Devils & Gods 9/12
May. 31st, 2012 04:52 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
whedonistTitle: Devils & Gods
Fandom: Nikki & Nora
Pairing: Nikki & Nora
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nikki & Nora are not mine, but it kinda feels like they are. The characters from the pilot aren't either. BUT - there's a whole lot of original ones that are in this little story so...*yay* for me.
Author’s Note: Three chapters left after this…I hope yinz all enjoy it.
Ch. 9 – Dark Is Whole
Jill’s already waiting in Bruce’s passenger seat by the time I get to the car and hop into the driver’s seat. Cranking the SUV over, the pads of my fingers drum across the steering wheel. I kind of want to get to my daddy’s a little on the quicker side, but…
One look at my friend’s bouncing left leg and the manducated fingernails of her left hand and…
Perhaps discretion would serve her nerves better than my giving into my impatient nature.
I put Bruce into drive, pull away from the curb and steer us through a knot of traffic before I reach out to grab her left hand. I do like I would with Nora and lace our fingers together, offering the digits a gentle squeeze for reassurance and communicating that she’s not alone. One thing I’ve noticed about Jill during this whole thing is that she internalizes…a lot like Nora does. They’d live in their heads if they could.
I hear her release a breath, it’s long and sounds somewhat cathartic for her. “You want to put on some music?” I ask knowing that she usually has something playing and it helps her. She’s said on a few occasions that she’d rather read and listen to music than watch television.
I can appreciate that and truthfully, we need all the soothing we can get.
“I, uhm, actually…” she chews on her the corner of her lower lip and looks around. She lifts the latch on the middle console and grunts, “Ah-ha. Cool. This…” She pulls out the auxiliary cord to the sound system. We’ve never actually used it, but when I picked out Bruce, the dealer made sure to put one of those in there. He said it’d help when there was nothing on the radio.
She fiddles with the sound system and then takes her phone out and plugs the audio jack into the headset port on her phone. She obviously knows what she’s doing and seems to know more about my car’s audio system than I do so I let her go.
From the corner of my eye, I watch her scroll through her iPhone’s library. Goodness knows what all she has on there. Her music collection rivals Darius’ and Chris’ put together. She tuts and then I hear a click before a fiddle and driving drum beat fill Bruce’s cabin.
She sets her phone down in the middle console and leans back against the seat. I take my eyes from the road to watch her tip her head back and close her eyes. As the music carries forward in to this…I’m not sure what to call it. There are fiddles and a guitar, bass, drums and horns. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything quite like it, but it helps her.
Her shoulders droop just a little. Her left leg stops fidgeting and instead moves to the beat of the bass drum.
I’ll take whatever we can get right now.
“I know,” she finally speaks in a full sentence instead of the broken grunts and stammers of insecurity that’s been common all day, “it’s a little weird, but these guys, Larry and His Flask, are fucking awesome live. Think, like bluegrass punk rock.”
“Hmm, it is different, darling. I’ll give you that,” I keep my teasing light. Her response is to reach out and take my right hand again.
“Thank you,” she mumbles, her eyes still closed.
“I haven’t done anything,” I say gently. I know Ann’s been keeping a close eye on her, Nora has too, but for some reason, I’ve been the one to go after her or keep her company.
“Bullshit. You’ve been stuck up my ass more than my wife. Thank you,” she says again. “I love her, but I need her to focus on the case. She’s having a really hard time with that right now. The only reason I’ve been somewhat copacetic is because you’ve been around to pick up the pieces without her seeing.”
“Jill…” I try to deflect. That’s not entirely fair to her wife or to Nora and me. We’ve all been worried. Jill’s a force. She would have to be to have the career that she has and she’s been insecure, fidgeting and anxious since finding out about being part of this in more ways than being married to one of the investigators.
“No, please, Nik. Just take the thanks and leave it at that,” she pleads. “And thank you for letting me tag along. Jen and I knocked out the set up on the benefit pretty quick and I’ve been going crazy today with nothing to do.”
“What about your books and music?” I ask.
“I can’t focus on a damn thing. I gave up on reading after the third read through of the same paragraph,” she admits as I see my dad’s house come up on our right. I pull up in front and kill the engine.
“Come on then, you can help me collect whatever his assistant beckoned me for,” I say exiting the car. I meet up with her on the side walk and here her whistle.
“Impressive,” she sing songs and wiggles her eyebrows. “I didn’t know you grew up in such swanky digs.”
I roll my eyes at her. We’re on the edge of Uptown, but still in the Garden District. It’s the same house we’ve had in my family for as long as I can remember. “My grandmother grew up here. It’s been in the family for forever…”
She snickers. “Yes, but you’ve seen my childhood home. I think my house could fit on half of your front lawn.”
“Jillybean,” I purposefully use her childhood nickname, “you behave.”
She sighs but says, “Yes, dear.”
I push open the front door and motion Jill through. “I’d give you a tour, but I think we’re on a time crunch.” I watch her shrug and look around as I call out, “Lorene!”
My father’s assistant comes bustling through the archway that leads to his study, “Ms. Beaumont, thank heavens.” Her eyes are a little wild which causes me to step back.
“Lorene, this is a dear friend of mine, Mrs. Jill Flemming,” I introduce the two.
“Mrs. Flemming, while it is a pleasure to meet you, you’ll have to excuse Ms…”
“Detective,” I assert. I usually don’t care, but with Lorene…for some reason the way she insists on calling me by my last name grates. I’d rather be a detective to her than a miss.
“I’m sorry; you’ll have to excuse Det. Beaumont and myself for just a moment.” Lorene doesn’t say anything else before she takes hold of my jacket sleeve and tugs me into the study.
I look over my shoulder and Jill follows us. I shoot her a wink and she grins.
As Lorene lets my sleeve go and rounds the desk, she looks up and stutters, “Mrs. Flemming if you’d like I can have Carl show you to the sitting room…”
“She stays, Lorene,” I snap. “Mrs. Flemming is riding with me all day. Anything that you can say to me, she will be afforded the same courtesy.”
“I…” Lorene tries to argue.
“This isn’t something I’m going to debate, Lorene. Jill stays.” I fold my arms across my chest and wait for her to get over herself.
She flaps her jaws a few times but finally gives up. “I was going through Mr. Beaumont’s mail and happened upon this.” Her long, red lacquered nail flicks the edge of a large manila envelope.
I stiffen at the familiar script. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. With my head bowed, I ask, “Has anyone else touched or seen this?”
“No…I…once I saw the contents, I called you immediately,” Lorene answers. “Do you have any idea what your father would say or do if he saw what I did?”
No.
Not really.
I don’t even know what’s inside. I just know that it can’t be good.
I search my pockets and realize that I didn’t bring any gloves with me.
None of the other envelopes held any useful forensic evidence thus far.
Making an executive decision, I reach out and pick the blasted thing up.
The top edge has been slit by the silver letter opener on the edge of the desk. I take a deep breath and reach in to pinch the edge of thick, photo paper between my index and thumb. Jill steps up behind me as I remove the photos I know are inside.
I toss the envelope down on to the desk and stop at a decent head shot of myself. My head tips to the side. When was this taken?
The collar of the coat that’s visible is one that was ruined nearly two years ago. It was a wonderful brown leather jacket Nora had picked up for me. I ran down Sam Eden in a thunderstorm wearing that coat. It was never the same and I had to get rid of it.
I squeeze the top edge of the photo and shuffle it to the bottom of the stack. The next photo is the same head shot, but altered. A strip of skin on the right side of my face has been removed.
It’s obviously a doctored photo but…
Jill’s hand grips my hip as I shuffle through the rest of the photos. They progress in severity. Each photo reveals less of my actual face and more of the muscle and tissue that would lie underneath.
Acid burns the back of my throat.
I set the photos down and try…
The nausea is sudden and overwhelming.
Breaking away from Jill, I barely manage to make it to the wastepaper basket next to the desk.
Embarrassing as it is to admit, it took a good ten minutes to get me to calm down enough. Jill, thankfully, was amazing. When I did my own brand of capitulation, she merely waved me off, something about that was nothing. She’d seen some amazing meltdowns at runway shows.
Which I believe.
Lorene wasn’t much help either, but I’m glad she decided to get me involved before giving those to my father. He doesn’t need to know those exist.
I made sure Lorene understood that she wasn’t to speak of it. The woman is a pain sometimes, but I will say her loyalties are in the right order. I owe her for that at the very least.
After I had managed to pull myself together, we decided to go back to the station, but we’re stuck in traffic. I rest my head on my left fist. Jill decided to put something a little softer on, Missy Higgins. She said it’s her ‘anti-kill’ music. “Explain that again to me?” I ask finally getting some semblance of normalcy back to my system.
She stops singing along and looks at me. “’Splain what?” she asks in a horrible Australian accent.
I snort, I can’t help it. The giggle soon follows. “You’re ‘anti-kill’ music?”
“Oh, Missy Higgins…she’s fucking brilliant. Like do you know who Tori Amos is?” she asks and I shake my head. Her face sours. “And you call yourself a lesbian? Where were you when Little Earthquakes hit, the moon?”
I shrug.
She rolls her eyes and fills me in, “Tori Amos started playing piano when she was two. Went to the Peabody Conservatory when she was five and she started writing her own stuff. Got kicked out when she was eleven for well, being herself. From there she just did her own thing, but so you have a frame of reference, Tori Amos equals ‘oh-my-god-she’s-fucking-brilliant’ and that when I say what I’m about to say next you can appreciate the enormity of it all.” She pokes her finger at my shoulder and grins.
“You are crazy, sug. You do know that right?” I remind her. The line of cars in front of me begins to thin and I pick my head up off my fist and begin to actually move Bruce through traffic.
She doesn’t continue right away and instead waits until we hang a right so we can go back to the station. “Okay, so right, Tori Amos is genius and I love her music, she’s a little different, like artsy different, y’know?” I nod. I’ve known a few of those in my day.
“Well, Missy Higgins isn’t like a child prodigy or anything, but she’s amazing and her music sort of hits me right here,” she taps her chest. “She won a contest her sister entered her in when she was in school. That’s how she got discovered, but she’s awesome. Her music does what Tori’s can’t sometimes. It sort of calms me down and gives me a chance to gain perspective on things. Also, some of her arrangements…” I look over to her and glance up out of the passenger window then up at the light. It’s green. I whip my head back to look at Jill. My mouth falls open to warn her. She says, “…are killer. She sometimes does it better than Tor…”
The Econo-line Van barrels through their red light. I can’t even warn her as it slams into her side. She pitches towards me. Body flailing like a rag doll and is yanked back. Her head makes a sickening crunch to the passenger side window. The glass splinters and crumbles. The side airbags deploy and she slumps over.
The forward momentum of the van pitches Bruce to the right. Tires screech and whine in protest. Metal grinds and whines. Bruce loses transaction, leaving us to the mercy of the van. I grip the steering wheel and slam my foot on the accelerator. Moving counter intuitively, my hope lies in the tires of my car catching a bit of pavement to move us forward.
The engine grinds and sputters.
We careen through the intersection instead. The van dictating our direction.
Shit.
“Jill!” I manage to get out. I don’t do anything else as I see something coming at us from the left.
The van’s engine revs.
In a split second of realization I know what’s happening. I can do nothing but brace myself. I let off the accelerator and watch us. Jill’s phone is thrown left, sailing past my nose to bounce against the glass of my side window. Tires squeal and the sound of more wrenching metal fill the interior of the cabin as we hit a telephone poll. I feel a sharp snap along my left thigh right before I’m slammed against the door.
In my thirty-eight years, I’ve experience all types of ‘coming to’. There’s the slow and gentle kind. The immediate kind and startled kind. The hazy and lazy kind. Most of them aren’t horrible.
Except this one.
One moment I’m dreaming about the accident and the next, my brain snaps alive and the memories rush forward. My breath hitches and the intake of air burns through my right side.
The searing pain keeps my eyes closed. The realization that I’m not in a hospital bed ensures that I won’t be opening them up anytime soon.
The ground is cool and damp underneath me.
My body aches from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. I think, at this point, even my hair hurts.
I listen instead of look around. If someone is around, I’d rather them think I’m still unconscious than lucid. The problem with listening is that I don’t hear anything but the steady, raspy intake of air coming from somewhere north of my head.
The smell of the place is musty, like a basement, but less mildewy and dirtier.
Weight along both of my wrists and a gentle tug confirms that I’m in cuffs or something similar.
Just fuck.
I draw in a measured breath. I need to trample down the rising panic. My heartbeat sounds too loud. My breaths are too quick and labored. It hurts too much.
I can do this, I remind myself.
I’ve been through a lot worse.
I’ve faced down a lot worse.
I bite down, grinding my teeth.
There’s no movement around me. I’m sure of that. Just the breathing. I have to hope that’s Jill.
I pray that that’s Jill. I’m willing to offer pretty much anything the Lord wants right now if I crack an eye open and see Jill breathing near me.
Deciding that’s a good a wager as God’s going to get I blink my eyes open. It hurts to look straight ahead, at the ceiling, but I do anyhow. There’s a flicker of light off to my left. It doesn’t give me much to work with.
Beggars can’t be choosers here so…
Instead, I look around, right to left. It’s dark, black and I can’t make out what kind of room I’m in. I arch my neck back and catch sight of another body laying horizontal to me. I can’t make out the face before a pulling in my left sends a wave of sickness up the back of my throat.
I twist, sputter and cough in to the floor. Dust and dirt swirl from my movement. The pain in my leg begins anew. I can’t clamp the cry of pain that bursts through. Tears sting the corner of my eyes and leak out.
Inhaling brings with it granules of dirt to coat the inside of my mouth.
I spit and heave again. I feel the burn rushing up the back of my throat and I wretch again. My head pounds. I squeeze my eyes shut and whimper. I can smell the bile next to my head and it causes more to try and work itself up. I swallow it back.
Moving sets off a chain reaction. I need to be still. I need to be still or I’m going to pass out.
I don’t think that’s a smart move right now.
Instead, I rest my forehead against the cool dirt of the floor. Take in small gulps of air and try to steady myself.
I need to think.
Let’s use what the good Lord put between our ears and think.
First thing’s first, I need to assess the damage. What’s broken, what’s not? What am I working with?
For this, I need to move and act like an adult.
God, this is going to suck.
Slow and gentle, I roll on to my back again. The movement was minimal, but I swear someone was taking the business end of a hammer to my left leg. I bite down on my lip willing the throbbing to go away. Slowly, it ebbs to a dull, consistent ache.
I pull in another deep breath and open my eyes. I pull my arms and chains clink and rattle. I have a little bit of leeway so I look right then left. My right arm is shackled to a hook in the wall. Another one is in the floor; an eyehook protrudes from a small slab of concrete. Well, I guess that answers my question.
If I’m able, I can move around a little.
Pulling up a mental image of Nora, one where she’s determined and hell bent on getting her way, I plant my hand on either side of me and push up. Everything flares. White hot bolts of agony thunder in various spots across my body.
Another wave of nausea pitches in my stomach. I bite back the bile that churns upward. I’ve never felt something like this. I swear I think I’d rather have my leg cut off than deal with this. The tears roll down my cheeks. I really don’t care.
The ache subsides enough that I’m able to open my eyes and assess the damage. I don’t need to prod my abdomen or sides to know that I’ve got at least one or two cracked maybe even broken ribs. I reach up and feel along my head. There’s some dried blood, but nothing’s actively bleeding.
All of that is good. I can live with that.
I look at my leg.
Someone has split my jeans all the way up to my hip. My left leg is sandwiched between two thin pieces of plywood and taped. My upper thigh is caked in blood. There’s a bandage peeking through the splint and the tape, which I think was once white, runs across the width of my thigh. It’s when I look at my shin that I start to panic.
The reddish-brown tip of my tibia is visible through a tear in my skin.
I lean over and wretch. The bile burns my throat and mouth. My stomach clenches, spasms and rolls all at once. Tears flow freely and clear mucus runs from my nose. I try to draw a breath, but another spasm shakes me and I heave again.
It’s clear, a little foamy and separates out from the yellow intestinal fluid.
I swallow, but another round of spasms contract my stomach and I cough up more spittle. There’s nothing left to come up. I suck in some air through my now stuffy nose and focus on getting my stomach to relax.
It takes some very deep, very painful breaths, but it happens. Slowly.
I guess that explains the pain in my leg.
I use the back of my left hand to wipe my mouth, grimacing as it comes away wet and dirty.
I right myself once again and debate my next move.
I’m not even sure I can move.
But I need to get to Jill now.
Now that I know there’s no way I’m walking out of here.
If we walk out of here.
I shake my head at the thought.
We will.
Both of us.
I just need to check on Jill.
I look around and see the small oil lamp closer to the door and far out of my reach.
Okay, so the best way to do this is…
Any way I figure, this is going to hurt like a bitch. I need to suck it up.
I plant my hands behind me and as gently as possible, raise my right leg. Leveraging myself, I use my right leg to push myself backwards and guide myself with my hands.
The pain flares, like I was expecting. It’s manageable this time.
I measure the throbbing with my breathing and control my stomach.
The movement was just enough for me to be able to reach back and touch Jill. I grab the arm of her shirt and tug her towards me. She doesn’t stir.
“Jill,” I rasp. My throat is raw and raspy. “Jill?”
I manage to pull her forward enough so that her head is by my hips and I look down.
The right side of her face is purple and green. Right above and a little back from her temple is matted and caked with blood. I smooth away some of the hair and see the laceration.
Next>>>
Fandom: Nikki & Nora
Pairing: Nikki & Nora
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nikki & Nora are not mine, but it kinda feels like they are. The characters from the pilot aren't either. BUT - there's a whole lot of original ones that are in this little story so...*yay* for me.
Author’s Note: Three chapters left after this…I hope yinz all enjoy it.
Jill’s already waiting in Bruce’s passenger seat by the time I get to the car and hop into the driver’s seat. Cranking the SUV over, the pads of my fingers drum across the steering wheel. I kind of want to get to my daddy’s a little on the quicker side, but…
One look at my friend’s bouncing left leg and the manducated fingernails of her left hand and…
Perhaps discretion would serve her nerves better than my giving into my impatient nature.
I put Bruce into drive, pull away from the curb and steer us through a knot of traffic before I reach out to grab her left hand. I do like I would with Nora and lace our fingers together, offering the digits a gentle squeeze for reassurance and communicating that she’s not alone. One thing I’ve noticed about Jill during this whole thing is that she internalizes…a lot like Nora does. They’d live in their heads if they could.
I hear her release a breath, it’s long and sounds somewhat cathartic for her. “You want to put on some music?” I ask knowing that she usually has something playing and it helps her. She’s said on a few occasions that she’d rather read and listen to music than watch television.
I can appreciate that and truthfully, we need all the soothing we can get.
“I, uhm, actually…” she chews on her the corner of her lower lip and looks around. She lifts the latch on the middle console and grunts, “Ah-ha. Cool. This…” She pulls out the auxiliary cord to the sound system. We’ve never actually used it, but when I picked out Bruce, the dealer made sure to put one of those in there. He said it’d help when there was nothing on the radio.
She fiddles with the sound system and then takes her phone out and plugs the audio jack into the headset port on her phone. She obviously knows what she’s doing and seems to know more about my car’s audio system than I do so I let her go.
From the corner of my eye, I watch her scroll through her iPhone’s library. Goodness knows what all she has on there. Her music collection rivals Darius’ and Chris’ put together. She tuts and then I hear a click before a fiddle and driving drum beat fill Bruce’s cabin.
She sets her phone down in the middle console and leans back against the seat. I take my eyes from the road to watch her tip her head back and close her eyes. As the music carries forward in to this…I’m not sure what to call it. There are fiddles and a guitar, bass, drums and horns. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything quite like it, but it helps her.
Her shoulders droop just a little. Her left leg stops fidgeting and instead moves to the beat of the bass drum.
I’ll take whatever we can get right now.
“I know,” she finally speaks in a full sentence instead of the broken grunts and stammers of insecurity that’s been common all day, “it’s a little weird, but these guys, Larry and His Flask, are fucking awesome live. Think, like bluegrass punk rock.”
“Hmm, it is different, darling. I’ll give you that,” I keep my teasing light. Her response is to reach out and take my right hand again.
“Thank you,” she mumbles, her eyes still closed.
“I haven’t done anything,” I say gently. I know Ann’s been keeping a close eye on her, Nora has too, but for some reason, I’ve been the one to go after her or keep her company.
“Bullshit. You’ve been stuck up my ass more than my wife. Thank you,” she says again. “I love her, but I need her to focus on the case. She’s having a really hard time with that right now. The only reason I’ve been somewhat copacetic is because you’ve been around to pick up the pieces without her seeing.”
“Jill…” I try to deflect. That’s not entirely fair to her wife or to Nora and me. We’ve all been worried. Jill’s a force. She would have to be to have the career that she has and she’s been insecure, fidgeting and anxious since finding out about being part of this in more ways than being married to one of the investigators.
“No, please, Nik. Just take the thanks and leave it at that,” she pleads. “And thank you for letting me tag along. Jen and I knocked out the set up on the benefit pretty quick and I’ve been going crazy today with nothing to do.”
“What about your books and music?” I ask.
“I can’t focus on a damn thing. I gave up on reading after the third read through of the same paragraph,” she admits as I see my dad’s house come up on our right. I pull up in front and kill the engine.
“Come on then, you can help me collect whatever his assistant beckoned me for,” I say exiting the car. I meet up with her on the side walk and here her whistle.
“Impressive,” she sing songs and wiggles her eyebrows. “I didn’t know you grew up in such swanky digs.”
I roll my eyes at her. We’re on the edge of Uptown, but still in the Garden District. It’s the same house we’ve had in my family for as long as I can remember. “My grandmother grew up here. It’s been in the family for forever…”
She snickers. “Yes, but you’ve seen my childhood home. I think my house could fit on half of your front lawn.”
“Jillybean,” I purposefully use her childhood nickname, “you behave.”
She sighs but says, “Yes, dear.”
I push open the front door and motion Jill through. “I’d give you a tour, but I think we’re on a time crunch.” I watch her shrug and look around as I call out, “Lorene!”
My father’s assistant comes bustling through the archway that leads to his study, “Ms. Beaumont, thank heavens.” Her eyes are a little wild which causes me to step back.
“Lorene, this is a dear friend of mine, Mrs. Jill Flemming,” I introduce the two.
“Mrs. Flemming, while it is a pleasure to meet you, you’ll have to excuse Ms…”
“Detective,” I assert. I usually don’t care, but with Lorene…for some reason the way she insists on calling me by my last name grates. I’d rather be a detective to her than a miss.
“I’m sorry; you’ll have to excuse Det. Beaumont and myself for just a moment.” Lorene doesn’t say anything else before she takes hold of my jacket sleeve and tugs me into the study.
I look over my shoulder and Jill follows us. I shoot her a wink and she grins.
As Lorene lets my sleeve go and rounds the desk, she looks up and stutters, “Mrs. Flemming if you’d like I can have Carl show you to the sitting room…”
“She stays, Lorene,” I snap. “Mrs. Flemming is riding with me all day. Anything that you can say to me, she will be afforded the same courtesy.”
“I…” Lorene tries to argue.
“This isn’t something I’m going to debate, Lorene. Jill stays.” I fold my arms across my chest and wait for her to get over herself.
She flaps her jaws a few times but finally gives up. “I was going through Mr. Beaumont’s mail and happened upon this.” Her long, red lacquered nail flicks the edge of a large manila envelope.
I stiffen at the familiar script. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. With my head bowed, I ask, “Has anyone else touched or seen this?”
“No…I…once I saw the contents, I called you immediately,” Lorene answers. “Do you have any idea what your father would say or do if he saw what I did?”
No.
Not really.
I don’t even know what’s inside. I just know that it can’t be good.
I search my pockets and realize that I didn’t bring any gloves with me.
None of the other envelopes held any useful forensic evidence thus far.
Making an executive decision, I reach out and pick the blasted thing up.
The top edge has been slit by the silver letter opener on the edge of the desk. I take a deep breath and reach in to pinch the edge of thick, photo paper between my index and thumb. Jill steps up behind me as I remove the photos I know are inside.
I toss the envelope down on to the desk and stop at a decent head shot of myself. My head tips to the side. When was this taken?
The collar of the coat that’s visible is one that was ruined nearly two years ago. It was a wonderful brown leather jacket Nora had picked up for me. I ran down Sam Eden in a thunderstorm wearing that coat. It was never the same and I had to get rid of it.
I squeeze the top edge of the photo and shuffle it to the bottom of the stack. The next photo is the same head shot, but altered. A strip of skin on the right side of my face has been removed.
It’s obviously a doctored photo but…
Jill’s hand grips my hip as I shuffle through the rest of the photos. They progress in severity. Each photo reveals less of my actual face and more of the muscle and tissue that would lie underneath.
Acid burns the back of my throat.
I set the photos down and try…
The nausea is sudden and overwhelming.
Breaking away from Jill, I barely manage to make it to the wastepaper basket next to the desk.
Embarrassing as it is to admit, it took a good ten minutes to get me to calm down enough. Jill, thankfully, was amazing. When I did my own brand of capitulation, she merely waved me off, something about that was nothing. She’d seen some amazing meltdowns at runway shows.
Which I believe.
Lorene wasn’t much help either, but I’m glad she decided to get me involved before giving those to my father. He doesn’t need to know those exist.
I made sure Lorene understood that she wasn’t to speak of it. The woman is a pain sometimes, but I will say her loyalties are in the right order. I owe her for that at the very least.
After I had managed to pull myself together, we decided to go back to the station, but we’re stuck in traffic. I rest my head on my left fist. Jill decided to put something a little softer on, Missy Higgins. She said it’s her ‘anti-kill’ music. “Explain that again to me?” I ask finally getting some semblance of normalcy back to my system.
She stops singing along and looks at me. “’Splain what?” she asks in a horrible Australian accent.
I snort, I can’t help it. The giggle soon follows. “You’re ‘anti-kill’ music?”
“Oh, Missy Higgins…she’s fucking brilliant. Like do you know who Tori Amos is?” she asks and I shake my head. Her face sours. “And you call yourself a lesbian? Where were you when Little Earthquakes hit, the moon?”
I shrug.
She rolls her eyes and fills me in, “Tori Amos started playing piano when she was two. Went to the Peabody Conservatory when she was five and she started writing her own stuff. Got kicked out when she was eleven for well, being herself. From there she just did her own thing, but so you have a frame of reference, Tori Amos equals ‘oh-my-god-she’s-fucking-brilliant’ and that when I say what I’m about to say next you can appreciate the enormity of it all.” She pokes her finger at my shoulder and grins.
“You are crazy, sug. You do know that right?” I remind her. The line of cars in front of me begins to thin and I pick my head up off my fist and begin to actually move Bruce through traffic.
She doesn’t continue right away and instead waits until we hang a right so we can go back to the station. “Okay, so right, Tori Amos is genius and I love her music, she’s a little different, like artsy different, y’know?” I nod. I’ve known a few of those in my day.
“Well, Missy Higgins isn’t like a child prodigy or anything, but she’s amazing and her music sort of hits me right here,” she taps her chest. “She won a contest her sister entered her in when she was in school. That’s how she got discovered, but she’s awesome. Her music does what Tori’s can’t sometimes. It sort of calms me down and gives me a chance to gain perspective on things. Also, some of her arrangements…” I look over to her and glance up out of the passenger window then up at the light. It’s green. I whip my head back to look at Jill. My mouth falls open to warn her. She says, “…are killer. She sometimes does it better than Tor…”
The Econo-line Van barrels through their red light. I can’t even warn her as it slams into her side. She pitches towards me. Body flailing like a rag doll and is yanked back. Her head makes a sickening crunch to the passenger side window. The glass splinters and crumbles. The side airbags deploy and she slumps over.
The forward momentum of the van pitches Bruce to the right. Tires screech and whine in protest. Metal grinds and whines. Bruce loses transaction, leaving us to the mercy of the van. I grip the steering wheel and slam my foot on the accelerator. Moving counter intuitively, my hope lies in the tires of my car catching a bit of pavement to move us forward.
The engine grinds and sputters.
We careen through the intersection instead. The van dictating our direction.
Shit.
“Jill!” I manage to get out. I don’t do anything else as I see something coming at us from the left.
The van’s engine revs.
In a split second of realization I know what’s happening. I can do nothing but brace myself. I let off the accelerator and watch us. Jill’s phone is thrown left, sailing past my nose to bounce against the glass of my side window. Tires squeal and the sound of more wrenching metal fill the interior of the cabin as we hit a telephone poll. I feel a sharp snap along my left thigh right before I’m slammed against the door.
In my thirty-eight years, I’ve experience all types of ‘coming to’. There’s the slow and gentle kind. The immediate kind and startled kind. The hazy and lazy kind. Most of them aren’t horrible.
Except this one.
One moment I’m dreaming about the accident and the next, my brain snaps alive and the memories rush forward. My breath hitches and the intake of air burns through my right side.
The searing pain keeps my eyes closed. The realization that I’m not in a hospital bed ensures that I won’t be opening them up anytime soon.
The ground is cool and damp underneath me.
My body aches from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. I think, at this point, even my hair hurts.
I listen instead of look around. If someone is around, I’d rather them think I’m still unconscious than lucid. The problem with listening is that I don’t hear anything but the steady, raspy intake of air coming from somewhere north of my head.
The smell of the place is musty, like a basement, but less mildewy and dirtier.
Weight along both of my wrists and a gentle tug confirms that I’m in cuffs or something similar.
Just fuck.
I draw in a measured breath. I need to trample down the rising panic. My heartbeat sounds too loud. My breaths are too quick and labored. It hurts too much.
I can do this, I remind myself.
I’ve been through a lot worse.
I’ve faced down a lot worse.
I bite down, grinding my teeth.
There’s no movement around me. I’m sure of that. Just the breathing. I have to hope that’s Jill.
I pray that that’s Jill. I’m willing to offer pretty much anything the Lord wants right now if I crack an eye open and see Jill breathing near me.
Deciding that’s a good a wager as God’s going to get I blink my eyes open. It hurts to look straight ahead, at the ceiling, but I do anyhow. There’s a flicker of light off to my left. It doesn’t give me much to work with.
Beggars can’t be choosers here so…
Instead, I look around, right to left. It’s dark, black and I can’t make out what kind of room I’m in. I arch my neck back and catch sight of another body laying horizontal to me. I can’t make out the face before a pulling in my left sends a wave of sickness up the back of my throat.
I twist, sputter and cough in to the floor. Dust and dirt swirl from my movement. The pain in my leg begins anew. I can’t clamp the cry of pain that bursts through. Tears sting the corner of my eyes and leak out.
Inhaling brings with it granules of dirt to coat the inside of my mouth.
I spit and heave again. I feel the burn rushing up the back of my throat and I wretch again. My head pounds. I squeeze my eyes shut and whimper. I can smell the bile next to my head and it causes more to try and work itself up. I swallow it back.
Moving sets off a chain reaction. I need to be still. I need to be still or I’m going to pass out.
I don’t think that’s a smart move right now.
Instead, I rest my forehead against the cool dirt of the floor. Take in small gulps of air and try to steady myself.
I need to think.
Let’s use what the good Lord put between our ears and think.
First thing’s first, I need to assess the damage. What’s broken, what’s not? What am I working with?
For this, I need to move and act like an adult.
God, this is going to suck.
Slow and gentle, I roll on to my back again. The movement was minimal, but I swear someone was taking the business end of a hammer to my left leg. I bite down on my lip willing the throbbing to go away. Slowly, it ebbs to a dull, consistent ache.
I pull in another deep breath and open my eyes. I pull my arms and chains clink and rattle. I have a little bit of leeway so I look right then left. My right arm is shackled to a hook in the wall. Another one is in the floor; an eyehook protrudes from a small slab of concrete. Well, I guess that answers my question.
If I’m able, I can move around a little.
Pulling up a mental image of Nora, one where she’s determined and hell bent on getting her way, I plant my hand on either side of me and push up. Everything flares. White hot bolts of agony thunder in various spots across my body.
Another wave of nausea pitches in my stomach. I bite back the bile that churns upward. I’ve never felt something like this. I swear I think I’d rather have my leg cut off than deal with this. The tears roll down my cheeks. I really don’t care.
The ache subsides enough that I’m able to open my eyes and assess the damage. I don’t need to prod my abdomen or sides to know that I’ve got at least one or two cracked maybe even broken ribs. I reach up and feel along my head. There’s some dried blood, but nothing’s actively bleeding.
All of that is good. I can live with that.
I look at my leg.
Someone has split my jeans all the way up to my hip. My left leg is sandwiched between two thin pieces of plywood and taped. My upper thigh is caked in blood. There’s a bandage peeking through the splint and the tape, which I think was once white, runs across the width of my thigh. It’s when I look at my shin that I start to panic.
The reddish-brown tip of my tibia is visible through a tear in my skin.
I lean over and wretch. The bile burns my throat and mouth. My stomach clenches, spasms and rolls all at once. Tears flow freely and clear mucus runs from my nose. I try to draw a breath, but another spasm shakes me and I heave again.
It’s clear, a little foamy and separates out from the yellow intestinal fluid.
I swallow, but another round of spasms contract my stomach and I cough up more spittle. There’s nothing left to come up. I suck in some air through my now stuffy nose and focus on getting my stomach to relax.
It takes some very deep, very painful breaths, but it happens. Slowly.
I guess that explains the pain in my leg.
I use the back of my left hand to wipe my mouth, grimacing as it comes away wet and dirty.
I right myself once again and debate my next move.
I’m not even sure I can move.
But I need to get to Jill now.
Now that I know there’s no way I’m walking out of here.
If we walk out of here.
I shake my head at the thought.
We will.
Both of us.
I just need to check on Jill.
I look around and see the small oil lamp closer to the door and far out of my reach.
Okay, so the best way to do this is…
Any way I figure, this is going to hurt like a bitch. I need to suck it up.
I plant my hands behind me and as gently as possible, raise my right leg. Leveraging myself, I use my right leg to push myself backwards and guide myself with my hands.
The pain flares, like I was expecting. It’s manageable this time.
I measure the throbbing with my breathing and control my stomach.
The movement was just enough for me to be able to reach back and touch Jill. I grab the arm of her shirt and tug her towards me. She doesn’t stir.
“Jill,” I rasp. My throat is raw and raspy. “Jill?”
I manage to pull her forward enough so that her head is by my hips and I look down.
The right side of her face is purple and green. Right above and a little back from her temple is matted and caked with blood. I smooth away some of the hair and see the laceration.
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Date: 2012-06-06 02:15 am (UTC)