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Waiting For The Rain
by Pablo
EMAIL: little_claps@yahoo.com
DISTRIBUTION: Archived on Elegant Slumming,
http://www.obsessedmuch.net/elegant_slumming/ Anyone
else just ask.
SPOILERS: Set after Dead End. Spoilers up to that
episode.
CLASSIFICATION: Lindsey/Angel
SUMMARY: Trip inside Lindsey’s mind. After he leaves
LA, before he gets where he’s going
RATING: R
FEEDBACK: Please, please, please, please, please ...
er I mean, just if you want to.
DISCLAIMER: .I don’t own any of these characters. If I
did do you think I would have the time let alone the
energy to write about it. .
DEDICATION: Thanks to Yvette for the beta and to Zahra
for helping out the “Dead-End” deprived amongst us.
Thanks also to all of you that have been helping fuel
my Lindsey obsession ... you know who you are. Also
HAPPY BIRTHDAY SAM. Since I didn’t say anything on
list.
Improv # 20 : Twin - Deaf - Mild - Asleep
********************************
Moves the lip of the bottle back to the glass and
pours.
Misty, unclean glass half full and he remembers that
he’s been drinking for long enough that if he doesn’t
stop soon he’ll keep pouring and lose some of the
bourbon that’s left in the bottle. Not much left and
Lindsey doesn’t want to waste it.
Numb.
Can’t remember the last night he didn’t end up sitting
here in this seedy motel room drinking bourbon, trying
to feel something other than that what he is. How “he”
made him feel.
Doesn’t bother resealing the bottle again, just leaves
the top off, lying next to it on the dirty wooden
table top. Years of filth ingrained in to the surface.
No longer able to be cleaned. Effects of life stain
everything, even people.
Glass to his lips, long mouthful, alcohol
anaesthetising his throat.
Looks at the glass, one of the first things he did
when he got here. Wandered into the bathroom, rinsed
out the only glass he found there. Moved it into the
place it’s been occupying ever since. Next to him on
the table, only time it isn’t there is when it’s in
his hand.
After the first night he’d tried to clean it. Rinse it
in the rusty tap in the bathroom, wiping it against
the threadbare towel that was there. Had given up soon
after. Couldn’t see the point when he was just going
to fill it straight up again.
Another sip. Eyes back down. Hooded and heavy as he
tries to breathe, can almost taste the alcohol on his
breath as he exhales. Everything has adopted a haze,
thin sheen covering everything he can see. Alcohol
distorting his vision.
Wants it to do more, wants it to take away the way
he’s feeling inside. Hollowness where his heart used
to be. Dull ache in his chest. Least when he gets to
this stage of the night he might start to forget about
“him”.
Running on empty.
Head drifting down, hand still on the table resting
against the glass. Other hand wiping on the thin
cotton shirt he’s wearing, stained with too much wear,
knows he should change but really couldn’t care less.
Can’t recall ever feeling this numb, this hollow. Even
when he was there, embracing the shallow lifestyle of
corporate America. Even then he felt more alive. Like
someone cared, like he was making a difference.
Now he just feels apathetic, after this much to drink
he doesn’t give a fuck.
Reaches for the bottle again because he knows that
means he needs more. If his mind slips back to Angel
he definitely needs more to drink.
Too large mouthful on purpose, liquid scouring his
throat as he grimaces whilst swallowing. Back of his
hand wiping away what he manages to spill, flat across
his mouth.
For a moment feels good about the fact that he
remembered to put pants on when he got up this
morning, takes a moment before he realises that he
just fell asleep in them last night, still hasn’t
changed. Can’t feel so
self-righteous now.
Another night spent alone. Bottle the only company he
cares for anymore.
Killing time again.
Glass drained, fills it up again from the bottle next
to him. Eyes to his wrist and he’s thinking about
Angel again. Thinking about everything he took away
from him. Everything he didn’t even bother to give in
the first place.
Holds his hand up, close to his face. Almost can’t
tell where his new hand has been attached, faint line,
whisper-thin trail of a scar.
Reaches over the tabletop, small knife there from
where he left it last night. Same position, another
night. Opens the blade. Small blunt knife, dried blood
on the joint where it meets the handle.
Wants to feel something, wants something to remind him
of what he left behind in LA, what Angel took away
from him. Dull edge against his skin. Knows it’s not
sharp enough to do any real damage, that’s not what he
wants. He just wants something to remember.
Circles around his wrist, around the edges of where
the stump would have been. For so long hated the
reminder, every day and the first thing he thought of
was him, what he did. Hand removed in a moment. For so
long that was all he felt, hatred for Angel.
Now everyday when he wakes, he feels nothing.
Numbness seeping through his body, spends all day all
night drinking, hoping that maybe he’ll feel something
again. Wants Angel to burst in through those doors.
Come rushing in coat billowing behind him. Wants Angel
to be standing in front of him. To tell Lindsey he’s
been trying to find him.
Wants to be able to tell Angel what he thinks. //Leave
me the fuck alone Angel, I don’t want you here, You’ve
fucked up my life enough and I don’t need you anymore,
leave me the fuck alone.// Wants to just tell him he
doesn’t need him.
Blade to his wrist and once again he pulls it around,
tracing the thin scar there. Unsteady line, shallow
cut, no pain. Body numbed even though he’s dragging
the rough edge of the blade through his flesh. Twin
cut to match the scar already there. Can’t feel the
pain, not sure if that’s due to the alcohol or his
state of mind.
Wants it there, wants something back.
Wants to be able to see it, to know it's there. Wants
it to replace the other scars, the deeper ones. The
ones on the inside.
The ones he knows won't ever heal.
Can see small beads of blood forming on the line he’s
made, circles his wrist with his other hand. Gentle
pressure causing the blood to form more freely. Tiny
droplets of blood on his skin.
Moves his wrist unsteadily up to his mouth. Can taste
the redolent grittiness of it even over the odour of
the alcohol he’s been drinking, even over the alcohol
he’s spilled down the front of his shirt.
Wrist held close to his face, sneaks his tongue out
and begins to lap at it. Thick coarseness of his
tongue spreading the small amount of blood around his
wrist. Line of blood trailing there and Lindsey can
taste the bittersweet tang on his tongue. Rich coppery
taste in his mouth. Revolting at first but Lindsey can
see why you would want more. Rich saltiness making you
crave it. Can taste it sliding down the back of his
throat. Even such a small amount tastes so strong.
Wonders what his blood would have tasted like to
Angel? Wonders if he thought about tasting it. What
would he have said if he’d asked?
Quick movement from his free hand and he sweeps it
across the table. Glass, bottle flying as the back of
his hand comes into contact with them. Small shock of
pain and he can hear them shatter when they smash
against the wall, leg of the chair across the room.
Deafening silence.
Hand up to rub against his head. Smell of blood so
close. Can feel a small trail dribble down from his
hand, now elevated, raised up against the side of his
face.
Back, mouth pressed against his wrist to stop the
flow.
Strong taste in his throat, taste of his own blood and
under that something else. Something much darker,
something Lindsey doesn’t want to think about. Taste
of dust and despair. Taste of nothingness, hollowness
eating away at his insides.
Eyes pulled tightly closed as he sits there. Wasted
bourbon seeping from the shattered bottle on the
floor. Knows he doesn’t really need anymore tonight.
Is having trouble focusing on anything anyway.
Relishing the mild sting of pain from his wrist.
Lindsey stands, free hand on the table to steady
himself, other hand still up by his mouth, lips locked
to the already healing cut.
Moves over to the window, curtains yanked aside. Faded
material, unsure what colour it originally was, maybe
light blue. Now faded to a septic yellowing material.
Like everything else Lindsey can see.
Everything tinged with the faded colour of despair.
Curtains aside and he can see out the window. Across
the empty car park to the desolate wasteland beyond.
Forehead against the pane of glass, one arm up,
resting against the rotting frame. Glass still holding
heat from the scorchingly hot day. Same as always. 100
degree temperatures, no moisture in the air.
Everything reeking and tinged with dust.
Smell of death and emptiness in his nostrils. Dry
blankness.
Dust from the people and the lack of life here.
Lindsey can’t even comprehend the last time it must
have rained here. Large cracks in the earth. Dryness
in the land. No moisture.
Closes his eyes and he can still see the cracks,
jagged scars in the earth that swallow everything
inside. Till everything’s gone, nothing left but those
scars. Etched in his memory as distinctly and as real
as they are on the shattered remains of what must have
once grown here. No life anymore and Lindsey thinks he
couldn’t be in any place more suitable.
Wonders if this is what he looks like on the inside.
Everything shattered and cracked. No life-bringing
rain to make everything grow. Much needed moisture,
without which everything just withers and dies. Thinks
that if he could look inside himself he’d probably
look even more barren than the sight he can see.
Knows it’s been too long since he let someone inside.
Everything in his life so dull and faded. Washed out
to a monochromatic remembrance of what it used to be.
Turns back, pulls the curtains clumsily shut. Wants to
make sure the light doesn’t wake him when the sun
rises. When he starts this all again tomorrow.
Back towards the other side of the room. Remembers at
the last moment the broken glass and bottle obscured
somewhere in the darkness of the room. Doesn’t bother
changing his course, keeps walking.
Unsure if he stands on any of the tiny fractured
remains as he walks. Can’t feel anything but it’s been
so long that he’s used to feeling just like that.
Nothing.
Falls towards the bed, clothes still on. Crawls
upwards to the crumpled mass of the pillow.
Fingers against the already healing mark on his wrist.
Rubs at the cut until it starts to bleed a little
again. Small dribble of blood.
Rolls over, presses his face against the barely filled
pillow. Neck straining in displeasure. Pushes his face
tight. Wrist leaving a shiny trail of blood on the bed
covers, which he doesn’t even bother to get under.
Face pushed against there hard, tries to pretend he
can’t feel the tears seeping from his eyes, forming a
trail over his dirty sweat stained cheeks. Pretends,
because guys like him don’t cry.
Although at least when he’s crying he’s feeling
something.
the end.
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