(no subject)
Title: Daisy Chain
Character: T-Bag
Prompt: For prisonbreak100 47. Crime
Rating: PG-13 to R, cursing and disturbing content galore
Warnings: Again with the disturbing. Also drug use. Nothing very graphic though.
Summary: People live and die, and everything else is just us kidding ourselves. You’re one of God’s many, many mistakes, a waste of oxygen. And you need God like you need a hole in the head. Not only are people born bad, but they stay that way no matter what.
Spoilers: none
Author's Notes: I blame Chuck Palahniuk for the second person thing which I've become sort of attached to. This one is similar to Just for the Record, so again with the mindfuckery and general strangeness.
It’s past midnight and you can’t sleep. So you leave and you drive and drive, and you don’t really have your license but Jimmy always lets you borrow his car. There’re a few cigarettes in the glove compartment and a small matchbox, the kind restaurants sell with their logo stamped on that tiny space. Coon Joe’s Eatery. You kill the headlights and open the window of the crappy, rusting old car (it needs a paint job). You lean out and light one, and rest your head on your hand.
The sparks fall from the end of the cigarette in a trail of light that’s hypnotizing, but that could just be the drugs talking. The embers glitter in the dark grass and you watch them fizzle out. You should be asleep, but you’re far too restless to be drowsy. And falling asleep just gives you Jenny Parker in her pretty dress, and while that’s a viable option, you just aren’t in the mood. Besides, emotions are for girls, all that crap about feelings and sensitivity is just homosexual bullshit.
“What’s your name?”
The voice startles you, and suddenly you’re looking down at some cute little girl, can’t be more than eight years old. And she’s looking up at you with huge eyes, like big pools of blue.
“My name’s Teddy,” you say, bending your knees and squatting down so you’re her height. “What’s your name?”
“Daisy,” she says, and rocks a little from side to side. Her dress has flowers on it.
“What’re you doing in a grocery store all by yourself, girlie?”
She clasps her hands together and stretches them over her head. Something pops and she giggles.
“Wanna see my chin wobble?” she asks.
You laugh. “Why not.”
She pulls her face down and her eyes get bigger, if that’s possible, and her forehead wrinkles. Her mouth frowns and she wobbles her chin like she’s about to cry. You smile and she does it again, before she starts giggling like she’s made the world’s best joke.
“You all by yourself?” you ask, and you’re so calm.
“Momma dropped me here and she ain’t come back yet,” says Daisy.
She goes quiet and you think about that for a moment.
“Hey mister,” she says in a smaller voice, like she’s afraid. Which she probably should be, all things considered. “Can I hold your pocket?”
The question surprises you and you hesitantly, confusedly, turn your pocket inside out.
“This?”
People live and die, and everything else is just us kidding ourselves. You’re one of God’s many, many mistakes, a waste of oxygen. And you need God like you need a hole in the head. Not only are people born bad, but they stay that way no matter what.
One time Ada Miller looks at you from the other side of the empty pew seating just you and her, with a big vast space in the middle. Her penciled eyebrows sort of turn into little U’s, the mouth pulls down in the corners and sort of falls open a little. It’s called pity. See also: sanctimony, noun. She thinks you’re in the same plight as a little Jew-“aw honey, there’s still time to save your soul and wash away your sins.” And she shifts over nearer and nearer to you and pats your back like you’re the village idiot, and from that day forward you swear never to go to church again.
“Jimmy,” you say as you both smoke cigarettes in his attic, “you don’t think I’m secretly a good-hearted person do you?”
“Nope,” says Jimmy, absently picking a piece of ash off his tongue, “you’re an asshole.”
“Just checkin’.”
So when Sue Marshall looks at you from her back porch with her broomstick in hand, and she looks sad and asks you how you’re doing, you can say “I’m medicated-how are you?”
Fucking Sue Marshall, just a crazy old woman with nothing better to do than sweep her porch and feed her chickens and spy on your family. On days when she’s feeling lively she’ll throw Bible verses at you. But you know better than to pay attention. You’re the child of a lunatic and a retard. You’re no child of God.
“You’ve got so much ability to love in you,” she says smiling.
“Yeah?” you say, turning around. “You’re a wrinkled old idiot.”
She smiles and shakes her head. But you won’t let her get to you. You’re a sick, filthy, scheming bastard and you won’t ever let yourself forget it.
And you’ll prove it too. Dragging yourself over the fence one night, you sneak over to her henhouse. Slowly, gradually, you wring one neck. Then you wring two. And just for good measure, you shake up a few eggs, so that those little chicks will end up born mutants, with beaks missing and eyes that won’t open. Born bad. See how much Sue Marshall likes lunatics when she takes a peek into the henhouse tomorrow.
You almost write a Bible verse inside the henhouse, but you think that might be overdoing it.
The cigarette’s almost out and you reach for another one. Everything’s boiled down to addiction. It could be cigarettes, it could be sex, it could be killing people, it could be collecting matchboxes. You’re addicted to a lot of things but one thing you are most certainly not addicted to is your life.
But that’s really alright; there are plenty of ways to get out of that. There’s heroin, for one.
“You sure this’ll work?”
“Hell, of course I’m sure.”
Jimmy spits and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. He unwraps a ball of tinfoil and takes out a box of matches. Coon Joe’s Eatery. He lays the tinfoil on the floor of the attic like a bowl, and from his other pocket takes out a small bag of powder. You watch, fascinated. He dumps a little of the powder onto the tinfoil and throws you the matches.
“Light one,” he says, pulling at the edges of the tinfoil to make it rounder. The powder shifts slightly.
You light a match and Jimmy takes it from you, and lifts the tinfoil up so he can hold the light underneath.
“Let’s go dragon chasing,” he says, and he giggles a little. He holds it out to you and you lean forward. “Smell that kitty.”
It’s almost better than killing people. Almost.
You’re still restless and you’re still annoyed, sitting in Jimmy’s car. You still feel like you can’t get out or you can’t go anywhere or you can’t do anything. Killing people won’t change that, a good fuck won’t change that, hell even a good high won’t change that.
“Thanks, mister.”
The little girl grabs hold of your pocket and you stand up, feeling slightly bewildered. You walk down the aisle just to see what will happen, and she trails along after you still holding on. And it feels strangely natural.
“Let’s go outside now,” you say, and your voice sounds far away. You’re still looking at this little girl, holding your pocket and gazing at a bag of candy.
It’s not as if the idea hasn’t been in your head this whole time. What you are is a dirty, untrustworthy, helpless bastard, and you can’t stop and you can’t change. And that’s all you’ll ever be.
You’re stuck and you aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. So you may as well do whatever you want. Getting every little high you can, escaping for as many seconds as possible, strung together in a chain every little ecstasy could give you a lifetime of living in a world way beyond this one.
So you’ll start the chain with Daisy.
Character: T-Bag
Prompt: For prisonbreak100 47. Crime
Rating: PG-13 to R, cursing and disturbing content galore
Warnings: Again with the disturbing. Also drug use. Nothing very graphic though.
Summary: People live and die, and everything else is just us kidding ourselves. You’re one of God’s many, many mistakes, a waste of oxygen. And you need God like you need a hole in the head. Not only are people born bad, but they stay that way no matter what.
Spoilers: none
Author's Notes: I blame Chuck Palahniuk for the second person thing which I've become sort of attached to. This one is similar to Just for the Record, so again with the mindfuckery and general strangeness.
It’s past midnight and you can’t sleep. So you leave and you drive and drive, and you don’t really have your license but Jimmy always lets you borrow his car. There’re a few cigarettes in the glove compartment and a small matchbox, the kind restaurants sell with their logo stamped on that tiny space. Coon Joe’s Eatery. You kill the headlights and open the window of the crappy, rusting old car (it needs a paint job). You lean out and light one, and rest your head on your hand.
The sparks fall from the end of the cigarette in a trail of light that’s hypnotizing, but that could just be the drugs talking. The embers glitter in the dark grass and you watch them fizzle out. You should be asleep, but you’re far too restless to be drowsy. And falling asleep just gives you Jenny Parker in her pretty dress, and while that’s a viable option, you just aren’t in the mood. Besides, emotions are for girls, all that crap about feelings and sensitivity is just homosexual bullshit.
“What’s your name?”
The voice startles you, and suddenly you’re looking down at some cute little girl, can’t be more than eight years old. And she’s looking up at you with huge eyes, like big pools of blue.
“My name’s Teddy,” you say, bending your knees and squatting down so you’re her height. “What’s your name?”
“Daisy,” she says, and rocks a little from side to side. Her dress has flowers on it.
“What’re you doing in a grocery store all by yourself, girlie?”
She clasps her hands together and stretches them over her head. Something pops and she giggles.
“Wanna see my chin wobble?” she asks.
You laugh. “Why not.”
She pulls her face down and her eyes get bigger, if that’s possible, and her forehead wrinkles. Her mouth frowns and she wobbles her chin like she’s about to cry. You smile and she does it again, before she starts giggling like she’s made the world’s best joke.
“You all by yourself?” you ask, and you’re so calm.
“Momma dropped me here and she ain’t come back yet,” says Daisy.
She goes quiet and you think about that for a moment.
“Hey mister,” she says in a smaller voice, like she’s afraid. Which she probably should be, all things considered. “Can I hold your pocket?”
The question surprises you and you hesitantly, confusedly, turn your pocket inside out.
“This?”
People live and die, and everything else is just us kidding ourselves. You’re one of God’s many, many mistakes, a waste of oxygen. And you need God like you need a hole in the head. Not only are people born bad, but they stay that way no matter what.
One time Ada Miller looks at you from the other side of the empty pew seating just you and her, with a big vast space in the middle. Her penciled eyebrows sort of turn into little U’s, the mouth pulls down in the corners and sort of falls open a little. It’s called pity. See also: sanctimony, noun. She thinks you’re in the same plight as a little Jew-“aw honey, there’s still time to save your soul and wash away your sins.” And she shifts over nearer and nearer to you and pats your back like you’re the village idiot, and from that day forward you swear never to go to church again.
“Jimmy,” you say as you both smoke cigarettes in his attic, “you don’t think I’m secretly a good-hearted person do you?”
“Nope,” says Jimmy, absently picking a piece of ash off his tongue, “you’re an asshole.”
“Just checkin’.”
So when Sue Marshall looks at you from her back porch with her broomstick in hand, and she looks sad and asks you how you’re doing, you can say “I’m medicated-how are you?”
Fucking Sue Marshall, just a crazy old woman with nothing better to do than sweep her porch and feed her chickens and spy on your family. On days when she’s feeling lively she’ll throw Bible verses at you. But you know better than to pay attention. You’re the child of a lunatic and a retard. You’re no child of God.
“You’ve got so much ability to love in you,” she says smiling.
“Yeah?” you say, turning around. “You’re a wrinkled old idiot.”
She smiles and shakes her head. But you won’t let her get to you. You’re a sick, filthy, scheming bastard and you won’t ever let yourself forget it.
And you’ll prove it too. Dragging yourself over the fence one night, you sneak over to her henhouse. Slowly, gradually, you wring one neck. Then you wring two. And just for good measure, you shake up a few eggs, so that those little chicks will end up born mutants, with beaks missing and eyes that won’t open. Born bad. See how much Sue Marshall likes lunatics when she takes a peek into the henhouse tomorrow.
You almost write a Bible verse inside the henhouse, but you think that might be overdoing it.
The cigarette’s almost out and you reach for another one. Everything’s boiled down to addiction. It could be cigarettes, it could be sex, it could be killing people, it could be collecting matchboxes. You’re addicted to a lot of things but one thing you are most certainly not addicted to is your life.
But that’s really alright; there are plenty of ways to get out of that. There’s heroin, for one.
“You sure this’ll work?”
“Hell, of course I’m sure.”
Jimmy spits and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. He unwraps a ball of tinfoil and takes out a box of matches. Coon Joe’s Eatery. He lays the tinfoil on the floor of the attic like a bowl, and from his other pocket takes out a small bag of powder. You watch, fascinated. He dumps a little of the powder onto the tinfoil and throws you the matches.
“Light one,” he says, pulling at the edges of the tinfoil to make it rounder. The powder shifts slightly.
You light a match and Jimmy takes it from you, and lifts the tinfoil up so he can hold the light underneath.
“Let’s go dragon chasing,” he says, and he giggles a little. He holds it out to you and you lean forward. “Smell that kitty.”
It’s almost better than killing people. Almost.
You’re still restless and you’re still annoyed, sitting in Jimmy’s car. You still feel like you can’t get out or you can’t go anywhere or you can’t do anything. Killing people won’t change that, a good fuck won’t change that, hell even a good high won’t change that.
“Thanks, mister.”
The little girl grabs hold of your pocket and you stand up, feeling slightly bewildered. You walk down the aisle just to see what will happen, and she trails along after you still holding on. And it feels strangely natural.
“Let’s go outside now,” you say, and your voice sounds far away. You’re still looking at this little girl, holding your pocket and gazing at a bag of candy.
It’s not as if the idea hasn’t been in your head this whole time. What you are is a dirty, untrustworthy, helpless bastard, and you can’t stop and you can’t change. And that’s all you’ll ever be.
You’re stuck and you aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. So you may as well do whatever you want. Getting every little high you can, escaping for as many seconds as possible, strung together in a chain every little ecstasy could give you a lifetime of living in a world way beyond this one.
So you’ll start the chain with Daisy.