Clunk. Mandi dropped her white bag with the red "thank you" letters on it as she went to chase her hat that was flying accross the street. The wind was crazy that day and that was the third time she had lost her hat to the wind.
"Are you serious?" Mandi uttered as she walked back towards the box of take home food for her dad. The box was completely smooshed in the center, and about six yards past the box was a woman walking quickly in her big boots. "Well, gee, thanks boot lady," Mandi sarcasticly mumbled. She picked up the crunched box, turned the corner and entered Washington Heights. She knew that there was no time to go back to pick her dad another sandwhich up before she started her next shift.
"Now you better remember to bring me some food tonight. I ain't waitin around all damn night starvin cause you forget it or somethin. Since you've obviously been too lazy to make it to the grocery store," Mandi's dad told her earlier that morning.
Mandi didn't want to bring her father food at all, in fact she considered spitting on it somewhere for every time she thought about how much she hated him that day, or she would have liked for him just to not have a dinner at all. Mandi knew what her consequences would be if she didn't do as he asked... and unfortunately she knew what was going to happen for bringing home a squished sandwhich box; almost worst than no sandwhich at all.
Mandi rattled her keys in the door and walked in to her father passed out, as usual, on the recliner. He was awakened by her enterance. His eyes were immediately gleaming at the squished box Mandi was holding.
"Damnit girl. You can't even bring your own father a decent dinner? You have to go and let someone smoosh all on it. Huh. Like that was an accident. You probably did that yourself you little wintch," he said as he rose from the chair walking towards her. "You know after all I do for you... huh. Can't even bring be a decent SANDWHICH," he screamed as he slapped the box out her hands. The red katchup container cracked open and splattered on the walls. "Now look what you made me do," he said grabbing her wrist with one hand, shaking her back in forth with the other.
"Well why don't you just go ahead and hit me for it, save you the trouble, save me the time, and let me..."
"You are more like her every day. Just can't shut your trap, now can ya? And she wondered why I abused her. Huh! Its not that hard to see woman!"
Mandi wiggled loose and went to pick up the trash. As she was bending down to grab the white bag, he pushed her with his foot, making her lose balance and splat right into some of the spilled katchup. "Quit it!" She screamed up at him. "Look what you've made me do!"
"Me? Me? Look what I have made you do? Huh! If it weren't for you trying to screw up my super, if you could just do one damn thing right then none of this would have happened." He slowly bent over, grabbed her shirt on each corner and pulled her off the ground. His hand reached back and swung full throtle at her left cheek; knocking her back to the red sauce. "Now maybe next time I ask you to do somethin, you'll think twice about screwin it up."
Mandi stabalized herself and stood up, then walked out the door. "Stupid peace of shit," she heard through the muffling of the door. No time for make up to cover what had happened.
She walked in the enterance of the back of the dinner and began to put on her uniform peaces.
"Darlin, what is that on your face. Has your father..."
"I'm fine, thanks Mable," Mandi replied, avoiding making eye contact.
"Now Mac, come here darlin, you look like you need a hug," Mable said walking over towards Mandi. Mandi turned and embrased the welcoming arms. "Shh... it's alright dear," Mable said, trying to calm Mandi's crying. "Darlin, there are just some days when the sky is gray for a reason."
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Elizabeth put her hand to her forehead for the thirteenth time that day.
"Another cup of hot tea?"
"Please," she sighed as she continued to stare at the computer screen.
"Elizabeth,"
She looked to the waitress.
"Are you alright?"
"I—" Elizabeth paused. "Do you have any ice cream?"
"Ice cream?" The waitress asked, perplexed. "It's sleeting outside and you want ice cream?"
"I'll take that as a no," she said, starting to gather her things.
"Wait," she said placing her hand upon Elizabeth's. Their eyes met. "Your burning up."
"I honestly have no idea what you're talking about." She said, pulling her hand away. She stood. Or at least tried to stand. Her knees went limp. She tried to brace herself on the table with a nearby hand, but it slipped on the rough steel edge. The corner slit her palm. Blood began to bloom from her hand and fall like rose petals, staining the floor. The room began to swirl. She heard her name being called at a distance before she was consumed by darkness.
She was back in San Francisco. Lying in a hospital bed with her face bruised, hands scraped up and a small line of stitches beside her right eye. They were still sore. Kaylee lay upon the sheets asleep beside her. She had knocked him out. She had made the phone call. She had ridden in the ambulance.
'Hang on,' she had said to Elizabeth. 'It's going to be ok.'
"Hang on," a voice said in the distance. The bruised face of a woman came in and out of view with a known face behind. "Hang on,"
She was moving. Everyone one was flying past. The sweet smell of the diner had surrendered to the putrid odor of the gutters. Her creative sanctuary was gone — lost.
Lost. Kaylee's innocence was lost. Lost for a memory of flesh meeting flesh with a consequence of red. The slender figure of a fifteen year old tanned only for her desire for nature was now altered forever. Nothing was the same. Not the smoothness of her long brown hair, nor the occasional smile upon her face. Tainted. Stained.
"I hope Mable can get the stain out,"
A whisper on the wind.
"I'm sure she'll be able to get it out," a familiar voice assured her. Kevin.
Gentle and lovable according to the Gaelic. Elizabeth looked over her notes for "The Never-Ending Night." Kevin was her antagonist originally, yet the name seemed more suitable for the protagonist, or the role of the helper depending on which gender she chose for the protagonist. She hadn't decided.
"It can't be that hard to decide, Mandi Mac," Kevin assured the whisperer. "The symptoms aren't that complicated. She has a fever and ... what did she order?"
"Tea," Mandi Mac replied.
"Tea?" Elizabeth had inquired as her mother entered with her hands wrapped around a mug.
"Hey there," her mother whispered as she came to her side. She held Elizabeth's limp hand. "How are you feeling?"
"Terrible!" Madi Mac cried. "I should've known! The last cup of tea I gave her was at six o'clock."
"A few hours ago?"
"No, this morning!"
Sirens echoed her frustration along the streets.
"That's the seventh police siren since we arrived." Kevin observed.
"How can you count when we're sitting in the clinic?" Mandi Mac protested.
"There's nothing else to do."
Quick, sharp footsteps entered the room.
"What's the diagnosis?" Her mother inquired.
"We have two daughter in a hospital bed." Her father observed. "And they both look exhausted."
"Stop being so observant. What did the doctor say she needs?"
"Since we've cooled her fever down, all she needs is lots of rest," the doctor replied. "And fluids. Water and juice, no tea."
"Is that all?" Kevin inquired.
"And some ibuprophen or tylenol for the swelling. Her hand should heal up fairly quickly despite the deepness of the wound. How did you say it happened again?"
Silence.
Kaylee was sitting up in the bed beside her. "I don't know," she sighed at last. "I went to her apartment as the sun was beginning to set. We were supposed to go out tonight. The door was ajar. I ran to the door and followed the sounds of shouting into her bedroom. As I opened the door I found Elizabeth unconscious on the ground with blood running down the side of her face. Malcolm was standing over her beside the file cabinet — blood trickling down the metal. Just as he began to turn his head, I raised my fist and knocked him in the jaw. He fell to the ground unconscious, his lip bleeding. I called 911 and dragged his body away from Elizabeth."
"One of the police cars drove us over." Kevin explained.
"Are either of you related to Ms. Farraday?" the doctor asked.
"No, we just live in the same apartment building."
"Ah, well Ms. Farraday should be set to go home as soon as she wakes."
"Hmm?" Elizabeth inquired.
"You're awake," the doctor smiled. "I'll see if the black van is available."
"The black van?" the three tenants asked simultaneously.
Soon enough Mandi Mac returned to work and Kevin was heading towards the stairs from the seventh floor corridor. He had placed Elizabeth's computer case and a large water bottle by her bed. Elizabeth only slipped into her pajamas before she climbed into her bed to read, hydrate, and soon sleep.
It was done. Finally.
Ow.
Worthless doll. It's even sleeting now. The worst possible weather for me besides a desert country sandstorm. Snow melts quickly, sleet decides to wait awhile after it hits you in the eye to melt. I'm basically blind outside at dusk. I couldn't imagine a more fun-derful situation if I had payed for those tapes teaching one how to be more expressive.
Useless tapes.
I have put in a call to Brone to pick me up, his reply being; "somewhere in between the time he has to stop grabbing onto his carpet to stop himself from falling off the earth." Vodka is quite a powerful drink I suppose.
More interestingly, that is the seventh time that van has passed by this area. No license plate or markings, black. Or perhaps it only looks that way through one eye. I really wouldn't know, I usually have both in use. At least my ears work fine, and they are definitely telling me that it probably isn't safe outside.
"Excuse me."
A waitress with hands on hips looked appraisingly upon the thin stranger sitting yoga style in the booth.
"Yes?"
"Are you going to use all of the sugar you found? We put them on seperate tables for a reason."
"Perhaps the amount of sugar you placed was insufficient."
"...There were at least 50 packets."
"Yes. And I have had how many cups of coffee?"
"...Seven."
"Indeed."
She was still staring at me. Did she not understand our conversation? It should be simple enough to understand. Ah, she's servicing the woman at the table. Hm. Her laptop screen is either reflecting red light at a high percentage, or the woman is flushed. Well, the weather outside would cause such a change in health. I myself am rather uncomfortable with the numbing sensation in my bare toes. The fact that the waitress did not want to serve me while I had no shoes on did not temper my frustration.
"********* ice cream?"
Hm...I heard ask cream? Not a bad idea. I should ask for some as well.
"Elizabeth! ELIZABETH!?"
...She's busy, I'll ask later.
recycling.
Chloe got up early. It was not an staggered awakening like most, laying in bed for a while before deciding whether to actually wake up or just go back to sleep. She sat upright quickly, pulled back the covers, and got in the shower. She scrubbed at her dull, dry skin, lathering it with thick, rich soap over and over again.
As she walked down Baker Street she thought of the old Gerry Rafferty song, and smiled. She was unobservant of passerbys. She walked without a purpose for hours until her feet hurt and she needed a cigarette. When she got back to her apartment she almost ran into a girl with take out food under her arm. The girl had a bruises on her face which only reminded Chloe of what a dump Washington Heights was.
Chloe apologized, but the girl seemed unconcerned:
"No problem. Taking the elevator?" She said putting her hand on the door.
"Eh, no, the stairs actually. Thanks though." Chloe walked up to her apartment and began to clean her kitchen, pausing periodically to lit her cigarettes in the gas stove.
In her cabinets she found more expensive glassware, this time from her grandmother's wedding gifts. It was a glass shoe that looked like the elves and the shoemaker could have possibly made it. She found a whole box full of them mixed in with her silverware. Hideous she thought. She took the box and placed it outside her room door, far enough that someone could take it without feeling guilty, but close enough so that they would know it belonged to her.
After her sudden spurt of cleaning, Chloe uncorked a bottle of wine and sat silently by the window. The sun was setting, and the sun was blinding. Chloe shut the window and pulled the shades down. She crawled back into bed and laid there for hours in a contented thoughtfulness. She knew she didn't like the way she lived, but she didn't know how to change it, so instead she stared at the fan blades and pulled the covers up over her chin like she was a little kid.
Pancakes and a Pancreas
Despite cold air and intermittent sleet, Kevin was in a cheerful mood. All he had left to do was to burn some rat entrails. Not wanting Patrick's first day of resurrection to be sleety and gray, Kevin was taking his time in obtaining the entrails. He even allowed himself a normal meal in the diner down the street.
Taking the last seat at the diner's counter, he waited to be served. He didn't understand why "waiters" referred to the servers instead of the customers because it always seemed to him that he was waiting on the waitress.
At last, a young waitress approached. The small placard pinned to her shirt read "Mandi Mac." Kevin found her name to be a bit rustic, perhaps even redneck, but this was a diner, after all.
Kevin placed his order for a stack of chocolate chip pancakes. Mandi Mac turned and headed back behind the counter. Kevin began to stare off into space, lost in thoughts about the day soon to come. He needed those entrails first, though.
A few minutes later, Mandi Mac placed a plate full of steaming chocolate chip pancakes in front of Kevin. Dousing them in syrup and butter, Kevin ravenously dug into the pancakes.
After a little while, the bell on the diner door rang, letting in the street noise of sirens and squealing brakes. Kevin, however, was too engrossed in his food to look up. But before he knew it, Maria, his neighbor from across the hall, sat next to him. Kevin smiled. Maria blushed.
Half an hour later, Kevin emerged from the diner. He strolled down the street, noticing a black van whizzing around the block. Merrily whistling the overture from the Marriage of Figaro, Kevin took a shortcut through the empty lot behind Washington Heights to the lonely taxidermy stand. He approached the small, dark-haired woman behind the stand. Here goes nothing, he thought.
"Can I help you?" the young woman asked.
"Uh, this might sound like an odd request, but, uh, do you have any extra entrails I could have? Preferably of a rat?" Kevin responded.
"You're in luck. I just finished a rat moments ago. I was going to give the entrails to the bu- never mind. Sure. You can have them."
She fished around in a bucket behind the stand and withdrew a gloppy-looking mess of rat organs. Wrapping the innards in a sheet of newspaper, she handed the newly-formed, slightly leaking package to Kevin.
"Thanks," Kevin muttered as he turned to head back to Washington Heights.
After his daily sprint back up the stairs to the ninth floor, Kevin proceeded to Apartment 981. Sneaking in and shutting the door quietly behind him, he unwrapped the package of entrails. Based on his studies as a premed student, he guessed that he had been given the intestines, gall bladder, and a pancreas. It would suffice. Spreading the innards out under a lamp, now all he had to do was wait for them to dry.
and over and tried to find you then tried to move on then tried to forget but i can't. please delilah come home i don't know what more i can say. i miss you on the swing, in the garden, watching the butterflies. i will give you anything everything just come back please. i'm not angry, i don't care why you left. but i can't wait anymore and
The familiar red ink ran slightly as it mixed with Delilah's fresh tears. Her hands shook as she read His words. She traced the rushed pen strokes with her index finger and felt His own shaking hands as He scribbled the letter on the scrap paper. She smiled as she took the back of her hand to her cheekbone and tried to remember where her suitcase was
whoo.whoo.whoo.whoo.whoo.
Delilah blinked her dry eyes furiously as she awoke to blaring sirens coming from her window. She raised her imprinted cheek from the plush red pillow of her couch and looked down at the unopened envelope wrapped in her five fat fingers. Body stiff from an unexpected sleep, she pulled herself over the edge of the couch to look out the window. The day had been exceedingly miserable for the season, and bits of ice mingled with the tiny wet droplets on her window sill. A black van scurried beneath her as the sirens began to die away, and Delilah remembered where she was.
The letter.
It had been days since she recovered it from her tiny metal cubby. She had attempted to open it 47 times but couldn't go through with it. She tried to keep her body occupied with the usual menial tasks she could complete around Washington Heights, but Delilah's mind was focused on the small, unopened envelope resting on the kitchen counter, dozing on the coffee table, waiting on her bed. But every time she found herself ready to dig her plump finger beneath the envelope flap and shred the silencing seal, she began imagining what she wished it said. She could not bear to be disappointed.
So she never opened it.
Today had been no different. Delilah eyed the letter in the quickly fading suffocated sunlight for what felt like the millionth time. The corners were beginning to fold and brown slightly. The edges were becoming discolored from the oils of her fat fingers. The red of the ink, however, remained vibrant and His handwriting unmistakable. She was tempted to put the envelope up to window to get a clue as to its contents, but she could not even manage that.
Instead she looked out of her small window without any obstruction but the bleak, polluted atmosphere of Washington Heights. She watched the people busying themselves below, playing her familiar game. She watched the peculiar foreign man from her building walk off towards Barton street before changing direction and coming back the other way – 24 cracks. A younger girl with more years on her face that on her driver's license held on to her hat as she made her way to the Diner Royale – 8 cracks. The beautiful basement tenant did not let the threat of sleet faze her as she walked, grocery bags in hand, back home – 5 cracks. Perfect.
Like a dandelion sprouting from the crack in the sidewalk, life managed to survive in this hopeless offshoot of greater Baltimore. Moving, breathing life.
Marginally inspired, Delilah made a decision.
Sunday.
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