A story, a story! Look, I wrote a story!
So, since my last update, many amusing things have happened as I adjust to my new journalistic role, following the tragic puking incident.
1. I saw the world's biggest perogy. What's the female form of phallic?
2. I covered an art workshop where the artists, all female, found out I was "chronically single" and whipped out photos of eligible and not-so-eligbile sons and grandsons.
3. I nearly passed out at a clinic on hip and knee replacement surgery (BONE SAWS, OHMYGOD)
4. I ran into an older gentleman on my way into town hall, and the older gentleman somehow recognized me and knew far too much about me for comfort. I got mildly defensive and freaked out. Then I slipped into the town council meeting I was reporting on only to find out he was the freakin' mayor, who had read my welcome column, and introduced me as the new teenaged reporter on staff at the paper. At which point I stammered, interrupted him, and said, "I'm turning twenty-eight tomorrow!"
5. I turned 28 in a school board meeting. The board sang happy birthday to me and updated their twitter about it. After that 7.5 hour meeting, I went to work only to be surprised with CAKE! :D
6. My fridge was open a little when I got home from work one night and it had gotten HOT inside, and the milk turned to sludge, the salad got baked, and I'm worried about the eggs.
Anyway, all that being said, I'm home for the weekend, hurray! I missed Aiden.
And here, a short story I wrote some time ago. It was originally going to be a longer thing, but! It sort of just ended here, and I kind of like it like this. I would love to know what anybody thinks! You may have noticed I don't do short stories. Also, as the ladies at my writing workshop claimed, my usual writing is "so pretty that people don't notice when they've got no idea what's happening." This is sort of less pretty than my usual stuff.
Title: Broken, Bleeding
Fandom: Original!
Summary: William thought that maybe finding a boy with wings in the alley was a good reason to call his therapist.
Warning: Abstract talk about suicide.
Word Count 3000
“My mom told me that if I ever killed myself, I had to do it somewhere where I’d be found by a stranger. She didn’t want to deal with the mess.”
“Do you think about that often? Suicide?”
It took a moment for the question to penetrate, to make sense, but that was normal, sometimes. His brain liked to hiccup. “Everybody does. Don’t they?” William asked.
Doctor Stewart tipped her head thoughtfully but didn’t answer the question. She was pretty shitty at answering questions. “Are you suicidal, Will?”
He hated being called Will. “No,” he said. “Should I be?” Sometimes he answered questions with more questions just to be obnoxious, but she never called him on it.
“It’s been six years since your mother’s death,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed.
“How do you feel about that?” she asked.
Again, that subtle shifting of puzzle pieces in his brain, a second’s worth of a hiccup, before he said, “Everybody dies.”
Her lips pursed and she made a note. He watched her for a moment before his attention wandered, tracing the silhouette of a potted plant, the desk, the computer monitor, the bookshelf. There was a green apple on the desk beside a chipped coffee cup.
“I need you to do something for me, Will,” she said finally, setting the notebook aside. “I need you to call me if you start thinking about suicide.”
“I already told you I think about it,” he said.
“Before you do anything,” she clarified. “Anything to hurt yourself.”
“I’m not suicidal,” he told her.
She hummed as if she wasn’t quite sure, and he wondered when therapy became about convincing people that they ought to be suicidal. “Maybe not,” she said finally. “But promise me, if anything happens, you’ll call me before you do anything irreversible.”
His brain didn’t even stutter before he was nodding. “Sure,” he lied. William was pretty sure he’d never call Doctor Stewart. She’d just ask him more questions, and he hated answering questions.
She probably would have kept him longer, but his hour was up, and he was only required to go to an hour of therapy every two weeks. She’d probably have ordered him hospitalized, but he wasn’t actually suicidal. A bit too self-aware, maybe. A little slow to react on any emotional level.
Self-preservation, William liked to think.
He shrugged on his long coat as he left the clinic, slipping headphones over his ears, shoving his fists into his pockets, and moments later, was walking down the sidewalk, stepping on every crack and listening to The Misfits.
He turned down the alley that cut five minutes off his walk home, absentmindedly counting the dumpsters as he passed. One, two, three (green, green, blue).
The boy with wings was lying unconscious and bloody behind the third dumpster.
He stood over the boy for a few minutes, brain stuttering and gasping wildly for an explanation, and William laughed a little, because maybe, maybe, finding a fallen angel was worth calling his therapist for after all.
*
It had gotten dark and started to rain when the boy woke up. William wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think a boy with feathered wings would appreciate being taken to a hospital (William had read his share of comic books, and that sort of thing never ended well.) So he’d checked his vital signs, found his heart and breathing were strong, chalked the blood up to a head wound (everyone always said they bled like a bitch), and sat down to wait.
He hadn’t touched the wings, though the way the boy lay let him see where the thick muscle of his back twisted and tapered into the more delicate muscular and bone structure of the wings. The feathers were different shades of brown, like a sparrow, and the rain darkened them to coffee and cream.
William was listening to his iPod again, nodding his head absently and sitting against the grainy brick wall, hugging his knees to his chest. The boy stirred and, startled, William jerked off his headphones in time to hear a faint moan.
He crawled over to the boy, kneeling next to him. He could feel the rain and grit beneath his knees, through his jeans.
Eyelashes fluttered and then the boy’s eyes opened slowly. He blinked and then pushed himself up on shaking arms. One wing hung awkward, painfully, from his shoulder, and the other flexed a tiny bit, causing a spasm of pain to cross the boy’s face.
“Hello,” William said, and the boy’s head jerked up, eyes widening as they fixed on William’s face. Then a flash of the purest, most absolute panic crossed the winged boy’s face, and then his arms trembled violently and gave out.
William caught the boy beneath one arm before he hit the ground. “Whoa,” he said. “Careful.” He helped the boy to his feet, steadying him when he wavered. The boy was too skinny, and when William pressed a hand to his back, carefully beneath the spot where the wings began, he could feel his ribs. It helped that the boy was not wearing a shirt.
He meant to ask the boy his name, or ask if he had somewhere to go. He meant to offer to bring him to a youth shelter he knew of nearby. Instead, the boy curled towards him, ducking his head and hiding it against William’s shoulder. His breathing was light and panicked, and his hands curled into fists in William’s jacket. He was terrified, like a skittish rabbit, and William...
His therapist had told him he had trouble expressing empathy. Maybe he just hadn’t had the opportunity since his mother’s death, because he definitely felt it now.
He shrugged out of his jacket and wrapped it around the boy’s narrow shoulders, hiding his wings. “I live nearby,” he said.
“I know,” said the boy in a trembling whisper.
William didn’t ask how or why. He just slipped a careful arm around the boy and helped him down the alley and around the corner to his walk-up studio apartment, the one with the bars on the window.
He left the boy huddled on the couch, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, staring at his bare feet. William made hot chocolate, going through the motions like this was normal, like he wasn’t curious or frightened or unsure. He wondered if his brain was hiccupping again, but it didn’t seem to be.
He handed the boy a mug of chocolate, sat on the chair opposite him, and said, “Do you have a name?”
“Sam,” said the boy.
“Are you an angel?”
Sam lifted his head slowly, dark hair hanging over vivid blue eyes, and he didn’t answer, just watched William quietly. William shifted uncomfortably, wondered what Doctor Stewart would think of Sam’s method of avoiding questions, and smiled a little.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
Sam ducked his head again, taking a ginger sip of his hot chocolate. He stared at the mug after he was done, eyes wide, and then said, “My wing is broken, I think.”
“I don’t know how to fix it,” William told him.
“I need...” He hesitated, as if searching for an unfamiliar word.
“Should I take you to the hospital?”
Sam shook his head quickly and then winced at the movement. “No. I need...” He trailed off again, looking frustrated.
“Veterinarian?” William suggested. Again, he got that blank stare, and he offered quickly, “I know a therapist. She’s like a doctor.”
Sam shook his head, closed his eyes, and said, “Do you have nothing that stops pain?”
William went to the kitchen and returned with half a bottle of vodka, some whiskey, peach Schnapps, a bottle of Tylenol, some Ativan, and a shot gun. “Yes,” he said. “Take your pick.”
The End.
1. I saw the world's biggest perogy. What's the female form of phallic?
2. I covered an art workshop where the artists, all female, found out I was "chronically single" and whipped out photos of eligible and not-so-eligbile sons and grandsons.
3. I nearly passed out at a clinic on hip and knee replacement surgery (BONE SAWS, OHMYGOD)
4. I ran into an older gentleman on my way into town hall, and the older gentleman somehow recognized me and knew far too much about me for comfort. I got mildly defensive and freaked out. Then I slipped into the town council meeting I was reporting on only to find out he was the freakin' mayor, who had read my welcome column, and introduced me as the new teenaged reporter on staff at the paper. At which point I stammered, interrupted him, and said, "I'm turning twenty-eight tomorrow!"
5. I turned 28 in a school board meeting. The board sang happy birthday to me and updated their twitter about it. After that 7.5 hour meeting, I went to work only to be surprised with CAKE! :D
6. My fridge was open a little when I got home from work one night and it had gotten HOT inside, and the milk turned to sludge, the salad got baked, and I'm worried about the eggs.
Anyway, all that being said, I'm home for the weekend, hurray! I missed Aiden.
And here, a short story I wrote some time ago. It was originally going to be a longer thing, but! It sort of just ended here, and I kind of like it like this. I would love to know what anybody thinks! You may have noticed I don't do short stories. Also, as the ladies at my writing workshop claimed, my usual writing is "so pretty that people don't notice when they've got no idea what's happening." This is sort of less pretty than my usual stuff.
Title: Broken, Bleeding
Fandom: Original!
Summary: William thought that maybe finding a boy with wings in the alley was a good reason to call his therapist.
Warning: Abstract talk about suicide.
Word Count 3000
“My mom told me that if I ever killed myself, I had to do it somewhere where I’d be found by a stranger. She didn’t want to deal with the mess.”
“Do you think about that often? Suicide?”
It took a moment for the question to penetrate, to make sense, but that was normal, sometimes. His brain liked to hiccup. “Everybody does. Don’t they?” William asked.
Doctor Stewart tipped her head thoughtfully but didn’t answer the question. She was pretty shitty at answering questions. “Are you suicidal, Will?”
He hated being called Will. “No,” he said. “Should I be?” Sometimes he answered questions with more questions just to be obnoxious, but she never called him on it.
“It’s been six years since your mother’s death,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed.
“How do you feel about that?” she asked.
Again, that subtle shifting of puzzle pieces in his brain, a second’s worth of a hiccup, before he said, “Everybody dies.”
Her lips pursed and she made a note. He watched her for a moment before his attention wandered, tracing the silhouette of a potted plant, the desk, the computer monitor, the bookshelf. There was a green apple on the desk beside a chipped coffee cup.
“I need you to do something for me, Will,” she said finally, setting the notebook aside. “I need you to call me if you start thinking about suicide.”
“I already told you I think about it,” he said.
“Before you do anything,” she clarified. “Anything to hurt yourself.”
“I’m not suicidal,” he told her.
She hummed as if she wasn’t quite sure, and he wondered when therapy became about convincing people that they ought to be suicidal. “Maybe not,” she said finally. “But promise me, if anything happens, you’ll call me before you do anything irreversible.”
His brain didn’t even stutter before he was nodding. “Sure,” he lied. William was pretty sure he’d never call Doctor Stewart. She’d just ask him more questions, and he hated answering questions.
She probably would have kept him longer, but his hour was up, and he was only required to go to an hour of therapy every two weeks. She’d probably have ordered him hospitalized, but he wasn’t actually suicidal. A bit too self-aware, maybe. A little slow to react on any emotional level.
Self-preservation, William liked to think.
He shrugged on his long coat as he left the clinic, slipping headphones over his ears, shoving his fists into his pockets, and moments later, was walking down the sidewalk, stepping on every crack and listening to The Misfits.
He turned down the alley that cut five minutes off his walk home, absentmindedly counting the dumpsters as he passed. One, two, three (green, green, blue).
The boy with wings was lying unconscious and bloody behind the third dumpster.
He stood over the boy for a few minutes, brain stuttering and gasping wildly for an explanation, and William laughed a little, because maybe, maybe, finding a fallen angel was worth calling his therapist for after all.
*
It had gotten dark and started to rain when the boy woke up. William wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think a boy with feathered wings would appreciate being taken to a hospital (William had read his share of comic books, and that sort of thing never ended well.) So he’d checked his vital signs, found his heart and breathing were strong, chalked the blood up to a head wound (everyone always said they bled like a bitch), and sat down to wait.
He hadn’t touched the wings, though the way the boy lay let him see where the thick muscle of his back twisted and tapered into the more delicate muscular and bone structure of the wings. The feathers were different shades of brown, like a sparrow, and the rain darkened them to coffee and cream.
William was listening to his iPod again, nodding his head absently and sitting against the grainy brick wall, hugging his knees to his chest. The boy stirred and, startled, William jerked off his headphones in time to hear a faint moan.
He crawled over to the boy, kneeling next to him. He could feel the rain and grit beneath his knees, through his jeans.
Eyelashes fluttered and then the boy’s eyes opened slowly. He blinked and then pushed himself up on shaking arms. One wing hung awkward, painfully, from his shoulder, and the other flexed a tiny bit, causing a spasm of pain to cross the boy’s face.
“Hello,” William said, and the boy’s head jerked up, eyes widening as they fixed on William’s face. Then a flash of the purest, most absolute panic crossed the winged boy’s face, and then his arms trembled violently and gave out.
William caught the boy beneath one arm before he hit the ground. “Whoa,” he said. “Careful.” He helped the boy to his feet, steadying him when he wavered. The boy was too skinny, and when William pressed a hand to his back, carefully beneath the spot where the wings began, he could feel his ribs. It helped that the boy was not wearing a shirt.
He meant to ask the boy his name, or ask if he had somewhere to go. He meant to offer to bring him to a youth shelter he knew of nearby. Instead, the boy curled towards him, ducking his head and hiding it against William’s shoulder. His breathing was light and panicked, and his hands curled into fists in William’s jacket. He was terrified, like a skittish rabbit, and William...
His therapist had told him he had trouble expressing empathy. Maybe he just hadn’t had the opportunity since his mother’s death, because he definitely felt it now.
He shrugged out of his jacket and wrapped it around the boy’s narrow shoulders, hiding his wings. “I live nearby,” he said.
“I know,” said the boy in a trembling whisper.
William didn’t ask how or why. He just slipped a careful arm around the boy and helped him down the alley and around the corner to his walk-up studio apartment, the one with the bars on the window.
He left the boy huddled on the couch, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, staring at his bare feet. William made hot chocolate, going through the motions like this was normal, like he wasn’t curious or frightened or unsure. He wondered if his brain was hiccupping again, but it didn’t seem to be.
He handed the boy a mug of chocolate, sat on the chair opposite him, and said, “Do you have a name?”
“Sam,” said the boy.
“Are you an angel?”
Sam lifted his head slowly, dark hair hanging over vivid blue eyes, and he didn’t answer, just watched William quietly. William shifted uncomfortably, wondered what Doctor Stewart would think of Sam’s method of avoiding questions, and smiled a little.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
Sam ducked his head again, taking a ginger sip of his hot chocolate. He stared at the mug after he was done, eyes wide, and then said, “My wing is broken, I think.”
“I don’t know how to fix it,” William told him.
“I need...” He hesitated, as if searching for an unfamiliar word.
“Should I take you to the hospital?”
Sam shook his head quickly and then winced at the movement. “No. I need...” He trailed off again, looking frustrated.
“Veterinarian?” William suggested. Again, he got that blank stare, and he offered quickly, “I know a therapist. She’s like a doctor.”
Sam shook his head, closed his eyes, and said, “Do you have nothing that stops pain?”
William went to the kitchen and returned with half a bottle of vodka, some whiskey, peach Schnapps, a bottle of Tylenol, some Ativan, and a shot gun. “Yes,” he said. “Take your pick.”
The End.