Wired
By SteveIn today’s edition of “Phiction Phriday,” we have a piece that doesn’t really work, “Wired.” I’ve futzed with it a lot, but I’ve never been happy with it. Warning: Contains lots of whining and bad language. Reader discretion is advised.
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Wired
She stood in the shower naked, the water pounding her skin as she stared at the showerhead. She poured liquid soap on a washrag and vigorously scrubbed her arms and shoulders. The water trickled down her face and into her mouth. It tasted metallic.
She got out of the shower carefully, turned off the water, dried herself off and got dressed. The wood on the walls was pulsing. A woman’s voice came from above, the music pouring through the cracks in the ceiling tiles. She watched as it flowed into the sink.
“My first name Angelene, prettiest mess you’ve ever seen.”
She was still wired from the acid she took on Saturday night and tried to get a fix on the mirror. The surface of her arms and legs tingled and she felt a buzzing in her bones. She moved her hands in front of her eyes and observed the motion-blur effect they generated. Her fingers smelled like nicotine. She wanted a cigarette. She needed a cigarette.
Her face stared back at her in the mirror but it was all but unrecognizable; she was pale and withdrawn, with pupils the size of cue balls. She closed her eyes. She was scared to touch her own flesh, and deep down inside she wished that a hand other than her own would rest affectionately on her waist, encircling her body to squeeze the feeling out of her.
She felt ill and moved over to the toilet. Hovering over the bowl, she thought of nausea, of vomit, of stomach acid. She wanted to purge her body but it refused to cooperate. Dry heaves.
The refrigerator made an awful noise in the kitchen, a low-pitched hum that kept time with the music.
“My first name Angelene, prettiest mess you’ve ever seen.”
The smell of beer, cigarettes, pot, and incense filled the apartment. She walked out of the bathroom and collapsed into a ball on the futon, hoping to sleep off the sickness. She lit a cigarette and watched the smoke levitate to the ceiling. She hoped that today there would be no confrontations, no actions, no feelings-a day without verbs or adjectives. Just nouns.
A news program played on the television; two old men engaged in an elaborate pantomime, but there was no sound. She rolled over on to her back and stared at the smoke detector on the ceiling. Its plastic cover had yellowed with age, and there was a splotch of paint on the corner. It turned to blue, then to red.
She was dead tired, but every time she started to drift off to sleep she was awakened by visions of asthma, of allergies.
The drugs, she thought, the drugs are breaking down my system.
“My first name Angelene, prettiest mess you’ve ever seen.”
She lit another cigarette and started to reassemble the events from last night, neatly packaging them into compartments in her brain.
She remembered a going-away party for Tyler, who’d been expelled from school for poor grades and was being forced to go back home to Connecticut. His girlfriend Angela was also there, as was his best friend Jim. Kristy and Michael were there, in their usual roles as ringleaders and court jesters. They’d purchased a blotter of acid from some street urchin on Church St. and were passing it around.
As the party started, everyone dropped. They were all having fun dancing and singing and stringing tiny white light bulbs all around the apartment. Sarah felt the blood rushing through her body and it caused a wave of sickness to flow over her. She started to cry and stumbled into her room, finding a spot in the corner that allowed her to observe her friends laughing and dancing. She looked away. The music was overwhelmingly loud, a steady thump of bass and treble that seemed to float around her head. It was making her sick to her stomach. She couldn’t get the thought of sickness out of her head. She felt the wall behind her, reminding herself that something was solid and concrete in the world.
“My first name Angelene, prettiest mess you’ve ever seen.”
She turned over uncomfortably and directed her attention toward the mute television. The lumps in the futon dug into her back; she remembered how much she hated it, as it committed the double sin of being both uncomfortable and ugly. It wasn’t hers; a guy she was dating had given it to her when he bought a regular couch for his living room. She loved him dearly, but she was always unhappy when he gave her these types of extravagant gifts because she felt a need to reciprocate, something her current financial situation would not allow.
Money. That was one thing she didn’t need to think about right now. How am I going to make rent this month?, she wondered. How is mom going to bail me out this month, when she can barely afford to clothe her beautiful six-year old brother Zach. The topic rolled around her head like a shoe in a dryer. She wanted to cry, but couldn’t generate any tears.
She missed her friends; she needed to feel connected to them right now. She’d heard them rummaging for food this morning, but she couldn’t generate enough energy to open her eyes, much less get out of bed. She heard them say something about going to Denny’s. She remembered Michael walking into her room, checking to see if she was asleep. She could see him through her closed eyelids.
“I’m so lonely, Michael,” she said as she started crying. “Why isn’t he here, why isn’t he here?”
“Sarah, you know why.”
“I need him, Michael, I need him.”
“He’s not here.”
“He’s never here. He’s never been here.”
“My first name Angelene, prettiest mess you’ve ever seen.”
He wasn’t there, she remembered, because she didn’t want him there, and because he didn’t want to be there. They’d fought that day over whether or not he should come to the party. He didn’t like to be around her when she was with her friends. And why would he? He was 10-years older than she was. When they were alone it wasn’t an issue. But when she was with her friends, when all she wanted to do was be 20 and drink beer and smoke pot and get fucked up, it upset him.
“Do you want me there or not?”
“Oh right, like you really want to hang out with my friends.”
“I want to be there because you’re there,” he said.
She snorted. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? God, you can be such a fucking asshole.”
“Excuse me for giving a shit about you,” he said, raising his voice.
“Fuck you.”
“Yes, fuck me,” he said. He started to look for his keys. “You know what? You’re going to make a great adult someday.”
“Don’t patronize me” she said. She paused for a moment. “You’re one to talk.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
“I’m not the one fucking a 20-year old.”
He laughed. “OK, yeah, you’re right. Forget it. I’m leaving.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Goodbye.”
“Have fun at your little party tonight,” he said. “Be sure to get good and fucked up.”
“Don’t worry about it, I will.”
“And come Sunday morning, don’t think I’ll be here to here to help clean up and help get you back in shape.”
“Give me a fucking break,” she said as she followed him toward the door. “I don’t need you.”
“No,” he said as he started down the hallway,” you most certainly don’t need me. You don’t need anyone.”
“My first name Angelene, prettiest mess you’ve ever seen.”
The music faded out, and the apartment went silent. In the distance, a car alarm enjoyed its 15 minutes of fame. Sarah lit another cigarette and watched the smoke spiral toward the ceiling. As she drifted in-and-out of consciousness, she wondered if the distinction between sanity and insanity even existed. This morning it was sharper than a razor and more agile than a gazelle.
April 27th, 2007 at 1:28 pm
I really need to start writing myself if I ever plan on having a chance to get my Science Fiction premise off the ground…?_?…
At least the outline & characters are thriving.
April 27th, 2007 at 1:48 pm
I really appreciate getting the chance to see your short stories, knowing what a good writer you are.
It really underlines just how hard fiction is. Some parts work, some parts don’t.
Is all your stuff broken-relationship fiction? Are you trying to tell us something?
Are you a girl?
April 27th, 2007 at 1:54 pm
I will fully admit to being borderline girly when it comes to a lot of my tastes outside of geekdom, but most of the pieces I’ve completed were part of a collection I was calling “Four Letter Words.”
So, they’re thematically linked.
April 27th, 2007 at 2:16 pm
But I think I’ll start my magnum opus, with Elf warriors battling giant robots in a post-nuclear wasteland. Oh, and they’re all trying to score chicks. It’ll be awesome.
April 27th, 2007 at 2:40 pm
Stick with the chick lit. And go with “Stephanie” as a nomme de plume.
April 27th, 2007 at 3:21 pm
Nah, it’ll be a great marketing angle, the guy writing chick lit.
And think of all the chicks I’ll get! They’ll think I’m all sensitive and shit!
April 27th, 2007 at 11:23 pm
I’m all about critical quality - I couldn’t care less about subject. I love a really good chick flick almost as much as a great action movie. (sappy 1930s dance-musicals that are so good that they aren’t sappy come to mind first)