Immortalis Caris -- Chapter 7 - Unbound
Immortalis Caris -- Chapter 7
He didn’t remember getting on the elevator, pushing the buttons, exiting through the lobby. He didn’t remember going to his car, entering it, starting it. He didn’t remember turning onto Central and maneuvering through 5pm traffic. He’d driven all the way to the Canyon Bar, parked and killed the engine, completely disassociated. He looked around, dazed. He reached into his pocket, touching the little plastic sheath.
God! How did I get here?
“Here” was more than a place. “Here” was a state of mind accompanied by intense physical sensations: a burning in his core that he had not felt so distinctly since Chicago. Terrifying but also anticipatory. Temptation was a drug in itself. His hands twitched.
There’s nothing to be afraid of but yourself, Carlisle. He drew the packet out with a closed fist, unable to even look at it.
She didn’t know him, or she would never have put this thing in his possession. This snake nestled unsafely at his breast. Power and danger sheltered by his own weak, untrustworthy flesh. It seemed alive inside his fingers, a hideous bird of prey with a mythical seducing voice that called to him through his skin, goading him to open his hand, to see her, to say her name, to taste her, to know her, to mate with her.
The bliss she promised was no exaggeration. When he was on a run he was invincible. His mind functioned perfectly, his body following in perfect sync. He could do his job swiftly and accurately, with a high level of interest and motivation. He had infinite energy. And the sex… he had been able to stay hard for so long, no performance issues… the orgasms just so intense... his recovery time so short. It was the way life ought to be. Fire stolen from the fucking gods, man.
Remember both sides, Carlisle. Never forget the crash.
When his body would finally give out after three, five, seven fucking days of running, he would pray for unconsciousness. He drank, smoked weed, gobbled Motrin. He remembered ransacking friends’ medicine cabinets for anything to numb the pain, to bring him down. He pilfered narcotics at the hospital.
I was lucky, so lucky, I never got caught.
Crashing was a sledgehammer to your bones, your muscles torn by the gods’ eagle, being eaten alive in agony - that was the price the gods exacted for stealing fire. But some part of his mind convinced him it was worth it. As soon as he recovered, the cycle began again.
Sleep healed you, but it took time. Days of missing work because you couldn’t function. Days of bodily distress because you hadn’t thought to eat anything but sugar when you were on a run. Then the crash hit, and you hurt so badly you couldn’t drive to get food, couldn’t even crawl to the kitchen to forage.
"There was no reality to pain when it left one, though while it held one fast, all other realities faded," said Rachel Field. The women he’d nursed in the maternity ward confirmed this. After the baby was born, they didn’t remember the mind-bending pain - until the next birth.
I want to remember.
He needed the memory of that pain to be the last doorkeeper on his will, the final deterrent when he felt helpless to stop himself.
He slowly spread his fingers, and his eyes confirmed what his body and his psyche sang in chorus. Here again was the friend, the lover, the life, the fantastic lie he had lived, embodied in these jewel-like, seemingly innocuous stones before him.
Then again, maybe Dee knows exactly what she’s doing.
Maybe this was a test. Maybe she wanted to see if he could do this simple thing without betraying her -- betraying himself. Maybe she recognized him for what he was. Prometheus still chained to the fucking rock. Why should she take a chance with a guy who couldn’t get past his own selfish cravings? She probably wanted to see if his own needs trumped his feelings for her. She was already bound to one addict, why waste her time on another? Unless…
Unless he proved to her he could stay clean.
I underestimated her.
He felt sick to see himself in anything near the same light as Jess, someone so disgusting, so lost, so pitiful.
It was 5:30. Jess, if he was here… of course he’s here… had already been waiting half an hour and was probably pissed off by now. I’ve got to do this. Now.
Unable to stop the trembling in his hands or the desire that subverted his willpower, he opened the bag. I’ll just take a little. He’ll never know, and neither will she.
He fumbled in the glove compartment for the film canister he kept full of antacids. He opened it with one hand, dumping the benign pastel-colored tablets onto the floor. So so cautiously, he tipped the bag over the little container and let the pale rocks trickle into the bottom.
What the fuck are you doing, Carlisle? This is just sick!
He emptied a quarter of the bag, zipped it, then redistributed the contents with his fingertips. He closed the film container, shook it, listened to the rattle, then tossed it back into the glove compartment, slamming the door shut and locking it with the valet key. Dropping the bag back into his jacket pocket, he exited the car.
The bar was busy with the usual post-work crowd, but thankfully no one he knew well enough to have to greet. Rosalie was off today; instead, Jacob manned the bar. Full-blooded Jemez Indian, Jacob “Medicine Wolf” Black was tall & lean, muscled & silent -- and minded his own business. Canyon Bar was his business. If a customer got out of line, Jacob had no problem unceremoniously tossing them out, no matter how big they were. Without raising his voice or uttering a threat, he commanded respect.
Jess was not up at the bar. He was in one of the back booths looking just as irritated as expected. Carlisle sauntered back and slid into the booth.
“Where the fuck have you been?” growled Jess.
“I had some business to take care of. Chill, man. OK?”
Carlisle pulled Jess’ cocktail napkin over and off the table into the seat. He reached into his jacket pocket, grasping the zip-bag, slipping it underneath the flimsy paper. He shuffled in his seat, glancing at the bartender, who was occupied at the far end of the bar, and casually pushed it across the table under his open hand.
Jess’ heavy black eyebrows lifted in surprise. He covered the napkin with his own hand, then palmed it into his lap, took a look, and grinned. “Now that’s what I’m talking about…” he murmured. He looked up at Carlisle, an appraising, but considerably more accepting, expression softening his harsh features. “What do you want for it?”
“A hundred, man.”
“Really…” Jess looked at him in disbelief. “That’s… at least two hundred.” He leaned towards Carlisle, who instinctively leaned the opposite direction in repulsion, yet trying not to be too obvious about how much he disliked the man.
“I know, I know… It’s a heavy taste, but, I would advise you not to question a good thing…”
“You advising me?” Jess smirked. “Well, alright... though I would prefer having the direct connection.”
You’re a pig in shit right now, asshole. Carlisle could feel the sheer greed - not to mention the hunger to fix -- pouring off the man.
“You know I can’t do that. Yet. I don’t know you yet, and neither does he.”
Jess studied him for a moment. “You’re not a cop are you?”
Carlisle snorted.
“Answer the fucking question, man.”
“No,” Carlisle answered sincerely. “No. I am not a cop.” He hesitated. “I’m just like you.” He cringed to even voice such a comparison.
“No you’re not.” Jess countered, holding sharp eye contact. “You had your run once upon a time, but you’re clean now. How long?”
Carlisle swallowed nervously. He didn’t want to admit anything personal, anything real, to this creep. The guy sure is brighter than he appears.
“About a year,” he said finally.
“Why are you doing this?” Jess grunted suspiciously.
Carlisle paused again, put on what he hoped was his most sincere-but-seasoned expression and answered, “Because man, there isn’t a day goes by I don’t know what you’re fucking going through.”
Jess nodded.
He bought it. Well, it’s true, isn’t it? A little truth makes the lie so much smoother.
Jess reached for his jacket, putting it on a little too hurriedly. “Well, thanks man. I owe you.”
No you don’t, thought Carlisle with a shiver. But what he said was, “Sure, man, you’d do the same for me, right? Uh. I need the hundred.”
Jess gave him a withering look. “Whatever you say...” He fished in his jacket pocket and threw a wadded bill onto the table. He got up and exited to the men’s room.
Carlisle looked down at his hands to make sure they weren’t giving his nervousness away. Surprisingly steady. The epitome of calm. Fuck me.
He sat there for a minute until he was sure he was nobody’s focus of attention, then pocketed the bill and got up to leave. He pulled out his cigarettes. He hoped no one wondered why he hadn’t ordered a drink. Jacob eyed him as he passed the bar, but merely gave him a nod and went back to his drinking customers. When the outside door closed behind him, Carlisle heaved a sigh and almost stumbled with a dizzying sense of elation. I fucking did it. Done!
The short drive over to the Canyon Bar from the Omega had passed in an unconscious blur. On the drive back, time seemed elongated. Every stoplight conspired to delay him. Every car committed to impeding his progress. He couldn’t wait to be with her again, the homecoming hero arriving to collect his accolades.
Finally, he was at her door.
Touch plate, listen for the chime, hear the click of the lock.
…..ll x ll x ll x ll…..
Chapter 8
He didn’t remember getting on the elevator, pushing the buttons, exiting through the lobby. He didn’t remember going to his car, entering it, starting it. He didn’t remember turning onto Central and maneuvering through 5pm traffic. He’d driven all the way to the Canyon Bar, parked and killed the engine, completely disassociated. He looked around, dazed. He reached into his pocket, touching the little plastic sheath.
God! How did I get here?
“Here” was more than a place. “Here” was a state of mind accompanied by intense physical sensations: a burning in his core that he had not felt so distinctly since Chicago. Terrifying but also anticipatory. Temptation was a drug in itself. His hands twitched.
There’s nothing to be afraid of but yourself, Carlisle. He drew the packet out with a closed fist, unable to even look at it.
She didn’t know him, or she would never have put this thing in his possession. This snake nestled unsafely at his breast. Power and danger sheltered by his own weak, untrustworthy flesh. It seemed alive inside his fingers, a hideous bird of prey with a mythical seducing voice that called to him through his skin, goading him to open his hand, to see her, to say her name, to taste her, to know her, to mate with her.
The bliss she promised was no exaggeration. When he was on a run he was invincible. His mind functioned perfectly, his body following in perfect sync. He could do his job swiftly and accurately, with a high level of interest and motivation. He had infinite energy. And the sex… he had been able to stay hard for so long, no performance issues… the orgasms just so intense... his recovery time so short. It was the way life ought to be. Fire stolen from the fucking gods, man.
Remember both sides, Carlisle. Never forget the crash.
When his body would finally give out after three, five, seven fucking days of running, he would pray for unconsciousness. He drank, smoked weed, gobbled Motrin. He remembered ransacking friends’ medicine cabinets for anything to numb the pain, to bring him down. He pilfered narcotics at the hospital.
I was lucky, so lucky, I never got caught.
Crashing was a sledgehammer to your bones, your muscles torn by the gods’ eagle, being eaten alive in agony - that was the price the gods exacted for stealing fire. But some part of his mind convinced him it was worth it. As soon as he recovered, the cycle began again.
Sleep healed you, but it took time. Days of missing work because you couldn’t function. Days of bodily distress because you hadn’t thought to eat anything but sugar when you were on a run. Then the crash hit, and you hurt so badly you couldn’t drive to get food, couldn’t even crawl to the kitchen to forage.
"There was no reality to pain when it left one, though while it held one fast, all other realities faded," said Rachel Field. The women he’d nursed in the maternity ward confirmed this. After the baby was born, they didn’t remember the mind-bending pain - until the next birth.
I want to remember.
He needed the memory of that pain to be the last doorkeeper on his will, the final deterrent when he felt helpless to stop himself.
He slowly spread his fingers, and his eyes confirmed what his body and his psyche sang in chorus. Here again was the friend, the lover, the life, the fantastic lie he had lived, embodied in these jewel-like, seemingly innocuous stones before him.
Then again, maybe Dee knows exactly what she’s doing.
Maybe this was a test. Maybe she wanted to see if he could do this simple thing without betraying her -- betraying himself. Maybe she recognized him for what he was. Prometheus still chained to the fucking rock. Why should she take a chance with a guy who couldn’t get past his own selfish cravings? She probably wanted to see if his own needs trumped his feelings for her. She was already bound to one addict, why waste her time on another? Unless…
Unless he proved to her he could stay clean.
I underestimated her.
He felt sick to see himself in anything near the same light as Jess, someone so disgusting, so lost, so pitiful.
It was 5:30. Jess, if he was here… of course he’s here… had already been waiting half an hour and was probably pissed off by now. I’ve got to do this. Now.
Unable to stop the trembling in his hands or the desire that subverted his willpower, he opened the bag. I’ll just take a little. He’ll never know, and neither will she.
He fumbled in the glove compartment for the film canister he kept full of antacids. He opened it with one hand, dumping the benign pastel-colored tablets onto the floor. So so cautiously, he tipped the bag over the little container and let the pale rocks trickle into the bottom.
What the fuck are you doing, Carlisle? This is just sick!
He emptied a quarter of the bag, zipped it, then redistributed the contents with his fingertips. He closed the film container, shook it, listened to the rattle, then tossed it back into the glove compartment, slamming the door shut and locking it with the valet key. Dropping the bag back into his jacket pocket, he exited the car.
The bar was busy with the usual post-work crowd, but thankfully no one he knew well enough to have to greet. Rosalie was off today; instead, Jacob manned the bar. Full-blooded Jemez Indian, Jacob “Medicine Wolf” Black was tall & lean, muscled & silent -- and minded his own business. Canyon Bar was his business. If a customer got out of line, Jacob had no problem unceremoniously tossing them out, no matter how big they were. Without raising his voice or uttering a threat, he commanded respect.
Jess was not up at the bar. He was in one of the back booths looking just as irritated as expected. Carlisle sauntered back and slid into the booth.
“Where the fuck have you been?” growled Jess.
“I had some business to take care of. Chill, man. OK?”
Carlisle pulled Jess’ cocktail napkin over and off the table into the seat. He reached into his jacket pocket, grasping the zip-bag, slipping it underneath the flimsy paper. He shuffled in his seat, glancing at the bartender, who was occupied at the far end of the bar, and casually pushed it across the table under his open hand.
Jess’ heavy black eyebrows lifted in surprise. He covered the napkin with his own hand, then palmed it into his lap, took a look, and grinned. “Now that’s what I’m talking about…” he murmured. He looked up at Carlisle, an appraising, but considerably more accepting, expression softening his harsh features. “What do you want for it?”
“A hundred, man.”
“Really…” Jess looked at him in disbelief. “That’s… at least two hundred.” He leaned towards Carlisle, who instinctively leaned the opposite direction in repulsion, yet trying not to be too obvious about how much he disliked the man.
“I know, I know… It’s a heavy taste, but, I would advise you not to question a good thing…”
“You advising me?” Jess smirked. “Well, alright... though I would prefer having the direct connection.”
You’re a pig in shit right now, asshole. Carlisle could feel the sheer greed - not to mention the hunger to fix -- pouring off the man.
“You know I can’t do that. Yet. I don’t know you yet, and neither does he.”
Jess studied him for a moment. “You’re not a cop are you?”
Carlisle snorted.
“Answer the fucking question, man.”
“No,” Carlisle answered sincerely. “No. I am not a cop.” He hesitated. “I’m just like you.” He cringed to even voice such a comparison.
“No you’re not.” Jess countered, holding sharp eye contact. “You had your run once upon a time, but you’re clean now. How long?”
Carlisle swallowed nervously. He didn’t want to admit anything personal, anything real, to this creep. The guy sure is brighter than he appears.
“About a year,” he said finally.
“Why are you doing this?” Jess grunted suspiciously.
Carlisle paused again, put on what he hoped was his most sincere-but-seasoned expression and answered, “Because man, there isn’t a day goes by I don’t know what you’re fucking going through.”
Jess nodded.
He bought it. Well, it’s true, isn’t it? A little truth makes the lie so much smoother.
Jess reached for his jacket, putting it on a little too hurriedly. “Well, thanks man. I owe you.”
No you don’t, thought Carlisle with a shiver. But what he said was, “Sure, man, you’d do the same for me, right? Uh. I need the hundred.”
Jess gave him a withering look. “Whatever you say...” He fished in his jacket pocket and threw a wadded bill onto the table. He got up and exited to the men’s room.
Carlisle looked down at his hands to make sure they weren’t giving his nervousness away. Surprisingly steady. The epitome of calm. Fuck me.
He sat there for a minute until he was sure he was nobody’s focus of attention, then pocketed the bill and got up to leave. He pulled out his cigarettes. He hoped no one wondered why he hadn’t ordered a drink. Jacob eyed him as he passed the bar, but merely gave him a nod and went back to his drinking customers. When the outside door closed behind him, Carlisle heaved a sigh and almost stumbled with a dizzying sense of elation. I fucking did it. Done!
The short drive over to the Canyon Bar from the Omega had passed in an unconscious blur. On the drive back, time seemed elongated. Every stoplight conspired to delay him. Every car committed to impeding his progress. He couldn’t wait to be with her again, the homecoming hero arriving to collect his accolades.
Finally, he was at her door.
Touch plate, listen for the chime, hear the click of the lock.
…..ll x ll x ll x ll…..
Chapter 8