Fic: To Live and Die in Los Angeles (0/8)
“To Live and Die in Los Angeles”
Author: DJ_the_Writer
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Cursing, Drugs, PTSD
Pairings: None yet
Beta: wikdsushi
Characters: Charles, Pickles, OCs
Summary: Charles attempts to recover from his ordeal during a legal tussle in LA.
If you’re coming in for the first time, it’s recommended that you read the two previous stories, “ Home for the Holidays” and “ The Two of Us Are Dying,” which establishes some important back story for Ofdensen.
This will be a less intense fic, as I have different goals for what it's trying to do. Also, the return of Snackers, though her role is really very minor.
Here’s a quick reminder of important OCs:
Dr. Sarah Ofdensen-Stern - Charles’s sister, a pediatric surgeon who lives in Orange County, California. She worked for Dethklok for a few months during their early days but otherwise has nothing to do with them.
Josh Stern - Sarah’s slacker husband, whom Charles barely tolerates but is actually a pretty good guy
Sam Stern - Charles’s 13-year-old nephew, who of course is a huge Dethklok fan.
3201/Angela - Dethklok’s latest assistant manager
Dr. Bradley - A psychiatrist who treats Charles for PTSD and general anxiety.
Snackers - Nathan’s man-eating alligator
-------------------------------------------------------------
Prologue
Louisiana
1992
Whatever Sarah Ofdensen was expecting, it wasn’t this.
Her back was still aching from driving over twenty hours to get here. She was too young to rent a car and didn’t own one, but her boyfriend Kyle had a van and he agreed to let her borrow it. All it required was two beers, three jello shots, and what she was fairly sure was ecstasy, but you could never tell what those things were laced with. After the eighth hour on the road, she was moaning not bringing a pill along for herself. The prospect of seeing her brother again could only be so motivating.
Until his phone call, they hadn’t spoken in a year. He wrote her from the base, but the letters slowed down over time when he was done venting about their parents, neither of whom refused to speak to their son in hopes of bringing him back to sanity about the military, which they were against and he was very for. He even sounded like he was enjoying himself out there, but that was last year, when he talked about reenlisting and going career, a conversation over the dinner table that ended badly. He went to his room, slammed the door, and in the morning he was gone.
A year had come and gone, and now she’d driven from Denver to Louisiana to meet her brother at his request. She’d never heard of the town before, which turned out not to be so much a town as a collection of farms and a gas station that directed her to a rundown brick facility several miles down a dirt road. The whole area was surrounded by a chain link fence. The interiors were just as dilapidated as the outside suggested. The receptionist seemed genuinely surprised (and annoyed) to have to deal with a visitor.
“Sarah Ofdensen to see Charles Ofdensen.”
The bored nurse just helped up a clipboard for her to sign. “Relation to the patient?”
“I’m his sister.”
And then they made her wait. Wait and wait and wait. She spent the remainder of her change on the sole vending machine to buy pretzels and a soda. After awhile she was convinced they’d forgotten about her, so she walked around the accessible areas to stretch her legs and remind them that she was there.
After three and a half hours, she was escorted to a room that resembled an interrogation room at a police station more than anything else. The windows were barred, the walls were tiled, and there was a single metal table in the center of the room. Her brother sat on one side of it, his hands clasp tightly together, looking horrified to see her despite his desperate call for her appearance. And she was horrified to see him, in the condition he was in - a white hospital outfit barely hiding how thin he was. Charles, like their father, had never been particularly big, but last summer he was at least muscular and now she could see the wrong parts of his cheekbones. He still had a military-style crew-cut, and just a little of overgrowth beyond that.
Sarah didn’t know what to do when he didn’t greet her. She was in over her head. Why hadn’t he called mom and dad? But he explicitly told her not to tell them about the trip, and she agreed. Now seemed rather late to break her promise. She took a seat in the creaky folding chair and said the first thing that came to her mind. “What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be a drill sergeant in Fort Hood.”
He played with his hands. He didn’t seem to have anything to say.
She frowned. “I’m calling Mom and Dad.”
“No!” He grabbed her arm and held it with surprising force. He’d always been stronger than her, but at the moment he didn’t look it. He looked weak and scared. He took a moment to calm his voice. “Please don’t.”
“Then answer my question.”
His eyes were searching around the room for answers. “I was committed.”
“When?”
“A month ago.”
“Were you - what’s the word for when they let you go?”
“Discharged.” He added in a whisper. “And they left me here to rot. I need you to get me out.”
“Charlie - “
“I read the hospital documents. You’re an immediate relative and you’re over eighteen. You can sign me out under your care.”
“Charlie, I can’t take care of you.”
“I don’t need someone ... to take care of me.” He seemed to have trouble getting his words out. He had always been so silver-tongued. Did he have a head injury? What happened to him? “I was injured ... in the field ... but I’m OK now.”
That was a lie and they both knew it.
He drummed his fingers on the table. “Ask for my file.”
“What?”
“You can request my file. So you can see ... what they’re doing to me in here.”
Then her brother shut up. He seemed to have no more words left in him. After an awkward minute she requested his file, this time being far more aggressive in her tone, and received it. She brought it to the table and opened it in front of him, but he didn’t show any real interest.
Diagnosis: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Battle-related. He was also sick with pneumonia, which he seemed to have picked up in the hospital itself, and had recently recovered from typhoid and malaria, diseases you didn’t get as a drill sergeant in Fort Hood. There were some doctor's notes about a speech impediment, entirely psychological.
Sarah looked at Charles, who clearly wanted the file to say everything so he wouldn’t have to. “Is that why you’re so slim? From the pneumonia?”
“No ... I mean, yes ... but they weren’t feeding me.”
“Why not?”
“I wouldn’t talk. I couldn’t talk ... they wanted me to talk and I couldn’t so they took my food away.”
“Charlie, that’s horrendous. And probably illegal. They can’t treat a patient like that!”
He looked tired, and he didn’t have any answers for her on that particular legal question. “Please.”
It took a lot of forms, and there were a lot of lies on those forms. No, she wasn’t actually sure he wasn’t a danger to himself or others. No, she didn’t feel competent that she could keep track of his medication. Yes, she was in way over her head, but he was her brother and he needed her right now.
They gave him some hand-me downs to wear out, because apparently he came in with nothing that the Army didn’t confiscate later. The clothing barely fit him and at the first rest stop she bought him sunglasses to wear over his glasses because the glare in the car bothered his eyes. There was something in the file now, she remembered, about damage to his eyes, probably permanent.
She waited until they were back on the highway before she said, “Are you going to tell me what happened?”
“Not yet.” It was more pleading than he probably wanted it to be.
“Charlie, I can’t take care of you. I’m in college ... and we have parents! Parents who are missing their son.”
“Mom has a heart condition,” he said, as if she didn’t know. “She doesn’t need the shock of seeing me.”
He was right about that, sadly. “Fine, you can crash on the couch in my apartment for a few weeks - but then you have to go home and tell them.”
He nodded. It seemed so much easier for him to just be silent.
“What are you going to do?”
“Go back to Yale. I have the money.”
“The semester’s a month away. Are you going to be ready?”
“I have to be.” It was the only thing he said with any sense of inner determination. She thought it best not to try and dissuade him. Instead, she just kept driving.
To be Continued...
Author: DJ_the_Writer
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Cursing, Drugs, PTSD
Pairings: None yet
Beta: wikdsushi
Characters: Charles, Pickles, OCs
Summary: Charles attempts to recover from his ordeal during a legal tussle in LA.
If you’re coming in for the first time, it’s recommended that you read the two previous stories, “ Home for the Holidays” and “ The Two of Us Are Dying,” which establishes some important back story for Ofdensen.
This will be a less intense fic, as I have different goals for what it's trying to do. Also, the return of Snackers, though her role is really very minor.
Here’s a quick reminder of important OCs:
Dr. Sarah Ofdensen-Stern - Charles’s sister, a pediatric surgeon who lives in Orange County, California. She worked for Dethklok for a few months during their early days but otherwise has nothing to do with them.
Josh Stern - Sarah’s slacker husband, whom Charles barely tolerates but is actually a pretty good guy
Sam Stern - Charles’s 13-year-old nephew, who of course is a huge Dethklok fan.
3201/Angela - Dethklok’s latest assistant manager
Dr. Bradley - A psychiatrist who treats Charles for PTSD and general anxiety.
Snackers - Nathan’s man-eating alligator
-------------------------------------------------------------
Prologue
Louisiana
1992
Whatever Sarah Ofdensen was expecting, it wasn’t this.
Her back was still aching from driving over twenty hours to get here. She was too young to rent a car and didn’t own one, but her boyfriend Kyle had a van and he agreed to let her borrow it. All it required was two beers, three jello shots, and what she was fairly sure was ecstasy, but you could never tell what those things were laced with. After the eighth hour on the road, she was moaning not bringing a pill along for herself. The prospect of seeing her brother again could only be so motivating.
Until his phone call, they hadn’t spoken in a year. He wrote her from the base, but the letters slowed down over time when he was done venting about their parents, neither of whom refused to speak to their son in hopes of bringing him back to sanity about the military, which they were against and he was very for. He even sounded like he was enjoying himself out there, but that was last year, when he talked about reenlisting and going career, a conversation over the dinner table that ended badly. He went to his room, slammed the door, and in the morning he was gone.
A year had come and gone, and now she’d driven from Denver to Louisiana to meet her brother at his request. She’d never heard of the town before, which turned out not to be so much a town as a collection of farms and a gas station that directed her to a rundown brick facility several miles down a dirt road. The whole area was surrounded by a chain link fence. The interiors were just as dilapidated as the outside suggested. The receptionist seemed genuinely surprised (and annoyed) to have to deal with a visitor.
“Sarah Ofdensen to see Charles Ofdensen.”
The bored nurse just helped up a clipboard for her to sign. “Relation to the patient?”
“I’m his sister.”
And then they made her wait. Wait and wait and wait. She spent the remainder of her change on the sole vending machine to buy pretzels and a soda. After awhile she was convinced they’d forgotten about her, so she walked around the accessible areas to stretch her legs and remind them that she was there.
After three and a half hours, she was escorted to a room that resembled an interrogation room at a police station more than anything else. The windows were barred, the walls were tiled, and there was a single metal table in the center of the room. Her brother sat on one side of it, his hands clasp tightly together, looking horrified to see her despite his desperate call for her appearance. And she was horrified to see him, in the condition he was in - a white hospital outfit barely hiding how thin he was. Charles, like their father, had never been particularly big, but last summer he was at least muscular and now she could see the wrong parts of his cheekbones. He still had a military-style crew-cut, and just a little of overgrowth beyond that.
Sarah didn’t know what to do when he didn’t greet her. She was in over her head. Why hadn’t he called mom and dad? But he explicitly told her not to tell them about the trip, and she agreed. Now seemed rather late to break her promise. She took a seat in the creaky folding chair and said the first thing that came to her mind. “What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be a drill sergeant in Fort Hood.”
He played with his hands. He didn’t seem to have anything to say.
She frowned. “I’m calling Mom and Dad.”
“No!” He grabbed her arm and held it with surprising force. He’d always been stronger than her, but at the moment he didn’t look it. He looked weak and scared. He took a moment to calm his voice. “Please don’t.”
“Then answer my question.”
His eyes were searching around the room for answers. “I was committed.”
“When?”
“A month ago.”
“Were you - what’s the word for when they let you go?”
“Discharged.” He added in a whisper. “And they left me here to rot. I need you to get me out.”
“Charlie - “
“I read the hospital documents. You’re an immediate relative and you’re over eighteen. You can sign me out under your care.”
“Charlie, I can’t take care of you.”
“I don’t need someone ... to take care of me.” He seemed to have trouble getting his words out. He had always been so silver-tongued. Did he have a head injury? What happened to him? “I was injured ... in the field ... but I’m OK now.”
That was a lie and they both knew it.
He drummed his fingers on the table. “Ask for my file.”
“What?”
“You can request my file. So you can see ... what they’re doing to me in here.”
Then her brother shut up. He seemed to have no more words left in him. After an awkward minute she requested his file, this time being far more aggressive in her tone, and received it. She brought it to the table and opened it in front of him, but he didn’t show any real interest.
Diagnosis: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Battle-related. He was also sick with pneumonia, which he seemed to have picked up in the hospital itself, and had recently recovered from typhoid and malaria, diseases you didn’t get as a drill sergeant in Fort Hood. There were some doctor's notes about a speech impediment, entirely psychological.
Sarah looked at Charles, who clearly wanted the file to say everything so he wouldn’t have to. “Is that why you’re so slim? From the pneumonia?”
“No ... I mean, yes ... but they weren’t feeding me.”
“Why not?”
“I wouldn’t talk. I couldn’t talk ... they wanted me to talk and I couldn’t so they took my food away.”
“Charlie, that’s horrendous. And probably illegal. They can’t treat a patient like that!”
He looked tired, and he didn’t have any answers for her on that particular legal question. “Please.”
It took a lot of forms, and there were a lot of lies on those forms. No, she wasn’t actually sure he wasn’t a danger to himself or others. No, she didn’t feel competent that she could keep track of his medication. Yes, she was in way over her head, but he was her brother and he needed her right now.
They gave him some hand-me downs to wear out, because apparently he came in with nothing that the Army didn’t confiscate later. The clothing barely fit him and at the first rest stop she bought him sunglasses to wear over his glasses because the glare in the car bothered his eyes. There was something in the file now, she remembered, about damage to his eyes, probably permanent.
She waited until they were back on the highway before she said, “Are you going to tell me what happened?”
“Not yet.” It was more pleading than he probably wanted it to be.
“Charlie, I can’t take care of you. I’m in college ... and we have parents! Parents who are missing their son.”
“Mom has a heart condition,” he said, as if she didn’t know. “She doesn’t need the shock of seeing me.”
He was right about that, sadly. “Fine, you can crash on the couch in my apartment for a few weeks - but then you have to go home and tell them.”
He nodded. It seemed so much easier for him to just be silent.
“What are you going to do?”
“Go back to Yale. I have the money.”
“The semester’s a month away. Are you going to be ready?”
“I have to be.” It was the only thing he said with any sense of inner determination. She thought it best not to try and dissuade him. Instead, she just kept driving.
To be Continued...