Monday, September 9, 2013

Anika - Chapter Nine

Index:
Chapter Nine







Of What There
Is to Know
















                        It’s a rather tired trope, by now.

           You see it on TV. You read it in books, in comics. You play it in games.

                    “Be careful what you say to your loved ones each day,
                            because your words may be the last ones you share.”

        Turns out, in real life, it doesn’t usually work that way. I mean, I’m sure it happens,
           but people don’t usually have a screaming fist-fight and then run outside
             to get killed by a falling piano.

Instead, they say something mundane.
              Something that takes the continued existence of their loved one for granted;
           something that takes the grand sum of Life So Far and
        turns it into just another episode of General Hospital.

The last time I saw Dad, I told him I would see him later.
My sister asked him for twenty dollars.
Mom told him not to forget the potatoes, again.

      Sure, I’d change it.
        I’d tell him I loved him. I’d tell him he was a great dad.
         Who wouldn’t say something nice to someone who was about to die?

                          But that’s a given. It isn’t important.
                    Like most of what we do when someone dies,
              none of it matters one little gram to the person that’s gone.

They’re dead. Cashed in. Poof, gone.
 Like money, or cars, or houses, any remaining fucks my dad might have given
        were abandoned  shortly after that truck driver fell asleep at the wheel.

They were left behind with the twenty-dollar scratch lotto in the glove box,
              a gallon of milk in a bag from the gas station down the street, and
                     a pair of panties under the seat that didn’t belong to my mother.

          I think a better trope might be something like:

                    “Be careful what you say and do each day,
                            because your loved ones might not ever forget.”

Dad’s last reply to me was a shrug.
He told my sister he didn’t have twenty dollars to spare.

And I guess he forgot the potatoes.








Today
West Palm, Florida – Winter



          With a stifled huff, Rebekkah stuffed the last garment of clothing into the already-overladen suitcase. When she finally managed to zip it shut, she plopped onto her knees on the carpet with a tired sigh. Packing for Vala was always the worst experience. Vala never had an opinion on what to pack. When Rebekkah made suggestions for outfits they were unanimously greeted with uncertain mumbling, and every trip they made together culminated in Rebekkah shoving twice as many outfits as necessary into a suitcase the morning of departure.
          Thankfully, they still had some time. It couldn’t have been any later than six. At least, she hoped it wasn’t. Somehow the alarm in her phone had either been shut off the night before or ignored for long enough that it got offended and decided to keep to itself. There was a decent chance mixed drinks were to blame, but thankfully she’d been waking up at five-thirty every morning for the past two years for school and couldn’t sleep past it to save her life.

Anika - Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight







Prescribed Freedoms


















I remember the first time I met with Marty.

I could tell right away, this guy, he was… you know, real. He cared, and it wasn’t all show. It was nice, but…

…I didn’t think he was listenin’, when I talked. They never do. That’s the irony, with all these ‘mental health’ assholes. They tell you to talk, they push and push and push until you do, and then they just…

See, when you’ve got a problem, it’s like…

…people filter it all. Your words, I mean. Like, what you’re saying, they’re not sure if it’s you or your problem. Are you thinkin’ clear? Should they take you seriously? God forbid they, eh… ‘enable’ you.

Is that comment because you hurt inside, or because you have too much serotonin and not enough dopamine and maybe your reuptake inhibitor is inhibitin’ too much reuptake and they should adjust your dose and—

Just, fuck.

So you gotta talk like a goddamned robot, act like some little machine. Beep boop. Illogical. Does not compute. Emotion is invalid; opinions are futile. I hereby swear to take my medicine and cease to be myself.

I ask Marty if he saw on the news where that one teenager, Bill Gardens, was caught snatchin’ some little kid off the playground. They found the bones of five, maybe six little girls in his back yard.

He gives me this look, like he wants to say how sad that is but…
he’s not sure where I’m going with this.

I tell him I went to school with Bill. Every time he talked to me I
smelled rotting meat. I threw up on him in sixth grade, and they
kicked me out of school.

Marty was quiet for a minute.



And then he changed the subject.









Today
New York City – Winter



          THE WINDOW PANE was cool against Raiku’s face. His eyelids felt heavy; the sounds of the highway aimed to lull him to sleep. Car rides had always made him sleepy, since long before he could remember. Yet, despite the best efforts of the ambiance, the pain in his abdomen kept him awake. The only comfortable position for him was lying on his back, and there was too much stuff loaded in the back seat of the car for him to tilt back and relax.
          His Aunt Kana had been quiet for most of the trip home. Every now and then, he could feel her gaze turn to him, or see her mouth open to produce words that she soon realized she could not find.
          She’d been like this for days. Ever since the hospital agreed to release him, she’d insisted on bringing him with to every legal and medical matter even remotely related to Raiku Hirubasa and his crazy, crazy antics. Court orders, doctors’ orders, psychiatrists’ orders, orders orders orders orders. Yet his obasan had had very few orders of her own, and every night when they got home, after watching him take his medicine, she left him alone in his room.