(no subject)
College Walk, Columbia University
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
3:40pm
Nobody's commented on the fact that Claire's wearing black today.
The funeral's probably over by now. She couldn't afford to fly out to Chicago for it, even if she would have been welcome -- which she honestly doesn't know; she never met or spoke to Mark's parents, and she's not even sure they were ever aware of her existence. Though Wells and Levinson probably told them. In which case they'll know she's the one who got their son into this, which would have to put her pretty solidly in persona non grata territory with them.
And somehow she can't make herself care about that, or even about Mark being dead, more than she cares about the bleak fact that her last dose of halo will be wearing off in another few weeks and she still has no idea where she can get the next one. Neither the grief nor the guilt means as much as the pure selfish fear. Which makes her pretty well persona non grata with herself right now too.
Well, she thinks before she can stop herself, that won't be a problem much longer --
She comes to a stop by the bulletin board in front of Alfred Lerner Hall, her eyes automatically seeking and finding her own half-size printed poster: HALO. Want to talk about it? Two of the little slips at the bottom with her created-for-the-purpose email address have been torn away, nothing new since yesterday. The first response thought she was talking about the video game; the second knew what she meant, and swore at her viciously when she said she didn't know where to get any more either.
I'm going to die. I'm going to lose my mind like the others and die.
"Claire?" says a female voice behind her. She turns at the sound of the voice, with an odd sort of distant dread. But it's no one she knows: tall, very blonde, maybe five or six years older than herself, wearing a denim jacket over a Queens College sweatshirt and looking at her with an expression she can't make anything of at all.
"Are you Claire McDonough?" she asks, and holds out a hand. "I'm Tina. Joe asked me to find you."
"Yes," she says blankly, and shakes hands. "Joe who?"
Tina smiles, a bit crookedly. "A supplier. You want to talk to him about halo."
She stares.
"But first --" Tina lowers her voice, shifting on her feet. "Joe asked me to tell you, before anything else, that he's deeply sorry for your loss. And that he feels personally responsible for Rob Leland's actions, and ... and that Leland's been dealt with." She's looking down, reciting the words carefully; her forehead is creased slightly as though in concentration, or pain, or both. "And he, he hopes that will be some comfort for what you went through."
The thing about being on halo, she has had occasion to reflect more than once, is that it works. It doesn't just give you the delusion of clarity, it actually boosts your brainpower. Which isn't always fun, as sometimes it means that your brain reaches the logical conclusions well before you're ready to face them. Like right now.
So between that breath and the next she knows why Leland hasn't been seen since that night. And knows the rest of what Tina has been told to say to her, and why. And knows that she should turn around and walk away, right now, but she won't; she'll stay and listen, and before the day is out she'll be in touch with Joe, and he will offer her Leland's old position as dealer.
And she'll take it. That's the part she doesn't want to know, but there it is: she'll agonize, and she'll hate herself, and she'll take it. And her supply of halo will be assured, and she won't have to die -- and neither will anybody else on campus, of course, that's good too. And sooner or later she'll come to wear that same look in her eyes that Tina's got now, the one that she belatedly recognizes as one Leland used to wear almost all the time.
I didn't have a choice.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
3:40pm
Nobody's commented on the fact that Claire's wearing black today.
The funeral's probably over by now. She couldn't afford to fly out to Chicago for it, even if she would have been welcome -- which she honestly doesn't know; she never met or spoke to Mark's parents, and she's not even sure they were ever aware of her existence. Though Wells and Levinson probably told them. In which case they'll know she's the one who got their son into this, which would have to put her pretty solidly in persona non grata territory with them.
And somehow she can't make herself care about that, or even about Mark being dead, more than she cares about the bleak fact that her last dose of halo will be wearing off in another few weeks and she still has no idea where she can get the next one. Neither the grief nor the guilt means as much as the pure selfish fear. Which makes her pretty well persona non grata with herself right now too.
Well, she thinks before she can stop herself, that won't be a problem much longer --
She comes to a stop by the bulletin board in front of Alfred Lerner Hall, her eyes automatically seeking and finding her own half-size printed poster: HALO. Want to talk about it? Two of the little slips at the bottom with her created-for-the-purpose email address have been torn away, nothing new since yesterday. The first response thought she was talking about the video game; the second knew what she meant, and swore at her viciously when she said she didn't know where to get any more either.
I'm going to die. I'm going to lose my mind like the others and die.
"Claire?" says a female voice behind her. She turns at the sound of the voice, with an odd sort of distant dread. But it's no one she knows: tall, very blonde, maybe five or six years older than herself, wearing a denim jacket over a Queens College sweatshirt and looking at her with an expression she can't make anything of at all.
"Are you Claire McDonough?" she asks, and holds out a hand. "I'm Tina. Joe asked me to find you."
"Yes," she says blankly, and shakes hands. "Joe who?"
Tina smiles, a bit crookedly. "A supplier. You want to talk to him about halo."
She stares.
"But first --" Tina lowers her voice, shifting on her feet. "Joe asked me to tell you, before anything else, that he's deeply sorry for your loss. And that he feels personally responsible for Rob Leland's actions, and ... and that Leland's been dealt with." She's looking down, reciting the words carefully; her forehead is creased slightly as though in concentration, or pain, or both. "And he, he hopes that will be some comfort for what you went through."
The thing about being on halo, she has had occasion to reflect more than once, is that it works. It doesn't just give you the delusion of clarity, it actually boosts your brainpower. Which isn't always fun, as sometimes it means that your brain reaches the logical conclusions well before you're ready to face them. Like right now.
So between that breath and the next she knows why Leland hasn't been seen since that night. And knows the rest of what Tina has been told to say to her, and why. And knows that she should turn around and walk away, right now, but she won't; she'll stay and listen, and before the day is out she'll be in touch with Joe, and he will offer her Leland's old position as dealer.
And she'll take it. That's the part she doesn't want to know, but there it is: she'll agonize, and she'll hate herself, and she'll take it. And her supply of halo will be assured, and she won't have to die -- and neither will anybody else on campus, of course, that's good too. And sooner or later she'll come to wear that same look in her eyes that Tina's got now, the one that she belatedly recognizes as one Leland used to wear almost all the time.
I didn't have a choice.