Lost Fic: And Then a Vision (Charlie)
Title: And Then a Vision
Character: Charlie (Implied Charlie/Claire)
Rating: R (Language, Drug Use)
Words: 726
Disclaimer: Not Mine.
Summary: Charlie imagined something better than this.
A/N: For queen toestastegood who wanted "future" fic, I hope Charlie angst is an acceptable offering. ;)
He wanted to be a rock star so that’s the life he imagined for himself.
There would be a Grammy and a heartfelt speech where he would thank his mum and dad as a single, manly tear ran down his cheek. Maybe there would be a girl (gorgeous, of course) in the audience and he’d say, I couldn’t have done it without you, sweetheart even if he most definitely could have. And Liam would be there; the two of them together, drinking champagne and talking about how bloody brilliant their lives were.
That is what he imagined.
This is what he got.
He’s stomping around Cardiff at three in the morning, his hands trembling and sweet dripping down his back, looking for his next fix. He just played a show at a tiny venue; the audience was too drunk to notice he was on stage. That’s probably for the best because he was shaking so much he could barely find the right chords.
His money is dwindling fast and he hasn’t talked to his mum in two months. The only thing he ever thanks any girls for are half-decent blow jobs given in bathroom stalls when he’s so high he can barely remember his first name.
And Liam’s gone. He calls from Australia once a month and always makes sure to say how bloody brilliant his life is while Charlie tries not to vomit on the street.
It’s a sodding tragedy is what it is, like some be careful what you wish for Twilight Zone parable and it’s not fair. Charlie never wanted to be a fucking junkie, he just wanted the music. Even that’s slipping away now.
He finds a dealer lurking in an alley and he buys just enough heroin to take the edge off. He doesn’t stop to wonder if it’s tainted, if one snort’s going to do him in for good. He just pays the man and heads to the nearest bathroom, shakes the powder into his sticky hands and hates himself for how much he loves the way the first hit burns.
He waits and the relief washes over him until he’s light and floating.
He closes his eyes and he sees…sand and blood, people screaming, rushing about, and then a girl. In the middle of all of this hell he sees a girl. A beautiful blonde. She’s pregnant; very, very pregnant.
Something inside of Charlie twists, breaks, comes undone; he could live a hundred years and never find the right words to describe it. It’s a moment of clarity. He’s not sure if he’s on a piss-covered bathroom floor in Cardiff or on an island in God knows where, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, but this feeling, this beautiful, strange sense of peace.
In his head he moves towards her and she’s smiling; the bloody world’s coming apart around them, and she’s just smiling at him. He smiles back, a laugh bubbling up inside of him---
Someone slaps him. He blinks up at a burly, rather pissed off looking Irishman.
“It’s closing time, get your sorry arse out of my pub.”
Charlie pushes himself to his feet and stumbles towards the door. His cheeks feel damp and he’s almost embarrassed to realize he’s crying. He wonders how long he was out; his head is aching as if the drugs are already working their way out of his system.
Good, he thinks.
Outside the pub he leans against the wall and takes deep, gulping breaths of the cold, early morning air. His lungs sting and he imagines this must be what drowning feels like.
He knows the girl was just a mirage. Just the drugs working their particular brand of magic, but it doesn’t matter if she was real or not. Nothing matters anymore, but ending this.
He wants a future. A good one.
He doesn’t want to die in a fucking alley, another washed-up one hit wonder cautionary tale. His only legacy a song blasted in supermarkets while bored housewives buy roast beef.
He throws the last of the drugs into a nearby bin, knowing it won’t be that simple. But it’s a start. He tries to imagine the girl in his head, but she’s already slipping away, the only thing that remains is the feeling---a mixture of guilt and hope. A promise, he thinks.
This doesn’t have to be his life.
Character: Charlie (Implied Charlie/Claire)
Rating: R (Language, Drug Use)
Words: 726
Disclaimer: Not Mine.
Summary: Charlie imagined something better than this.
A/N: For queen toestastegood who wanted "future" fic, I hope Charlie angst is an acceptable offering. ;)
He wanted to be a rock star so that’s the life he imagined for himself.
There would be a Grammy and a heartfelt speech where he would thank his mum and dad as a single, manly tear ran down his cheek. Maybe there would be a girl (gorgeous, of course) in the audience and he’d say, I couldn’t have done it without you, sweetheart even if he most definitely could have. And Liam would be there; the two of them together, drinking champagne and talking about how bloody brilliant their lives were.
That is what he imagined.
This is what he got.
He’s stomping around Cardiff at three in the morning, his hands trembling and sweet dripping down his back, looking for his next fix. He just played a show at a tiny venue; the audience was too drunk to notice he was on stage. That’s probably for the best because he was shaking so much he could barely find the right chords.
His money is dwindling fast and he hasn’t talked to his mum in two months. The only thing he ever thanks any girls for are half-decent blow jobs given in bathroom stalls when he’s so high he can barely remember his first name.
And Liam’s gone. He calls from Australia once a month and always makes sure to say how bloody brilliant his life is while Charlie tries not to vomit on the street.
It’s a sodding tragedy is what it is, like some be careful what you wish for Twilight Zone parable and it’s not fair. Charlie never wanted to be a fucking junkie, he just wanted the music. Even that’s slipping away now.
He finds a dealer lurking in an alley and he buys just enough heroin to take the edge off. He doesn’t stop to wonder if it’s tainted, if one snort’s going to do him in for good. He just pays the man and heads to the nearest bathroom, shakes the powder into his sticky hands and hates himself for how much he loves the way the first hit burns.
He waits and the relief washes over him until he’s light and floating.
He closes his eyes and he sees…sand and blood, people screaming, rushing about, and then a girl. In the middle of all of this hell he sees a girl. A beautiful blonde. She’s pregnant; very, very pregnant.
Something inside of Charlie twists, breaks, comes undone; he could live a hundred years and never find the right words to describe it. It’s a moment of clarity. He’s not sure if he’s on a piss-covered bathroom floor in Cardiff or on an island in God knows where, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, but this feeling, this beautiful, strange sense of peace.
In his head he moves towards her and she’s smiling; the bloody world’s coming apart around them, and she’s just smiling at him. He smiles back, a laugh bubbling up inside of him---
Someone slaps him. He blinks up at a burly, rather pissed off looking Irishman.
“It’s closing time, get your sorry arse out of my pub.”
Charlie pushes himself to his feet and stumbles towards the door. His cheeks feel damp and he’s almost embarrassed to realize he’s crying. He wonders how long he was out; his head is aching as if the drugs are already working their way out of his system.
Good, he thinks.
Outside the pub he leans against the wall and takes deep, gulping breaths of the cold, early morning air. His lungs sting and he imagines this must be what drowning feels like.
He knows the girl was just a mirage. Just the drugs working their particular brand of magic, but it doesn’t matter if she was real or not. Nothing matters anymore, but ending this.
He wants a future. A good one.
He doesn’t want to die in a fucking alley, another washed-up one hit wonder cautionary tale. His only legacy a song blasted in supermarkets while bored housewives buy roast beef.
He throws the last of the drugs into a nearby bin, knowing it won’t be that simple. But it’s a start. He tries to imagine the girl in his head, but she’s already slipping away, the only thing that remains is the feeling---a mixture of guilt and hope. A promise, he thinks.
This doesn’t have to be his life.