Ironic title is ironic for reasons that will be apparent.
Yamazaki was gone for a week, leaving before sunrise. So in theory, Rock should be happy to wake up alone. He had (canned) food, he had clothes, he had entertainment in the form of books, a radio, and some old gaming console from Yamazaki's last visit and he had the briefcase that lay under a hatch on the ground floor.
He had a hard time anyway.
The nights felt long and arduous when his thoughts wandered, and he felt most abandoned. At their behest, new scratches would appear on his wrists. Helpful little lines that'd get him through the slow passage of time. The ignorant, heartless stereotype was that self-harm was usually done by hysteric teenage girls desperate for attention or sexual deviants getting off to it.
Rock, recently out of the throes of adolescence, fit neither description so the clueless drudge didn't apply to anyone, let alone him. He didn't enjoy the pain. He didn't want the world to see the wounds. Yamazaki bringing attention to it was like being paraded down the street to be gawked at. Or whored out by Kain.
The thought of it, the memories, the extent of how many times, he had allowed himself to be used because he felt trapped in his own custom-made hell of self-loathing, throwing his well-being to the wind in some form of punishment, got to him. The weight of it all hit him like an anvil with the power of hindsight. He lay and clenched his wrists into his chest, scratching a little more and catching a scab in the process. It tore off and the sting was instant, sharp, and mean. Blood began to bead over the wound and Rock let it.
Sorry, to no one really. Won't do it again? Not likely. It'd get better? No.
There were just some things in life that couldn't be fixed with breathing deeply or doing meditation or making sure to eat your vitamins and veggies. Rock thought of Yamazaki, of his issues and how they probably morphed him into a scoundrel, hell-bent on anchoring himself to the concept of chaotic evil. It was becoming a nutcase or doing drugs. Rock had never touched the stuff willingly, even as he knew how they could treat whatever couldn't be fixed with hopes and dreams and well-wishes and prayers and an optimistic attitude.
Optimism didn't stop Terry from crumbling.
Some things weren't meant to be fixed. Some things deserved to remain broken. You weren't supposed to glue a vase back together after it fell over and broke into pieces. Surely, that applied to humans, right? You can't live by hate alone. That was what Terry used to say. What about grief then? What about pain? What about self-loathing?
It didn't matter anyway.
Unfortunately, as it was afternoon, Rock wasn't tired despite barely eating anything for most of the week. His blood sugar must have been low. And he thought one week? Why not make it too? Maybe Yamazaki was gonna try his hand at taxidermy after all. He wondered what would make a hardened gangster react to seeing some unrelated person getting fucked fifty different times to the point where he'd save him from getting skinned into fifty pieces by an outlier?
Xanadu was a strange creature, maybe that was the answer.
Rock wasn't even sure the guy was human. He acted like an alien taking homo sapiens form but not quite getting the disguise right. He was but a bite-sized bad memory now. And Yamazaki? He wasn't nice but he was…well, he was alright, maybe? He sure as hell wouldn't mind abandoned Rock for a week but he did provide food and clothing and lodging – if this was lodging. Despite having a roof over his head, Rock reckoned that the safehouse was like a shed that was only used for panicked sleepovers once in a blue moon.
Despite cleaning, there still was a musky smell lingering about with an undertone of dust. Everything felt soiled and stressful on the nerves. Of actual furniture, there was nothing but the mattress that Rock now lay on and a stool downstairs. Maybe that was why he felt so terrible during his stay. On top of that, a whole week was a very long time to be alone with your thoughts – especially if said thoughts were a chaotic mess of voices telling you to hurt or die in two million ways, overworking the few brittle threads of stability holding you together.
On occasion, one thread would snap and tear out a piece of Rock's heart. A memory, it was this time; Terry on the day he received the news of Andy's death from a hysteric Mai, dropping the bucket of laundry, eyes blank, body stiff. It had taken so long for him to move, even after she had walked up to him and hugged him, collapsing into a crying fit while he stood there in utter shock.
Rock had watched it all. Now his nail dug into his skin because of it. The sting grounded him, cut a harsh line in the memory of going to the morgue with Terry, identifying the body, hearing the mess of an explanation from Mai, and just trying to believe the fact that it had actually happened like that. That it had happened at all.
Another scratch soothed the acidity left behind.
And another cut through the funeral that happened a week after. Familiar faces standing by a coffin, said coffin being lowered into a grave next to Jeff. Mai falling to her knees into the bouquets in front of the gravestone, absolutely inconsolable. Mai being the first one to vanish. And another. And another.
Person? Scratch.
Rock, in his melancholy, turned himself off, lost in the one thing tethering him to the present. Memories kept resurfacing in a guilty blur because he couldn't keep the lid closed. Feelings through his body had been pulled like a plug, all except the fingers scraping against his skin, wishing he could scrape against joints and tendons and flesh and bone. And hope that the ghosts fucking his psyche would bleed out before he did.
A week after the funeral was the first time Rock had ever seen Terry cry. It was a horrible sight.
Until then, he bore the pain so well, blank looks abound but always considerate of others. But then, the weight of grief was like a boulder, crushing down on him until he collapsed to the floor, face buried in his hands, sobbing. It felt wrong to look at and Rock's pathetic attempts for consolation probably only made things worse.
And a few days later, Terry was gone. He had left a letter and his phone. Vanishing from the city. No one knew where he'd go. That had been the death knell.
Rock never read the letter or opened its envelope out of fear. He always kept it on him, kept it folded in the pocket of his jacket. Thinking of it, thinking of Terry sent burning ripples of shame and guilt through his entire system. There was so much he missed. So much he wished he could have done differently. So many words he wished he had the power to articulate. Momentarily, Rock wished he was a kid again with people in his life and the wisdom of grief, living in the illusion of a bright future waiting up ahead.
He wished he never answered the call to Kain's island.
It dawned upon Rock that his body was becoming sticky again and his hair was beginning to get greasy. He probably reeked. Did misery have a smell? Did it smell like decaying flowers? Rotting flesh? Whatever. Rock sat up and shuffled out of the bedroom to the bathroom and let the door stand wide open while he undressed.
Much of the clothes he had been wearing this week was Yamazaki's. It very much smelled like him. It was like having that snake of a man wrapped around him. A thought that was as horrifying as it was comforting for the simple fact that it was just someone else.
Someone else.
Suddenly that sorry excuse for comfort morphed into pain when Rock stopped and looked at himself in the mirror. His chest tightened, his lungs felt squeezed. His hands trembled as he pulled the shirt over his head and the boxers down. His stomach twisted while he turned away from the mirror lest he'd vomit all over the floor if he looked at his reflection.
Rock turned on the water and just collapsed on top of the drain, quickly getting soaked. He leaned back against the tile wall and stared at the ceiling as the harsh water pounded him and the thoughts into orbit. Blown the fuck out, to the point where it was possible to not think at all. Streamline and categorize his thoughts. Figure out what it was that he needed. Fight that pesky thing called destiny.
If he even had a right to that.
Evening came as Rock sat curled up on the mattress, beating his high score in the game brought to him by Yamazaki. He missed civilization. Fishing trips, basketball, his motorbike that Kain took and sold, a kitchen to make jambalaya and curries and pasta chips and banana bread. Occupation. He missed not feeling guilt or shame for once.
He had come to some conclusions about his life tonight as reminded by the sting from his new collection of wounds. He had done a real number on his wrist. A lot of new red lines that looked like he had been mauled by some animal, some resembling stitches sown together with dots of blood. Most of it smeared across his skin. Yamazaki would have a field day with this.
Somewhere in the distance, Rock heard the faint hum of a car grow louder and turned his head to the indistinct glow coming from a pair of headlights. Moments later, the door to the safehouse went open, footsteps walking across the floor, plastic crinkling, more footsteps, someone walking up the stairs, and finally that someone standing in the doorway to the bedroom. Yamazaki had bit of a sour look on his face.
"You look like a dog turd on the sidewalk. I thought you'd pull your shit together with space and time to think," he said and sounded really just…tired. Upon looking closer at him, one could see slight dark crescents under his eyes.
"Good for you because I have been thinking," Rock answered and shut off the console. "Mulling over what I need and what I want. Something that fulfills neither of those is this place. I can't stay here like this, all alone on my own with nothing but my thoughts to keep me company all day and week."
"Gotta store you somewhere, kid."
"I hope you'll give me a nice grave when you find me attached to the ceiling then, pal. When not if."
Yamazaki narrowed his eyes and flitted to the scratched-up wrists. Not amused for once. "Sounds like a threat."
"It's a warning," Rock told him and met his exhaustion. Out of habit, he gathered his arms behind his back.
"Fine. Geez, you're such a fuckin' edgelord," Yamazaki rolled his eyes.
"Yeah well, just take me somewhere then and the edge will dull. You can't be crashing parties all day, right?" Rock wrapped the blanket around himself, then stood up. His fight or flight senses were triggered when Yamazaki closed the gap between them, lowering his head just slightly, face still locked in an agitated scowl.
"You might see some familiar faces."
Faces that violated you.
"Just once. I'm not in the headspace for this place," Rock said, voice trembling, stopping himself well short of saying please. The thought of begging caused a slither of discomfort to coil in his gut as he averted his gaze, then closed his eyes when the distance was shrunk to a matter of inches. To the point where Rock noticed faint breathing tickle his skin and that distinct scent which had been clinging to his body as of late.
They stood too close now for it to not be deliberate. Yamazaki had sadistic tendencies, so this was probably all fun and games with him. Rock, not so much. He stood trapped between a whole man and a mattress, breathing quickening, panic doing weird things to his insides.
"Whatever you say," Yamazaki said. "Where should I put you if shit goes down though?"
Good fucking question. Rock hadn't thought about that and really, he had no idea. The place he shared with Terry was leased out again when Rock could no longer breathe in the rooms. So where then?
"…Kim Kapwhan?" he uttered faintly before he was even fully aware, almost embarrassed to be speaking at all. When he stood and thought about it, Kim loved uncorrupting corrupted souls so…there was that. But Rock had little hope for his salvation however and he wasn't sure he could stand to see someone from his old life again. Heck, Kim probably had his own issues to deal with.
"The fuck?" Yamazaki snorted and finally stepped back. "That sanctimonious creep? He's gonna make you do push-ups while he screams justice at you."
"Projection much?"
"Brutal truth aside, what if he ain't there?" Yamazaki raised a brow. One had to wonder if he was aware of how innocent his question looked compared to 'What if he doesn't want you there?'
"Then…you decide," Rock answered for both scenarios. "Just not someplace like this. Just not when I'm alone all the time with nothing to do. I can't stay here anymore anyway."
"Well, good for you because I got some plans coming up tonight. Get dressed," Yamazaki stepped out of the room and walked downstairs, leaving Rock with something that resembled hope for the first time in a while. He soon descended the staircase in his own clothing that smelled of himself. He had stopped feeling like Rock Howard a long time ago, but he at least looked like that guy.
It was a quiet drive to South Town.
Rock sat leaning against the door, staring at the darkness that zoomed past them until they reached, then passed through the suburbs and eventually neared the city. The streets were busy with everything set ablaze by artificial light and other vehicles, almost obscuring the tower that loomed in the distance.
Things tended to be duller on the island compared to this. Still, there was a sticky underlayer to the glow; like a fly trap that collected the worst of humanity or those with no worth. Sort of like a bright, beautiful hell; in which Rock fit right in. He turned away from the window and towards Yamazaki who, despite being a crook, had always driven responsibly.
"Where are we going?" Rock asked, melancholic, excited, worried.
The pause that followed was long until they stopped at a red light with lots of traffic. Yamazaki sent him a sharp glance, then stared out on the road again and finally answered with; "An actual gun deal. It's a pretty easy affair."
A sinister smirk rested on his face that made Rock shudder.
"Should I go…entertain or something?"
"You should mind your own fuckin' business and keep a low profile."
Crude as it was, it was refreshing to hear. Keep a low profile, stay away from grubby, awful hands, and pain and nightmares. It wasn't like Rock was happy at the news. But just faintly, he smiled – even if he was participating in illegal weapons dealing. A part of him would like to take one of the guns and then blow out the kneecaps of every motherfucker running a train on him torture porn style but that was best kept as a fantasy.
"Unlike Kain, I got standards. Which makes me wonder how you even ended up under his dumb ass there given you hated it so much," Yamazaki said and Rock felt himself flinch. "Was there really no one in the gang looking out for you? I find it hard to believe given all the friendship and hero shit that came from those people."
It was strange how he seemed so interested in what had happened and how Rock stood in all of it. Asking about how Andy died, then mocking it sounded more in line for the man. So why didn't he indulge?
"…It became too painful for all of us so we just, I guess, split apart, and flew away to find some peace. Terry too," Rock sank into his seat. It was progressively easier to talk about the past when casting a spotlight on everyone involved as opposed to-
"And you?"
There it was.
The traffic light turned green, and the cars began to move again after a stream of pedestrians had crossed the streets. Something disgusting and aching seized Rock's lungs while he struggled to find the right words. He clenched his fists and stared down his lap, giving a curt answer. "…Kain contacted me."
"And I can figure out why you went, I guess. Fuck," Yamazaki raised an eyebrow, unintentionally taking the role of a merciful angel. Rock took the chance to wave the topic off. He knew it was rude to not actually engage properly but given the man he was driving with, a few (or many) faux pas were the norm so whatever.
"You'd make an awful therapist. It's kinda funny."
Maybe funny wasn't the proper word to use here but Rock had never had a silver tongue, so he'd roll with it.
"I know a thing or two about shitty lives. Could tell a few stories from others with the same experience. Hand me a drink, bartender, and tell me why you wanna fuck your sister," the way Yamazaki gleefully pranced his words through juvenile, graphic, crude vernacular meadows was as shocking and uncouth as it was effective in making Rock's skin tingle.
Mildly amusing, it was for it distracted from the reactionary viscera that threatened to turn the glovebox into a puke bucket. Rock could believe him when he said he knew what shitty lives were. No one was truly born evil, was they? Something awful morphed them into scoundrels. Was that why Kain decided to pull his nephew into his bed? Rock tried not to think about it, but he came to understand that he had gone a few shades paler and Yamazaki noticed it of course.
"Incest is too dark for you or something?"
"Yeah. Just – uhm, not tonight," Rock blurted out, flicking his gaze to the city light again.
"Noted. I'll tell the bartender to keep his fat sisterfucker mouth shut. Besides the world never runs out of other awful shit to make light of."
Then silence settled over them despite the bustling city that they were in. Taking in the reprieve, Rock turned to just quietly observe Yamazaki; the way he never, ever used two hands on the steering wheel. How hollow his gaze really was most of the time like something was missing inside. Wonder if he'd be a husk if someone cut him open. No blood, no organs, no flesh. Just a void of nothing.
Rock, for a lack of something else to do, took the time to catalog every detail he noticed; from the few strands of gelled blonde hair that hung over his forehead to the slightest whiff of cologne. Ironic because the washing supplies at the safehouse were all odorless. Suppose even gangsters wanted to smell good. And he had a permanently sullen expression that made discerning his mood difficult whenever he wasn't smirking. Still a mean look to him of course.
"Don't be coy and spit out what's on your mind," Yamazaki said after they had driven past a few blocks.
Rock shrugged, sighing in earnest resignation. "My life is in limbo, might as well make things interesting again and gather bits from the guy sitting next to me."
"Uh-huh. Are you gawking at me because I'm a pretty boy like yourself or am I some fuckin' ogre?"
"Yes," Rock answered, completely straight-faced despite the faint heat that shot to his cheeks. At this point, he should get used to the odd compliment dropping just being a ploy to get a rise out of him.
"Gee. Thank you, fuck you," Yamazaki drummed his fingers against the steering wheel with a slight smirk on his face. One had to wonder what he looked like when he was actually smiling with no bitterness or malice or sarcasm or hostility.
The car drove down a few sideroads and then the seedier districts of South Town until it came to a stop on a nondescript parking lot. Right outside a dingy building with boarded windows and a fortified door with a peephole. This totally didn't look suspicious at all. Uncomfortable memories began to surface in the back of Rock's mind when he spotted Yamazaki step out and circle the car for a bag in the trunk.
Rock had been swimming about in South Town's criminal underbelly enough to understand that this was the type of place for illegal business; drugs, broking, planning a murder, assassination, what have you. The owners were probably in some deep criminality themselves.
"Remember; keep your eyes open and mouth shut," Yamazaki said as they stood in front of the door, and he resorted to hammering instead of just gentle knocking.
The peephole slid open and sunken-in eyes stared right back at the pair. Then it closed and the door was unlocked. A pair of burly men stood at the entrance with devices in their hands to scan for electronics. Evidently, Yamazaki was a regular so they didn't bother with him. They did however scan Rock, only to find nothing.
Afterward, the pair were led downstairs into a world of neon lights and deafening music. From the outside of this very building, no one would think that this place was here. For a first-timer, the experience must have been overwhelming or not since it just looked like every other nightclub in the city. If one peeled the layer away, they'd come to find that it wasn't so sleek after all; a fact Rock had unfortunately become very much familiar with.
He followed Yamazaki through the establishment, trying to stay as close to the man as he could without wrapping himself around him for some semblance of safety. They ended up in what was possibly the club's backrooms; small pockets of depravity with the expressed purpose of privacy for criminals when they needed to make deals – or hurt people.
Passing a couple of doors, Yamazaki skipped knocking entirely and opened it to a room of gangbangers. Thankfully none Rock recognized so he could comfortably stop his heart from falling out of his ass.
"Yamazaki," one crook greeted with a raised brow, immodestly staring at the bag before he looked at the man holding it. "I see you got the goods."
Yamazaki answered by putting the bag on the table and opening it, revealing a machine gun within. The bag was noticeably bigger, Rock realized; it had to be in order to fit this particular weapon, lying pressed into foam. Before the gangbanger could get too handsy, Yamazaki pulled the weapon away.
"Money first," he sneered. How much money did people actually pay for these?
Apparently a lot, Rock found out as he watched the gangsters huddle together, fiddling with bags of their own and stacks of money wrapped in plastic like they had been freshly printed. Or stolen from a bank. Either way, blood money it was and that thought made Rock tremble a bit. An elbow gently nudged him in the ribs knocked him out of his trance and he felt Yamazaki's warmth close in on him.
"You can go out and get a drink if you need to," he whispered.
Rock couldn't look at him as he noticed one of the gangbangers watching them briefly and his fight or flight senses were triggered like an exploding barrel. "…Do you need something then?"
"Anything but a cosmopolitan."
"…Right," Rock nodded. What even was a cosmopolitan? Did it hit too close to home? Anyway, he backed out of the room like a shadow, opening and closing the door before he stood in the dim hallway again, heart beating, lungs constricting. Memories of being dragged to rooms like these, drugged and violated behind closed doors, discarded and forgotten, found and dragged around his worst states came flooding. Momentarily, all he wanted was to run away, hide somewhere, and cry himself to sleep. Hurt himself even more.
He shoved those thoughts away and headed down the hallway to the rest of the club. They had passed a bar earlier so he should be able to find it again. Should. As it turned out, this place was massive. There wasn't so much clubbing happening, just shady people sitting by tables and mulling over their drinks or discussing things he was better off not knowing about. This place had half a dozen private rooms, most of which were occupied. Some had windows in their doors and Rock wasn't curious to look. So he aimlessly wandered past patrons and rooms.
Including one where the door stood wide open.
Rock caught a glimpse of who was inside; a man dressed in white with a matching hat and two women by his side. Both of them looked equally miserable or influenced by something. Nothing unusual there but the man sure was. His stare was instant and piercing. He tilted his forward just slightly, which made him look twice as menacing and set off a whole host of code red alarms within Rock. This man was dangerous, probably even more so than Yamazaki.
"Hello, you," he smiled and Rock was about ready to sprint away when his mind was suddenly struck by something subtle and domineering that drew him into the room instead.
He felt like crumbling, he felt…odd now in this stranger's presence. He couldn't tell what was beginning to happen, but he was so off balance like he was getting his mind melted. Suddenly, his soul felt like separating from his body as he watched it move independently of his autonomy.
"Don't think I've seen you before. What's your name?" the man gestured to one of the chairs and Rock sat down.
Every inch of his soul was begging, no, screaming at him to stand right back up and bolt out of this room as fast as he humanly could but his body sat trapped; pulled to move, made to dance like a puppet on strings.
"Rock Howard," it came out of him, mechanical and sterile like products on a conveyor belt. His body tightened and he resisted the urge to cry. Silent panic caused him to tremble. Memories, violations, pain.
"Howard? Oh, as in Geese Howard? I bet you're related to him, hm?" the stranger smirked. "So are you part of his family?"
Anger boiled like a cauldron as the words were pulled out of Rock, dragged across a grindstone on that conveyor belt.
"Geese Howard is my father," he heard himself say.
A disgustingly childlike snicker came from the stranger in white. "Wow! Imagine him knocking women up. I wonder what he'd say if he knew his kid was running around in a place like this. You're completely new here, right? You haven't used drugs either, yes?"
"I-I am new and I don't use drugs ever – willingly," Rock answered.
The horrible grin on the stranger's face widened as if he couldn't believe his luck. He found a weak point. A scab to pull and expose raw, wounded flesh ready for poking through the lymph. "Willingly? Tell me everything about that."
He had a childlike warmth that could almost fool some gullible loser, make you forget the malicious fire underneath that was ready to burn everything. Rock struggled against it, eyes watering, tears rolling down his face as the memories came flooding again. And the next words that came out of his mouth threw him into the maw of the beast like someone had pushed him.
And it hurt so much.
"My uncle sent me places and-and I was-I was drugged against my will and people did things to me."
The stranger's eyes sparked with interest. He crossed his legs and let his cane rest in his lap. "Tell me more!"
And so, against all the pain in the world, Rock told him every incident he could remember, losing his soul with every memory. And through it all, through every vestige of agony laid bare to see, the stranger grinned like he had been told a funny story.
"Aw, but you have such a pretty face. Adorable, youthful, handsome. Some people just look ready for it – even if they say no. Surely you were asking for it too. And now, you sit here, crying. I wonder why. You're a guy so you're supposed to like it. Why didn't you like it?"
"It hurt. I didn't want it. I feel awful. I-I…" Rock uttered through an endless stream of tears, his voice grainy. The thoughts swirled in his mind, knocking against the sides, leaving cracks and whispers of destructive behavior. God, where in the fuck was Yamazaki?
"And you think of yourself as nothing but a filthy piece of trash. Damaged beyond repair. Did you get what you deserve?" the stranger asked with no concern whatsoever. Whatever was happening, it prodded at Rock's brain until he answered.
"…I did."
"Is that why you self-harm? Because you're filled with so much shame and guilt?"
Rock gave up on resisting, head lolling forward.
"…Yes."
"Because you let your uncle get a little too close?" the stranger smirked.
"Yes…"
"Do you want to forget it?"
"Please."
The stranger snapped his fingers and one of the women leaned over the armrest of the couch they sat on. She pulled a mirror with white powder on it, which she divided into four thin lines.
"Good thing, I'm testing out new products for exactly that. There is your salvation. Wondering what's happening to you? Mind control. My name is White by the way. Nice to meet you, Rock," the man smiled as he drummed his fingers on the length of his cane with that horrific smirk of his. He pointed the cane's tip at the white powder. "Have a hit. Be a superstar. Stop feeling. Kill yourself."
Rock found himself falling down a dark hole yet his body moved on its own, hovering over the four lines and snorted each and every single one of them. By the time, he was done, he sat back, gurgling, with a faint taste of awful chemicals in his mouth. His heart began to race behind his chest and then came a flood of feelings and sensations that hit his brain like a tidal wave.
As promised, the pain, the self-destruction subsided into a blissful numbness that went about euthanizing his demons and he smiled. It was as if everything he hated about himself, about life had vanished and he felt like floating. The strings that had controlled his body vanished like a mist and Rock was free of the brainwashing – yet he remained where he sat, swinging his legs and swaying side to side.
"Beautiful, Rock. What's it like to pop that cherry?" White asked but his voice was somewhat distorted and echoed.
"Merciful," Rock giggled, at what, he didn't know. It didn't matter anyway, he concluded as he burst into laughter. The high was like a thick haze that had magically arrived to erase all his problems; removing the issue of loneliness, erasing his failings, hiding his pain, changing his destiny. Bringing Mom back to life maybe.
The sounds around him became apparent and louder, more distinct, disrobed. Rock's vision blurred and the three people on the couch began to morph into funny pictures that caused him to laugh more. The tingling sensation that fell spread over his body only amused him. And it energized him as the sudden urge to talk about himself and explain his issues came over him and he moved his mouth like it was automated by a motor. He stood up, his legs buckling a little as he continued talking into the night, pacing back and forth all while White watched in silence.
But it was totally okay! Everything was euphoric. Everything was becoming perfect.
White was stated to be dead in Black Velvet in an off-hand comment made by Billy. As you can clearly see, he's alive and well.
Well…we'll explain that later.
