Wrong again

She held the gun in her hand, polished to a mirror sheen. The man, of course, could stare at nothing else but the reflection of his teeth and nostrils all along the barrel. It poked at his tonsils, making him gag and choke- a poor choice, even on reflex. Tears and snot streamed down his face, muddying the cold metal.
"Eat it, you fucking monster. Choke it down and burn in hell." She felt she was crying too. Only her upper lip trembled. She pulled the trigger.
Her head shot up from the pillow, shouting hoarsely. Allan came running into the room, bathrobe and slippers.
"Brenda! Are you alright?"
He knelt down onto the bed beside her, and she melted into his arms, bursting into tears.
"Oh Allan, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I got you into all of this."
He held her tightly, desperately feeling her warmth. "It's okay. It's going to be okay."
"We did the right thing, didn't we?" She asked, turning up to look at him. He didn't respond. Another burst of tears. "I'm so sorry, God."
Allan rose, helping her into a sitting position. "Brenda, I--"
"I really got you in deep, didn't I? You're a true friend, Allan." She tried to smile, but her face sagged all at once. "Oh, Christ. Oh God."
"You collapsed just outside the warehouse, Brenda. I left him there. But his effects--"
"Things? You mean it's still--" her eyes popped open again. Not Allan's apartment. Hers. Not Allan's bed. Hers. Not her leather jacket lying on the end of the bed. Not Allan's, either. She withdrew her feet underneath the sheets, moaning, "Oh, goddammit, get that monster's things away from me."
"That's what I'm trying to say, Brenda. I went through them. We... we got the wrong one."
"What?! No! That was him! That was the man that killed my son! That fucking monster, that bastard!"
Allan pulled a white envelope from his bathrobe pocket, mournful eyes apparent even through the thick glasses. "It's a credit card statement for that night. He was over 250 miles away, Brenda. In a hotel, paying for escort services."
"It... no..." she said, meekly. "It fit. You said it yourself. When the police gave up, and you offered to help, you found the pieces that fit. You did. You."
"We did, Brenda. And we were wrong."
"No, no, no, no..." She fell forward, clutching her temples. "Ajax, Whitby, Oshawa! Three boys, all the same age, all with single mothers. We got him before there could be a fifth. It has to be him."
"We didn't check the evidence over again."
"WE TRIPLE-CHECKED IT!" She roared, smacking the glass of water from the bedside table.
"Brenda, please." He handed her the paper. "There's something else. I made some calls while you were sleeping. I did some searching. Ajax and Whitby both killed themselves. Oshawa's serving a first-degree murder charge."
"What?"
"They... they may have made the same mistake we did. In fact, I'm positive they did." He burbled, pushing his thick spectacles up his slippery nose. There was silence for unbearable minutes before Brenda spoke again.
"It's not possible."
"Brenda- look at the statements. It's airt--"
"IT'S NOT POSSIBLE!"
He looked helplessly down at her.
"I'm sorry, Allan. I need some rest. I'm so tired."
Allan fidgeted for a moment. "I still have my Halcion in the drawer to your right. It should help."
"Yes," she nodded, "Halcion will help."
"I'll sleep on the couch, then." He said, and headed for the bedroom door.
"Allan?" She called. He stopped, hand on the doorknob.
"Yes, Brenda?"
"Thank-you. Whatever happens, thank-you. I know we did the right thing. I know it was him."
Allan looked over. She looked like a pale gelatin mould of herself, with dark and streaky eyes where the tears had run out the mascara. He sighed, and shook his head. It wasn't. It just wasn't.

He came in again in the morning, wordlessly sitting down at the end of the bed. Brenda's hand was still firmly wrapped around the now-empty pill bottle. She wasn't breathing. She wasn't even warm. Of course, she hadn't checked the label to see the prescription wasn't in Allan's name. She hadn't even bothered to look at the statement to see that it wasn't the man's name on the visa statement. Allan pulled on his coat, leaving the dead man's at the end of the bed. He walked out into the apartment he'd spent all night cleaning. The train ticket to Brampton nudged him from inside his breast pocket, along with the stubs for Whitby and Oshawa. "Nobody ever checks," he muttered.
Walking down the street, he began to whistle.

Chipped paint is all

Not even a cigarette hangs from his lips; it's a mere column of ash that sags impotently, slowly collapsing into his lap. He stared on oblivious to his environment, but it could hardly be said he'd be at all keen to dismiss it. Keen-ness, after all, implies some willed effort.
Back when his vocal cords made some movement in his throat, he had already sunk into reproduction of his newly-discovered (but entirely familiar) mantra.
"Damn."
There was regret, and remorse, but in both a recognition of the forces of external events that inevitably led to them. "I'm sorry I didn't" was well indistinguishable from "I'm sorry I couldn't". Whatever it was, it had left countless marks on his form. Deep canals of strain covered every inch of his skin, giving him the appearance of a man many times his true age. Skin clung nervously to every available bone, as if fearing it would be next. Dry organs rustled inside him with every movement he made, each motion a strong gale on autumn branches; less could be said of the trunk itself. He felt like a giant cataract, a cirrhotic liver, a congested heart, and like every joint that could still bend had long since worn through the bone.
Was he still breathing? Still drawing breath, or was it the collective escape attempts of what little remained inside of him? He couldn't tell.
You could shatter him, if you tried. Blow him over with a stiff wind. Break him into a million pieces with whatever push you gave. When reduced to a single word, what can a man do but be damned?
He closed his eyes with the sudden revelation of appraisal. Thin fingers moved to pluck the naked filter from his mouth. A reedy throat bobbed as he downed his wine. Cheekbones, for the first time in a while, had tugged skin dragged over them: a smile. Damn good smile.
Oh, he was a brittle man- there was no denying.
But still not broken.
He pulled himself from the ground, and walked into the sun that dappled the green around him.

More of the same

Disembarking meets with the stewardess meting out the usual- "Thanks for flying with us. See you soon!", noticeably absent when the lanky bastard stumbles down the aisle with a pair of carry-ons slung haphazardly over his shoulder. But maybe he's just paranoid and she dispenses cheerful platitudes to every other passenger only. In either case, nobody's sad to see anyone go, and he gives her his best impression of a natural smile before turning and rapping his head on the portside cabin door. Nobody help comes beyond the obvious- "Ouch, that must have hurt."
Out in the terminal, he stands dumbly before the glass wall separating him from a milling crowd of sharp-suited aero-commuters, visiting families coated in grabbing and mewling children, alongside the middle-aged singles with their Hawaiian shirts and sandals. Small crowds gather around the stands for their shot at some discount perfume, or last-minute Canadian memorabilia: moose dolls, ice wines, and maple syrup, alongside CN Tower snowglobes, decorative Inuit (or is it Eskimo?) inukshuks assuring they've been hand-crafted by sled teams in the Northern provinces or something.
He presses his face against the glass, comforted by its cold, its firmness, and by the separation it provides from himself and those who have yet to come to terms with their own general disaffectation. He breathes out, and a gentle fog covers his view of the crowd. A small child on the other side stares with wide eyes before bursting out into laughter and pointing. The child's mother boredly responds by pulling the kid towards their gate.
A sigh. He feels things collapse inside of him for the uncounted time that day, and moves along with the slow river of travellers to customs.
Still, there's chance for a brief refresher. Hanging a right and breaking from the crowd, he pulls into the well-lit bathroom. After looking in the mirror, it becomes clear that the whole place is in fact too well-lit.
"It's over when you look like your passport photo," he murmurs, "and when you look worse, well, fuck." Ice-cold water to the face, and brief deoderant is applied to the problem areas of smell. He pulls at his shirttails, attempting to smooth out the stress wrinkles in the fabric. His hair is finger-flattened into a more presentable mess. He cracks a wan smile, "Presentable hobos always fly Oceanic Airlines". His reflection gives him a wink and a thumbs-up. It could be worse. Picking up his luggage, he mutters, "Who the hell still calls them 'hobos', anyway".
Too late in the line for bilingual travellers, he realizes he's long forgotten whatever French he had, and pulls himself into another 10-minute customs line. With a flash, one very important expression returns to him- "Et merde."
The customs officer is young, pretty, and remarkably soft-featured for a woman of her workline. She raises an eyebrow at his appearance, but it's clear that she's more entertained than anything else.
"When you look like your passport photo," he starts, trying for humor--
"Yup, I've heard that one a million times today, and I can honestly say seen it twice as often." She looks down at his passport. "Ah, don't worry, you've still got some wiggle room, I think."
"These things on my face? Yeah, they're more wrinkles than wiggles."
She laughs, though doesn't look up from the passport. "Curse of the twenty-somethings."
"Right."
"Anything to declare? Any drugs, alcohol, tobacco, firearms...?"
"Nada. I've got some items I bought back over there, but they're not controlled, and are well below the purchase limit." Mostly, anyways.
"You were in St. Lucia , Mr. Donnelly?" She asks, using the French pronounciation of 'Saint'. Her accentless English betrays no real hint of maternal language, but she isn't in the Bilingual customs box, so...
"Yes, for five years."
"Hell of a vacation?"
He decides on honesty, probably the best policy for getting back into the country, "Medical school, actually."
"Well!" She sounds impressed, and smiles at him. "Welcome back to Canada, doctor."
"I--" dropped out, he thinks, but the impetus for honesty fails him. "Thanks. Wish me luck on the boards."
She brings her full face to bear on him, and he's suddenly struck by how beautiful she is. Brown eyes, and short-but-stylish black hair top a freckled nose and lips that seem to default to a side-smile. "Best of luck, Jason". That kind of warmth would be seldom seen, much less expected from a security-type in a black flak jacket. Thankfully, his obvious arousal was unnoticeable from her seat. He did his best to hide the just-as-overt ache. Jason now is entirely occupied with the thoughts of just what was under the protective vest she has on.
"Thank-youuuu," he replies, looking at her name tag, going through with humorously stiff formality, "Officer L Shaver."
She tilts her head in deference. "Take the signed declaration slip to the officer on your right. Next!"
He moves on, and is at the luggage carousel before his mind clicks: L. Shaver? Laurie? No, it couldn't be. It probably wasn't anyways. A coincidence, maybe, but the age still fit. Funny.

And Back Again

The final descent comes with his head and weary eyes held in the hand that doesn't nurse the dwindling drink in its glass. Rubbing his temples, wiping his nose, he leans against the little plastic window to see what he dreaded-
Toronto. Home again, home again, and not for the best.
Table tray going up, the stewardess looks impatiently at the shoddy excuse for a mojito he clutches like a favoured child. No fresh mint on-board, and the lime juice is stale, but the rum still burns clean through the distaste.
"Almost done." He says in a feigned smile, which is returned with visible irritation. He doesn't want to have to chug it back, but it's certainly coming to that. This was his last drink ticket, and almost the last of the currency left in a wallet thinning faster than his hair. She marches off in a huff, reminding other passengers to secure their seatbelts and secure their luggage. He almost wants to peer out luridly into the isle to watch those stocking'ed high heels smoke down the length of the cabin, but he's too damn exhausted.
Without strength or will, he collapses again back into his seat, possessing only balance enough to keep the drink from spilling on a rumpled shirt. Hell of a thing to explain to customs, passport or not. As if being the only passenger on a red-eye flight to fit the flight's description. Shit, too many drink tickets and not enough altitude to keep the drunk out.
And now, back to the city that spawned him. Up-river, up-stream, and down the throat of the waiting bear. It'd be all too much to handle.
Well, it was.
His fingers tremble at still lips, wishing for a cigarette even after realizing he never smoked before. There had been cigars, back in the time before. Cigars, rum, and sunshine. Now, it would be LCBOs and pretend-spring with sleet on the side. He hadn't even gotten a tan to remember the place with.
Toronto, Toronto. Goddammit.

A strange diet..

Ash wakes up with a grimace and a cough. She winces even in the feeblest rays of sun. Her hand goes to cover her eyes while the other fishes blindly for the packet of Belmonts. Fingers probe out the sleep dust, the remains of a multi-course dinner of bourbon and codeine, piercing the sockets. The sudden image of prodding a fork into an electrical socket becomes the apt comparison. Sparks fly in her mind, tinfoil in the microwave.
"Ughhhh."
The kind of hangover that would cause any lesser person to wake up screaming, followed by screaming at the sound of screaming, and so forth. She clenches her teeth and scowls. Cigarette face on, she plants one between yielding jaws, and is half-way through sucking back before she realizes it hasn't been lit.
"Ughhhhhhh."
Tattoos on her forearm are mixed around enough that you might miss the lettering entirely- 'You're damn straight it is', reads her left; 'Deadline', reads her right. Her silver lighter reads 'Bitch'. These are the things that put her morning in perspective: Facts, function, and fuckin'-A attitude. She smiles whenever she has her little trinity.
The hair is gone again, victim of charity. A non-cigarette-duty hand brushes over the stubbly memory. It's a nice feeling, sign of the new cycle.
Same as the old cycle. Ash pulls her laptop up onto her stomach and whips up the screen.
The editor's paunchy emails dot her inbox. Ash's right arm flares up, 'Deadline'. Of course it would be this morning. Fuck. Irritation mixes with a sudden burst of hangover, and she almost bites clean through the filter. Cold coffee is gargled as an afterthought, shotgunned in pursuit of a caffeine rush to keep the pain at bay. The butt is tossed into the empty mug, and the Bitch lighter sparks the morning's second course of exhaust. Tasty, but not enough...
Her writing cap is slipped over her brow. Classic brown fedora, inexplicably spotless after years of ravenous nicotine abuse. She flexes her typing tendons, clearly in her element, Queen Bitch of the Broadcast. 6000 words need to be put together, and she's been given a cap as to the frequency use of the word 'fuck' and its derivatives. Narrative pulls at her fingertips impatiently, urging them to produce. Ash grins as she yields to it. Bourbon, codeine, nicotine, caffeine-- journalism. Dessert.
"You're damn straight it is. Goddamn straight."

Another night out

She wasn't so much lying on him, so much as giving the sense that she'd been poured out on top of the sofa, with him in between. The party raged on in the background, having razed the notion of peace and quiet within the neighbourhood; always the good sign of a killer night.
Craig looked at her murmering form, as she drooled a pool of lite-beer-strength saliva into his jeans. Thankfully, Trish wasn't one for puking. A lethargic drunk was the preferable kind of wingwoman, given the option. Other chicks at the party gave knowing smiles as they passed. He attempted to smile back, trying to mouth out-
"She's not my girlfriend!"
Nobody seemed to care, not really. It wasn't like he was loading her into a backseat or carting her off with furtive-looking lads for a taste of a one-sided pleasure of the most dishonest kind. That'd be a quick call to the police, and damned right of them to do so.
Of course, it wasn't fair. All the chicks here were just in varying states of reduced will, slavering from one set of pecs to the next, their eyes lingering hungrily on appropriately tight jeans. The nearest hookup was brought into being with the agreeance of eye contact: a passive nod, a teasing sideglance, a scowling half-lidded glare. An unspoken communication that transcended the constant noisy throb of the din. All other conversation was just a cover for the act, mere pretense.
This wasn't a sight better than the men, who baited their traps with the enthusiasm of pre-pubescents. Some winked and made faces, apparently having no knowledge of what the game was called, much less having read the rules. Too much prey without chase, and the huntresses would lose interest, eyes roving to the next available target.
Craig still sat helplessly, a deaf-mute anthropologist with only a comatose translator-turned-lap-moistener. Shit.
He fumbled for his drink. Oily vodka, hastily mixed in a Mason jar with a panopoly of nominally appropriate liquors assaulted his sobriety with blunt heat. The bitter-tasting concoction did knock him into an easier state, but was hell going down. Served him right for having mixed his own stuff, what with Jason being busy with his Tom Cruise thing with the cocktail shakers for some pair of tits with a girl hanging off of them. What a horny jerk. An amazed titter broke out as the man poured blue flame into the nearest Collins glass. Craig bit angrily into the cocktail onion, savouring the vague sweetness of it as he watched Jason loosen some of his admirers' inhibitions. Hunters had become the hunted.
"Having fun?"
Craig turned to see the wavering form of Trish's partner, Alexa. She picked at her nose ring, looking down at her mostly-conscious girlfriend.
"It's a blast. Help me get this sack of wet potatoes off of my crotch, please?"
Alexa nodded obligingly, grabbing Trish's underarms and shifting her top half onto the empty side of the couch.
"Bit of a light-weight, isn't she?"
"Yeah. She should be more like you," said Craig, "Superdyke."
"Behold, mortal, my resistance to your feeble alcohols!" Alexa thrust a fist in the air, as if taking off. They broke out into laughter, joined by a petite brunette who was walking by.
"What would be the point in that kind of superpower?" broke in the brunette, "It would take all the fun out it!"
Craig did his best to keep in his role, pushing his concentration above the sea of alcohol. Set the scene, be evasive. "What are you talking about? Half the fun's in the taste." He jiggled the empty Mason jar. "It's an experience into itself, combining the right ingredients and enjoying a finished product."
"And nobody's more knowledgeable than Craig--" started Jason, having appeared behind them with a fresh drink in hand. Craig widened his eyes with irritation, subtly baring territorial canines. A smooth wink from the bartender soothed the savage beast. "You left your cocktail at the counter. Wish I could mix like that."
Craig took the gift with silent thanks, cooly turning back to the brunette, who stared at the shifting contents of the glass.
"Woww. That looks amazing."
He passed her the cocktail, grinning to himself. Killer night, huh.

Repost: On Non-Somnulence

I don't have insomnia. I just forget how to sleep every now and then, when niggling little thoughts distract my attention.

They catch up with you, those little niggling thoughts.
Sometimes, they're a welcome addition to the whole family of ideas that go racing around in your skull. Othertimes, well, they just tend to overstay their welcomes. Slavering little hyenas, yelping and fucking, persistently nipping at you no matter how you jam your eyelids shut.
But this is why you're so afraid of numbers-- it's not your taxes or your phone bill-- it's not that you were traumatized to find out that seven ate nine-- it's not that your father beat you with a switch every time you forgot a decimal place of pi-- it's that fucking clock of yours. It's liquid crystal dripping, like some kind of Chinese Water Torture, every agonizing drop a an aeon you've been kept awake.
It's in league with the hyenas, I swear. The two of them, mocking you, forcing you to turn and twist as your bedsheets contort around you. The ravenous fabric python constricts and envelops, choking you. Oh, but the python is a damned tease, and refuses to carry out the motions in full by delivering you into oblivion. It just half-kills you while the hyena-thoughts pick apart your thought-muscles. And the red glowing numbers, the king of your dysnumeria, tell you that it's barely been a minute since you last checked it.

But I have to be up tomorrow. I have things to do. I'm going to be dead tired, I'm going to be a zombie. Like that little horrid little jungle that was your bedroom gives a damn about you. Survival of the fittest, and you're barely fit for scraps. The fresh sweat beads impetuously across the whole of your body. Can't-bare-to-acknowledge-o'clock-in-the-m

orning, and you're busy knotted in a damp alien place that offers you no comfort. You start to curse the need for sleep, curse your body, curse your brain-stuff for keeping you occupied with repetitive trivia.

It's the worst kind of addiction, you know, and a deadly kind of withdrawal that few (if any) can kick. Get them hooked while they're young, and they're lifelong addicts, spending a third of their life in thrall to this most potent of hallucinogenic-paralytic restorative draughts. Every night, I'm left to wonder, how would I ever give up sleep?