"Burned" - A Drabble
Author : miss1nformation
Title : “Burned”
Characters : Jo Calderone (understood)/Lady Gaga (understood)
Rating : T/PG-13
Summary : Jo returns to the apartment he once shared with Gaga on Stanton St.
Word Count : 736
Author's Notes: just_rehearsal Prompt Challenge #1 - Bloodied (Drabble)
Warnings/Spoilers: Minor language
Acknowledgements: Thanks to my Hooker meagan4dominic for doing a quick read through for me. You’re amazing! ♥
X-posted to: just_rehearsal & thehausofgaga
He sat alone in the dark apartment on Stanton St, squatting by where their bed once sat. The front door was wide open; the only light that spilled into the bedroom came from the flickering fluorescent bulb in the hallway. Even the moon was too depressed to shine into this place he once called home. The apartment was empty. She was gone. He had really fucked up this time. He didn’t want to think she had left solely because of him, but thinking otherwise was not easy. He had a half empty bottle of beer in his hand, the condensation causing it to slowly slip from his grasp. A lit cigarette hung limply between the fingers of his other hand, the tip burning red like a hot ember. She hadn’t been gone long, maybe a week, but the landlord had already changed the locks. That didn’t matter though; he knew how to get past a shitty apartment lock in a shitty apartment building in a shitty part of town.
He opened the window that lead out to the fire escape. The sounds of the city filled the empty space, reverberating around him in a cacophony of disjointed noise. Sitting on the window sill facing the vacant bedroom he sulked, his shoulders slumped, his hands between his legs. The cigarette was still burning, tendrils of smoke rising like the death of a smoldering flame. The burning paper and tobacco inched towards his fingers. When the flame finally kissed them he cursed loudly, throwing the offending cigarette to the floor, stomping out the fire. And then he heard it. Down on the street, from a passing car, he heard it. “Your love is nothing I can’t fight; can’t sleep with a man who dims my shine. I’m in the bedroom, with tissues and when I know you outside banging then I won’t let you in…”
Forcing him to remember the last time he had seen her, tears tracking purple lines down her cheeks, he grunted angrily. In a fit of rage he threw his bottle across the room, watching it shatter into hundreds of jagged fragments, the last traces of alcohol foaming and soaking into the carpet. “Fuck!” he screamed bitterly and walked across the room to collect the shards of glass littering the carpeted floor, twinkling in the faint light from the hallway. Scattered among the small shards were a few larger pieces of glass. One of these little bastards sliced into his palm. The blood flow was instantaneous and thick. Soon it was dripping from between his closed fingers, splattering onto the off-white carpet by his feet.
Holding his bloodied hand against his chest, blood soaking into his already filthy white t-shirt, he made his way to the bathroom, praying the water was still running. It was; one of the few things still alive in this hollow space. The pipes groaned in protest, but water finally came out. He let it run for a few seconds, allowing any sediment to run clean. He gently pulled his sticky fingers away from his blood covered palm and let the water pour over the laceration. Though he could barely see with the scarce light from the hall he knew the sink had turned crimson. He gritted his teeth against the sting of the water. The vacant room offered him nothing else of assistance, so he gingerly wiped his hand on his grimy shirt, a string of curse words firing off under his breath.
He could see a trail leading from the bedroom to the bathroom. “Shit,” he turned away from the room and headed for the door. Not caring that he had left the window open, or his extinguished cigarette butt and broken glass on the floor, he let the door slam shut behind him. His hand was throbbing as he clenched both fists in anger. Pounding down the steps towards the ground floor he could feel fresh blood dripping from between his still clenched fingers. Just as he reached the main door it flew open before him and someone brushed past him, hitting his shoulder with their own. “Hey! Watch where the fuck you’re going, asshole!” he spat at the complete stranger. Before they had a chance to protest he pushed his bloodied hand angrily against the door, leaving a smear on the dark wood, and exited the building. The cold New York night consumed him and he disappeared into the darkness.
Title : “Burned”
Characters : Jo Calderone (understood)/Lady Gaga (understood)
Rating : T/PG-13
Summary : Jo returns to the apartment he once shared with Gaga on Stanton St.
Word Count : 736
Author's Notes: just_rehearsal Prompt Challenge #1 - Bloodied (Drabble)
Warnings/Spoilers: Minor language
Acknowledgements: Thanks to my Hooker meagan4dominic for doing a quick read through for me. You’re amazing! ♥
X-posted to: just_rehearsal & thehausofgaga
He sat alone in the dark apartment on Stanton St, squatting by where their bed once sat. The front door was wide open; the only light that spilled into the bedroom came from the flickering fluorescent bulb in the hallway. Even the moon was too depressed to shine into this place he once called home. The apartment was empty. She was gone. He had really fucked up this time. He didn’t want to think she had left solely because of him, but thinking otherwise was not easy. He had a half empty bottle of beer in his hand, the condensation causing it to slowly slip from his grasp. A lit cigarette hung limply between the fingers of his other hand, the tip burning red like a hot ember. She hadn’t been gone long, maybe a week, but the landlord had already changed the locks. That didn’t matter though; he knew how to get past a shitty apartment lock in a shitty apartment building in a shitty part of town.
He opened the window that lead out to the fire escape. The sounds of the city filled the empty space, reverberating around him in a cacophony of disjointed noise. Sitting on the window sill facing the vacant bedroom he sulked, his shoulders slumped, his hands between his legs. The cigarette was still burning, tendrils of smoke rising like the death of a smoldering flame. The burning paper and tobacco inched towards his fingers. When the flame finally kissed them he cursed loudly, throwing the offending cigarette to the floor, stomping out the fire. And then he heard it. Down on the street, from a passing car, he heard it. “Your love is nothing I can’t fight; can’t sleep with a man who dims my shine. I’m in the bedroom, with tissues and when I know you outside banging then I won’t let you in…”
Forcing him to remember the last time he had seen her, tears tracking purple lines down her cheeks, he grunted angrily. In a fit of rage he threw his bottle across the room, watching it shatter into hundreds of jagged fragments, the last traces of alcohol foaming and soaking into the carpet. “Fuck!” he screamed bitterly and walked across the room to collect the shards of glass littering the carpeted floor, twinkling in the faint light from the hallway. Scattered among the small shards were a few larger pieces of glass. One of these little bastards sliced into his palm. The blood flow was instantaneous and thick. Soon it was dripping from between his closed fingers, splattering onto the off-white carpet by his feet.
Holding his bloodied hand against his chest, blood soaking into his already filthy white t-shirt, he made his way to the bathroom, praying the water was still running. It was; one of the few things still alive in this hollow space. The pipes groaned in protest, but water finally came out. He let it run for a few seconds, allowing any sediment to run clean. He gently pulled his sticky fingers away from his blood covered palm and let the water pour over the laceration. Though he could barely see with the scarce light from the hall he knew the sink had turned crimson. He gritted his teeth against the sting of the water. The vacant room offered him nothing else of assistance, so he gingerly wiped his hand on his grimy shirt, a string of curse words firing off under his breath.
He could see a trail leading from the bedroom to the bathroom. “Shit,” he turned away from the room and headed for the door. Not caring that he had left the window open, or his extinguished cigarette butt and broken glass on the floor, he let the door slam shut behind him. His hand was throbbing as he clenched both fists in anger. Pounding down the steps towards the ground floor he could feel fresh blood dripping from between his still clenched fingers. Just as he reached the main door it flew open before him and someone brushed past him, hitting his shoulder with their own. “Hey! Watch where the fuck you’re going, asshole!” he spat at the complete stranger. Before they had a chance to protest he pushed his bloodied hand angrily against the door, leaving a smear on the dark wood, and exited the building. The cold New York night consumed him and he disappeared into the darkness.