Fic: And you, you vanished
Awkward, not-really-a-fic, mostly written because a) Moon is awesome, b) I need to practise my Sam voice before writing a longer fic and c) this challenge is lovely.
And you, you vanished
Moon
Gen
Written as part of
mumblemutter's video killed the radio star challenge, based on Bonnie Prince Billy's I Gave You.
779 words
PG-13
Major character death; rambling
The good thing about dying is, he won't have to smell every goddamn thing.
It wasn't like he didn't know about smell, it wasn't like he hadn't smelled things, way back when, when it was just him and Five and Five was puking blood into the john for three unholy hours at a pop, but Jesus. There's just a lot of that kind of thing going on. It's not like he ever expected, say, taking the metro at the height of summer to be anything other than a clusterfuck, nasally speaking. It's just that he remembers doing it before, as a boy, pressed into a crowd at thigh height and subjected to that very specific polyester-sweat smell, and that smell - Sam's researched that smell, okay, he's risked many embarrassing arrests in its pursuit - that smell does not exist. It doesn't. There's another one, kind of like it but tangier, which is apparently what everyone on earth who isn't a clone with a defective olfactory memory thinks of as that summer metro suit smell, but that smell? His smell? The one he remembers from going into the city with his mom? That smell does not exist, and neither do about half of the others he thought he remembered, and everything tastes wrong and yeah, okay, now he doesn't have to worry about that anymore.
So that's the good thing about dying.
Also trees.
Trees feel all wrong, and there was this one time when - well, there wasn't that time. But he remembers there being, and he remembers feel of the bark where it bit into his hand while he tried not to crush Betty Kruschenk, but apparently he's remembered it wrong and seriously, now, if there's one thing Sam Bell the Sixth wants people to know and remember about him and his short, largely fictional existence, it is that he fucking hates trees.
And hospitals. Hospitals and trees, he fucking hates.
He goes out into the desert to die because there's not much there, and he hates to admit this, hates to actually put this out there where they might hear it, but Sam Bell wasn't programmed to deal with a lot of things. A lot of situations, sure, but he's a-ok just keeping company with himself and a lot of big shit that doesn't move much.
When James busted him out of the hospital with a wink and a sad-dog smile, he gave Sam a pair of the thickest fucking shades Sam had ever seen. "To hide those baby blues," Jimmy had said, waving a hand at the bloody purple mess under Sam's eyes, but looking out there now, with the sand and the rocks and the darkness of the quarter-inch shades, it's almost like he's home.
Jimmy's an okay guy. Sam probably should've mentioned that, at some point.
He kills the engine and crawls into the backseat. He hipchecks the headrest on his way over, and is so fucking mushy that he feels it bruise, then so fucking angry that he punches the seatback. His nails stay in his palm when he uncurls his fist. He drops them out of the window and then pukes after them, as an afterthought.
He doesn't put the windows up because he doesn't want to know that he isn't that kind of cold, that this is something inside. He kicks the aircon up to ten and takes of his shirt - stubborn as a mule, Tess never called him - and puts it back on after he sees himself, Jesus, he doesn't remember Five bloating up like this, like he was filling up with fluid from the inside.
He remembers Five driving out, though. He shouldn't, they don't, there's no reason for them to work like that, but he remembers Five driving out past the tower with the station's sat phone and he remembers Eve's number and he shouldn't, he doesn't, he can't, but her face was so lovely, so open and soft and like life was all blue skies and roses and he knows that's bullshit, knows Tess took a while to shuttle off but he can feel it, he remembers how she looked like she'd apologise and he just wanted to just cover his face because God, what must he look like?
He hasn't got a cell, this time round.
He had one, but he laked it two states back, just in case.
He's dying and crazy and if he couldn't bring himself to call three years ago he doesn't get to do it now, when he's got half his mind and four of his teeth and six of his goddamn fingernails.
He is fucking sick of waiting.
This entry was originally posted at http://betweensix.dreamwidth.org/57907.html.
And you, you vanished
Moon
Gen
Written as part of
mumblemutter's video killed the radio star challenge, based on Bonnie Prince Billy's I Gave You.
779 words
PG-13
Major character death; rambling
The good thing about dying is, he won't have to smell every goddamn thing.
It wasn't like he didn't know about smell, it wasn't like he hadn't smelled things, way back when, when it was just him and Five and Five was puking blood into the john for three unholy hours at a pop, but Jesus. There's just a lot of that kind of thing going on. It's not like he ever expected, say, taking the metro at the height of summer to be anything other than a clusterfuck, nasally speaking. It's just that he remembers doing it before, as a boy, pressed into a crowd at thigh height and subjected to that very specific polyester-sweat smell, and that smell - Sam's researched that smell, okay, he's risked many embarrassing arrests in its pursuit - that smell does not exist. It doesn't. There's another one, kind of like it but tangier, which is apparently what everyone on earth who isn't a clone with a defective olfactory memory thinks of as that summer metro suit smell, but that smell? His smell? The one he remembers from going into the city with his mom? That smell does not exist, and neither do about half of the others he thought he remembered, and everything tastes wrong and yeah, okay, now he doesn't have to worry about that anymore.
So that's the good thing about dying.
Also trees.
Trees feel all wrong, and there was this one time when - well, there wasn't that time. But he remembers there being, and he remembers feel of the bark where it bit into his hand while he tried not to crush Betty Kruschenk, but apparently he's remembered it wrong and seriously, now, if there's one thing Sam Bell the Sixth wants people to know and remember about him and his short, largely fictional existence, it is that he fucking hates trees.
And hospitals. Hospitals and trees, he fucking hates.
He goes out into the desert to die because there's not much there, and he hates to admit this, hates to actually put this out there where they might hear it, but Sam Bell wasn't programmed to deal with a lot of things. A lot of situations, sure, but he's a-ok just keeping company with himself and a lot of big shit that doesn't move much.
When James busted him out of the hospital with a wink and a sad-dog smile, he gave Sam a pair of the thickest fucking shades Sam had ever seen. "To hide those baby blues," Jimmy had said, waving a hand at the bloody purple mess under Sam's eyes, but looking out there now, with the sand and the rocks and the darkness of the quarter-inch shades, it's almost like he's home.
Jimmy's an okay guy. Sam probably should've mentioned that, at some point.
He kills the engine and crawls into the backseat. He hipchecks the headrest on his way over, and is so fucking mushy that he feels it bruise, then so fucking angry that he punches the seatback. His nails stay in his palm when he uncurls his fist. He drops them out of the window and then pukes after them, as an afterthought.
He doesn't put the windows up because he doesn't want to know that he isn't that kind of cold, that this is something inside. He kicks the aircon up to ten and takes of his shirt - stubborn as a mule, Tess never called him - and puts it back on after he sees himself, Jesus, he doesn't remember Five bloating up like this, like he was filling up with fluid from the inside.
He remembers Five driving out, though. He shouldn't, they don't, there's no reason for them to work like that, but he remembers Five driving out past the tower with the station's sat phone and he remembers Eve's number and he shouldn't, he doesn't, he can't, but her face was so lovely, so open and soft and like life was all blue skies and roses and he knows that's bullshit, knows Tess took a while to shuttle off but he can feel it, he remembers how she looked like she'd apologise and he just wanted to just cover his face because God, what must he look like?
He hasn't got a cell, this time round.
He had one, but he laked it two states back, just in case.
He's dying and crazy and if he couldn't bring himself to call three years ago he doesn't get to do it now, when he's got half his mind and four of his teeth and six of his goddamn fingernails.
He is fucking sick of waiting.
This entry was originally posted at http://betweensix.dreamwidth.org/57907.html.