pent up with the urge to just –" Balford punctuates his rant with suggestive movements, ignorant of the way Mitch balks in discomfort.
"And Ward?" Lester asks, far more kinder than the question warrants. He gets his answer from a weird look in Balford's eyes.
"Linda is fine with him being here. She went to Tacoma with some friends of hers for this exact same reason. Called it scouring."
Right. It's bit of an open secret that Ward and his girlfriend have an alternative dynamic in their relationship. Evidently, they are happy with that and it is what it is. Mitch doesn't care about what they do anyway but he doesn't care much for getting dragged to their favorite hangouts for hookups either.
Certainly not with the way he is.
Not with whatever is wrong with him. So when Ward finally comes with a group of people who have big smiles plastered over their faces, his stomach is about to bottom out. He drinks his beer and orders something stronger while Ward goes through the names of his band of…friends?
By the time, Mitch dares to lift his head, he has already forgotten their names. All seven of them. Five women, two men. All of varying ages although at least three years older than Mitch at the youngest. He strains his face, strains his willpower to smile when Ward introduces him and one of the women outright refers to him as Mitchel.
That's not his name but he doesn't correct her, finding his sense of being already beginning to swim. Briefly, he turns his head to look at Lester whose lips have thinned under his moustache. His cheeks are red like he's never seen a woman before. Mitch almost pities him; Lester is a gentle man, not a gentleman. Awkward around women but obviously interested in them.
Like a massive ameba, the group travels down another dimly lit hallway, past doors that are closed or slightly opened. At first, Mitch doesn't understand why they just enter until he manages to look through one gap and sees the room occupied. Okay, so the doors are signals depending on their position. Fair enough. They travel up a staircase to another hallway and finally find a place for them to settle with a door that is wide open.
The room they enter is dimly lit with a few linen-covered lamps. Half the walls have beds pressed up against them, all clean and white. There are two windows covered by black, cheap plastic blinds with tiny ribbons of streetlight pouring in. There are waste bins, nightstands, tables, and chairs. There's a lot of people. There's a lot of room. It feels claustrophobic still.
Mitch drinks some more and takes a shameful seat in one of the chairs, almost dropping his drink at the sound of a woman moaning. He doesn't dare to look there. He notes that the door is mildly agape, and a weird instinct almost compels him to close it. He hears the women, he takes a glance, he sees one eating out the other.
A man joins them, clearly intoxicated, hungry like a wolf hunting sheep, and pounds one woman from behind in such a manner that leaves her breasts bouncing. He sees Ward and Balford in various stages of undress. He sees Lester getting closer to one of the women with another man around.
And he sees a woman making her way to him. Her dress is impossibly short. Her smile is practiced but genuine. She's older, around Rambo's age. It feels wrong, dirty, and weird to think of him when Mitch is sitting here. But the curious image of John Rambo shirtless with his scarred, muscular form bathed in the morning light fades when the woman stands over Mitch and puts her hands on his knees.
"Hey there," her voice is sweet, and her perfume is even sweeter.
"H-hi," Mitch looks up but struggles to keep his gaze on her.
"Wanna go somewhere else?"
No. Absolutely not. But…
He stills, then shifts his gaze elsewhere. Ward is looking at him, pants down, drinking beer, getting sucked off by a woman, and stares. A heavy stare, he inherited from Galt.
Do it, it says. Do it, or else, faggot. Do it or they'll find out.
With a strained smile, Mitch nods and stands up. He lets the woman take him by the hand and take him down below the ground floor until they reach a large room overflowing with patrons, all staring at one spot. In the middle is a circular platform where a dozen naked people writhe around in dim light. Men and women, bodies intertwined, in pairs, in groups, connecting, interlocking, touching.
It's like a sea of flesh of and skin, a mosaic of warm colors.
So much is happening, that Mitch can't discern the way the bodies move, let alone separate them. Maybe it's a tactic as no one notices two men kissing. No one except for Mitch who watches them caress, touch, feel each other like there's no world around them. Two women are riding them but they have their backs turned and see nothing.
But Mitch doesn't care about that. He's transfixed by the visage. It does things to him, fills him with warmth and subtle envy. And want.
The woman, Brenda, pulls him out of his trance and to the edge of the room where there are small cubicles separated by a red curtain, barely larger than a bathroom stall. She eases him to sit on the tiny couch inside, pulls the drapes, passes her hands over her ribs, over her ample breasts, and slowly pulls the straps that hold her dress to her body. Her eyes turn dark with lust as she licks her lips.
"You're cute so I want you for myself. Like what you see?"
Mitch swallows and stays quiet. He knows the only answer is yes. A normal person would say yes. But the sight of the woman, of her body, of the offer she presents to him, does nothing but make him uncomfortable. He can't describe this aversion to the female form. He thinks of the men outside and how he'd like to join them instead. He thinks of the boy he kissed in his youth. Brenda takes his silence as stunned amazement and steps forward until she can straddle him.
Her body is heavy, her breasts are warm and full, pressed against his face. She hums and he feels trapped, smothered. He wants to shove her away. He's intoxicated, too slow to move. The threat of what she poses, what she can say compels him to sit stiff as a board. He feels disgusting, tainted with something corrosive. A lump grows in his throat when Brenda opens her mouth to kiss him. Every part of her is soft, too soft.
Her hands palm his crotch, and he wants to vomit. It feels wrong. It feels like this isn't supposed to happen. As Brenda reaches for the zipper, Mitch's breathing hitches, and absolute fear nearly paralyzes him. He's different. He's not like the others. He whimpers. He whines when her fingers wrap around his dick. He cries when she moves her hand. He flat-out sobs. He can't stop it.
Shocked, Brenda pulls away and stares at him like he's mad. And her gaze makes him cry harder. Dammit, dammit. It's over. Giving in, giving up, Mitch covers his face and tries to stop his tears back but it's just no use. They won't cease and he can't stop fucking crying. He expects her to leave, tell on him, laugh about what a pansy he is. Instead, she sighs heavily and sits next to him, winding an arm around him and pulling until his head rests on her.
It's different now when she touches him. It's like when Anna comforts him. Comforting to the point where his chest stops jittering and the lump in his throat dissipates.
"Sorry," Mitch wipes his face dry although he must be looking disastrous. He keeps his head on her chest, still feeling so utterly miserable.
"It's alright," Brenda laughs. Her voice is almost drowned out by the increased moaning outside the curtains. "This place isn't for anyone."
Mitch can't tell if he's supposed to be insulted or comforted. At most, he's thankful that she's not noticing all that is wrong with him. It's only now that he picks up on her New York accent. He almost wants to ask where she's from, but she looks down at the watch on her wrist and hums softly.
"Oh. Happy New Year. Want a mint to help you relax?" she asks and reaches for her discarded purse. Before Mitch can ask why, she takes out two white pills and hands one to him. Without hesitation, she sticks one in her mouth and lets it sit there. Mitch hesitates but puts the mint on his tongue.
The flavor is weird. Minty, yes but different somehow. Having enough of the taste, he swallows it dry and sits back, questioning what he's gonna do now, when he can get out of Seattle, how he can explain all of this to Rambo. He closes his eyes almost and stares at the red curtain as the world slowly begins to melt around him. His body grows heavy as lead before it occurs to him that it wasn't a mint, he got. The straight lines of the cubicle begin to bend and dance like sound waves. Voices, close and distant, all speak at him. Teasle, Anna, Father James, Rambo.
He hears his father. He hears the distant fading echo of his mother. Almost like being in a dream.
Brenda stands up and gathers her purse, saying something as she moves like a ghost behind the curtains, but the words fail to gain a foothold. Mitch can't bring his mind to form a complete thought, can't even concentrate on the colors that bleed over his visions or the black that comes crawling from the corners of his eyes.