LJ Idol: One Touch (Week 7)
Patty Sheridan was dead.
She lay sprawled out on the sidewalk, blue eyes wide open, blond hair fanned out over the dirty concrete. A crowd had gathered, many squatting into uncomfortable positions to examine the body. A tragedy! And this girl in the very blossom of her youth! So beautiful! A crime scene investigator in a blue hat mumbled something unintelligible, nursing a cigar. The smoke stank. He was overweight. He watched the investigator.
If you looked at it from his perspective, this really wasn't his fault. Not this time, or any other time. He was always so careful, but could you blame a guy if he slipped now and then? The crowd continued to lament the loss of Patty Sheridan. Whispers kicked up about her parents. What sort of man was the father? Could he have done this? Why don't I ever see the mother? I heard that her old man locked her in the closet. Could he have killed her, and Patty, too? Where's the blood? Why isn't there a mark on her?
There was. If you looked closely enough, he knew that on her right shoulder, just where shoulder was nearly arm, there was a small circular bruise, no larger than the tip of a finger. His finger, specifically. She'd been so lovely, standing in the afternoon sun, purse slung over one shoulder, combing her fingers through her blond hair. He'd been aching to feel her against his hand. Just his hand, or maybe just a finger. Her tank top was orange creme colored and it matched the ribbon in her hair. It was all very 1957 family sitcom, but he was a sucker for that sort of thing. The whole Leave it to Beaver "everyone play nice and ride bikes together in the cul de sac" mantra made him feel sort of warm and fuzzy inside. And that was something different, for him.
He hadn't really meant to touch her, though. He never did. It was almost always an accident, unless it was a job. And she hadn't been a job. But, management had never complained when he'd fucked it up. That was sort of the thing about eternal damnation and torment - they wanted you to fuck it up, so you'd let the guilt eat away at you later. Of course, he'd transcended that point long ago and was just biding his time, now. Sure, he still felt a twinge of regret as they covered Patty Sheridan's face with a crisp white sheet and loaded her into the ambulance. Her mother had pulled up in a black sedan, her face a splotchy red and white. He didn't like human suffering, particularly by his hand, but Patty had been one of many causalities during his time on the clock. One of many faces he'd chosen to forget.
He'd tried everything he could think of. Seclusion had made it worse. It left him yearning so brazenly for human contact that entire families had paid monumentally for it. Of course, carrying a scythe and announcing to new acquaintances that you are the Bringer of Doom and Demise tended to be just as ineffective. Subterfuge was usually the best bet, but often lured people into false senses of security in his presence. He'd used pseudonyms and disguises of varying types. Back stories and family histories were often made up on the fly. He gave himself different accents and countries of origin. But, in spite of his best efforts to the contrary, he would eventually, inevitably set his hands onto someone, and snuff them out like a candle. All it took was one touch. One brush of his fingertips against their temple or the hollow of their necks. The sweep of hair behind their ears that brought his fingers a little too close to their cheeks. After nights of drunken debauchery, the morning news inevitably lit up with headlines of peculiar deaths around the city. Six women dead in Manhattan apartment - no signs of trauma, cause of death a mystery. And we won't even discuss sex. It happened just the one time, and to say it was awkward would be the understatement of the century.
At first, it had been devastating. The first beautiful woman to drop dead at his feet from a fingertip to the jawline had left him in agony for months. The guilt had seeped through his gut like poison, eating him from the inside out. But, as time went on, he began to approach the problem as something of a challenge. How far could he go without killing them? Could he wear gloves to save them? (He found, to his ultimate chagrin, that he could not.) Could he control his desire for human contact? It was all part of the whole punishment thing. Torment and agony, and all of that. He must have been one more son of a bitch in his day, but fuck if he could remember that now. By the time Patty Sheridan came along, it was all relatively routine. She'd just been so lovely. A real diamond in the fucking rough. And it had been years since he'd broken. He wouldn't feel bad about that, now.
It was getting dark outside. A red-haired girl stood up on the sidewalk, arms wrapped around herself. She wasn't crying, but she was visibly upset. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment before stepping onto the pavement and starting across the street. He liked the look of her. He liked her white jogging shorts and too-long socks. Her tank top was too tight and he liked that, too. He called out to her.
"You're Julie, right?"
She paused. "Right." Her voice was tight.
"You a friend of Patty's?"
She shrugged. "Used to be. What's it to you?"
"You just look upset, is all. Thought I might buy you a cup of coffee."
"Who're you?"
"I'm Derrick."
"Well, I'm twenty-three, Derrick. Make it a vodka and cranberry."
He smiled at her. "Fair enough."
If anyone besides Patty Sheridan was worth the risk, it was Julie. He lit up a cigarette, offering her one. She accepted, and they walked in silence toward the lights of downtown. He'd pay for this later. Probably feel pretty goddamn lousy about it, truth be told. No, this time would be different. This time wouldn't be like Patty. Or Monica, or Katie, or Sarah or Jane. Or the Smith triplets. Or the stripper in Las Vegas. This time, it would be good. This time he would control himself. This time, he wouldn't touch.
He was Death, sure. But he didn't have to be a fucking clumsy prick about it.
This entry was written for therealljidol, Season 6, Week 7
She lay sprawled out on the sidewalk, blue eyes wide open, blond hair fanned out over the dirty concrete. A crowd had gathered, many squatting into uncomfortable positions to examine the body. A tragedy! And this girl in the very blossom of her youth! So beautiful! A crime scene investigator in a blue hat mumbled something unintelligible, nursing a cigar. The smoke stank. He was overweight. He watched the investigator.
If you looked at it from his perspective, this really wasn't his fault. Not this time, or any other time. He was always so careful, but could you blame a guy if he slipped now and then? The crowd continued to lament the loss of Patty Sheridan. Whispers kicked up about her parents. What sort of man was the father? Could he have done this? Why don't I ever see the mother? I heard that her old man locked her in the closet. Could he have killed her, and Patty, too? Where's the blood? Why isn't there a mark on her?
There was. If you looked closely enough, he knew that on her right shoulder, just where shoulder was nearly arm, there was a small circular bruise, no larger than the tip of a finger. His finger, specifically. She'd been so lovely, standing in the afternoon sun, purse slung over one shoulder, combing her fingers through her blond hair. He'd been aching to feel her against his hand. Just his hand, or maybe just a finger. Her tank top was orange creme colored and it matched the ribbon in her hair. It was all very 1957 family sitcom, but he was a sucker for that sort of thing. The whole Leave it to Beaver "everyone play nice and ride bikes together in the cul de sac" mantra made him feel sort of warm and fuzzy inside. And that was something different, for him.
He hadn't really meant to touch her, though. He never did. It was almost always an accident, unless it was a job. And she hadn't been a job. But, management had never complained when he'd fucked it up. That was sort of the thing about eternal damnation and torment - they wanted you to fuck it up, so you'd let the guilt eat away at you later. Of course, he'd transcended that point long ago and was just biding his time, now. Sure, he still felt a twinge of regret as they covered Patty Sheridan's face with a crisp white sheet and loaded her into the ambulance. Her mother had pulled up in a black sedan, her face a splotchy red and white. He didn't like human suffering, particularly by his hand, but Patty had been one of many causalities during his time on the clock. One of many faces he'd chosen to forget.
He'd tried everything he could think of. Seclusion had made it worse. It left him yearning so brazenly for human contact that entire families had paid monumentally for it. Of course, carrying a scythe and announcing to new acquaintances that you are the Bringer of Doom and Demise tended to be just as ineffective. Subterfuge was usually the best bet, but often lured people into false senses of security in his presence. He'd used pseudonyms and disguises of varying types. Back stories and family histories were often made up on the fly. He gave himself different accents and countries of origin. But, in spite of his best efforts to the contrary, he would eventually, inevitably set his hands onto someone, and snuff them out like a candle. All it took was one touch. One brush of his fingertips against their temple or the hollow of their necks. The sweep of hair behind their ears that brought his fingers a little too close to their cheeks. After nights of drunken debauchery, the morning news inevitably lit up with headlines of peculiar deaths around the city. Six women dead in Manhattan apartment - no signs of trauma, cause of death a mystery. And we won't even discuss sex. It happened just the one time, and to say it was awkward would be the understatement of the century.
At first, it had been devastating. The first beautiful woman to drop dead at his feet from a fingertip to the jawline had left him in agony for months. The guilt had seeped through his gut like poison, eating him from the inside out. But, as time went on, he began to approach the problem as something of a challenge. How far could he go without killing them? Could he wear gloves to save them? (He found, to his ultimate chagrin, that he could not.) Could he control his desire for human contact? It was all part of the whole punishment thing. Torment and agony, and all of that. He must have been one more son of a bitch in his day, but fuck if he could remember that now. By the time Patty Sheridan came along, it was all relatively routine. She'd just been so lovely. A real diamond in the fucking rough. And it had been years since he'd broken. He wouldn't feel bad about that, now.
It was getting dark outside. A red-haired girl stood up on the sidewalk, arms wrapped around herself. She wasn't crying, but she was visibly upset. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment before stepping onto the pavement and starting across the street. He liked the look of her. He liked her white jogging shorts and too-long socks. Her tank top was too tight and he liked that, too. He called out to her.
"You're Julie, right?"
She paused. "Right." Her voice was tight.
"You a friend of Patty's?"
She shrugged. "Used to be. What's it to you?"
"You just look upset, is all. Thought I might buy you a cup of coffee."
"Who're you?"
"I'm Derrick."
"Well, I'm twenty-three, Derrick. Make it a vodka and cranberry."
He smiled at her. "Fair enough."
If anyone besides Patty Sheridan was worth the risk, it was Julie. He lit up a cigarette, offering her one. She accepted, and they walked in silence toward the lights of downtown. He'd pay for this later. Probably feel pretty goddamn lousy about it, truth be told. No, this time would be different. This time wouldn't be like Patty. Or Monica, or Katie, or Sarah or Jane. Or the Smith triplets. Or the stripper in Las Vegas. This time, it would be good. This time he would control himself. This time, he wouldn't touch.
He was Death, sure. But he didn't have to be a fucking clumsy prick about it.
This entry was written for therealljidol, Season 6, Week 7