252Sucker Love
Chapter One
"Where is my Mind?"
The first person he mentions her to is his psychiatrist, it makes him pause his notes.
He doesn't know why he chooses him. He doesn't even like the man. Doctor Harmon reminds him of a sad, workaholic and undersexed professional who is on the verge of midlife crisis with his gelled up boy band hairstyle, and top floor practice in a brand new office in Down Town Little Tokyo.
But regardless of the man's various failings, he mentions her to him anyway, and once he does he immediately wishes that he hadn't. It makes him feel like he has somehow violated her by including her existence in his therapy session.
"What is her name?"
He shrugs in response. Despite now having spoken to her on several occasions, he is still yet to learn it. He wants to though. Every time he comes away from an encounter with her, he curses himself for not remembering to ask. A part of him is afraid that the longer he leaves it, the more awkward it will become when he finally does. Like she might be under the impression that because of time gap, he thinks her unimportant.
"What is it that attracts you to her?" the doctor then tries.
Despite his wishes, the can of worms has been opened and before he knows it he is babbling, he can't stop himself. He talks about the cutting, her bravery, Byron, her funny hats and frilly dresses. He talks about the way her mouth curls up to one side when she smirks, like she knows certain secrets that are far beyond the understanding of normal human beings.
For fifty five minutes, all his thoughts and words are filled with her, and although it makes his head swirl with giddiness, it also leaves him terribly confused. He cannot place names to all the emotions that swell up inside of him every time he thinks of her. It frightens him a little. They are warm and comforting, so utterly alien to anything he has ever experienced before.
A soft hiss of air escapes the leather as Doctor Harmon shifts his weight in his chair. "During our first session four weeks ago, you mentioned that you often fantasize about killing the people you like..." There is a moment's pause before he continues, this time in a cautious, slightly concerned tone. "Do you experience similar thoughts when you think about this girl?"
The mere mention of such a thing makes him bolt upright on the daybed in startled revulsion. All of a sudden he's furious. It disgusts him, sickens him to the stomach. He wants to explain what it is he would do for her, what he did do for her, but a little niggling voice in the back of his brain warns him against such a confession. Nearly drowning a seventeen year old bully in a blocked toilet is probably one of those things that is considered criminally insane.
So he settles instead for a one word response. He makes sure to pour all of his feelings of repulsion into it.
"No."
He wants to help her more than anything.
The doctor remains silent as he waits for him to regain control. It does not come quickly, and it does not come quietly either. Amidst the anger, his monsters howl on her behalf in righteous indignation. He harnesses them, pulling them in and steers them in the direction of the source of their rage that's sitting in the black leather armchair just opposite.
"You have to understand that I am under a legal obligation to ask these questions," Doctor Harmon tells him when he thinks that it is safe again to speak. "For your own safety."
He leans forward on his elbows, a cold smirk playing on his lips. "You're afraid that I might kill someone. Tell me, doc, would you feel guilty if I did? Would you blame yourself? I'm sure other people would. They might even make a news feature on it; "Troubled teen did not receive the help he needed, psychiatrist charged with gross professional negligence." Kinda has a ring to it, doesn't it?... So what's it like sitting on your ass all day listening to other people's problems? I bet you get bored. Or do you do it because it makes you feel good knowing that you're not one of the sorry suckers coming to you for help?"
Doctor Harmon's face remains impassive. "My job is not to judge you. It's to help you."
"But you do," he goads. "You can't help yourself. I reckon that your own life is so goddamn meaningless that you need to be surrounded by basket cases just to distract youself from it. It makes you feel important, but in actual fact you're just a parasite sucking on the misery of others."
He is left unsatisfied when the doctor does not rise to the bait. Instead, the man flicks over the pages in his file and with a cough, places the conversation back on track.
"You've said that by killing the people you like, you believe that you'll be sending them to a better place." He looks up from his notes, crosses his legs and clasps his hands together. "Why is she different?"
At the very mention of her, the warm feelings come back, and this time they bring with them a calm. It starts in his stomach and gently rises upwards throughout his body as if it is floating on butterfly wings.
"She shouldn't have to wait until she's dead," he begins with an unfamiliar awkwardness. "She deserves to be happy here, now... but she's not. All these assholes keep trying to bring her down. It really gets their backs up that she can just call like it is, straight down the line, no bullshit. They want to crush her for it... She's not like the rest of them and they hate her cause of it."
"Who's they?"
He pulls on his sleeve. "Everyone."
The doctor glances quickly up at the clock and closes over the file. "It sounds to me like you feel a strong desire to protect this girl."
"That's normal, right?" He searches the doctor's face, feeling more vulnerable and uncertain than ever before. "Wanting to protect someone, I mean."
Doctor Harmon slowly nods his head, but there's a worried look in his eye, as though something about what he has just said has disturbed him immensely.
It is not the first time he has forgotten to take his medication, but the withdrawal symptoms are more severe than the last.
He does not notice immediately. For the first half of the morning, everything feels completely normal aside from from the occasional twitch. By lunch time however, the paranoia sets in and he remembers that he forgot to take his pills during the chaos of the early morning rush. He foolishly decides to tough it out, and he does, admirably, until about halfway through Chemistry class when the hallucinations suddenly kick in.
First it starts with his hands.
Black, grey and white dots appear on the knuckles of the hand holding his pen. The colors spread outwards, as though they are being pushed by the strokes of an invisible paintbrush. Gradually they build in shade and texture until at last he is staring at a perfect anatomical reconstruction of his bones and tendons.
Fascinated, he reaches out the index finger on his other hand and runs it across the paintwork. It smudges into crimson, and when the wet blood begins to run freely down his arms, he drops his pen in shock.
Slowly, shakily, he raises his hands up to his face to inspect. It looks and feels exactly like real blood, warm and thick with the faintest scent of copper. He rubs his fingers and palms together, relishing the feel of its sticky consistency on his skin. It is not real, he knows this, he tells himself this. It is just a psychotic episode, but above the wailing rage inside his skull, reason is very hard to hear.
So he looks instead to his classmates for distraction, only to find death staring back. Bullets holes and stab wounds riddle their bodies. Flesh has been torn open to reveal the bones and the organs below. It's hypnotizing... maddening. He licks his dry lips as he watches the blood ooze from the exit wound in the back of the head of the boy in front of him. It stares out at him, as if begging him to make it real.
He cannot however, he does not have a gun and then he remembers that driving a bullet through his classmate's skull is not something that a sane person would do.
With this thought in mind, he gets up from his chair. No one notices him, not even the goth girl with the slit throat sitting beside him. It is only when he throws his chair through the window with a smash, that the whole class turns to look at him in all their gory glory.
Tearing his eyes away from the blood, he jumps up onto the window ledge. People are on their feet now. The teacher is running towards him, yelling something, but the blood that pours from her mouth and from the bullet wound in her jaw makes it damn near impossible for him to understand her.
He grips the window frame and with a push forward, he is falling, through the air, the green grass rushing up to meet him from below. His feet sting painfully as they hit it with a thud and he lurches forward onto the earth beside the chair.
He wastes very little time trying to gather his bearings together; there is not much of them left to hold.
And then he runs.
He runs until the skeleton paint vanishes from his hands. He runs until the cuts and the blood and the bullet holes disappear, the voices quieten and the monsters go to sleep.
And once it's all gone, he just keeps running; through the streets, past the houses and cars, knocking into pedestrians as he goes. His chucks slap rhythmically off the concrete for what feels like hours, until at last he feels the sand sink beneath his feet and hears the roar of the waves in his ears.
He collapses on the beach, mentally and physically exhausted, his arm thrown over his eyes. It is only when his heart stills and his breathing returns to normal that he remembers her.
He left her there.
He abandoned her.
Despite the pain that shoots throughout his body, he pulls himself to his feet. He needs to get back to the school right away. He needs to find her and explain to her what happened, so that she understands and doesn't worry. He needs her to know that he would never leave her without a good reason.
But his legs won't let him. They are too sore from the abuse he has inflicted upon them. He takes a step forward and immediately his knees give out from underneath him. He pulls himself up, spits the sand out of his mouth and tries again, only to fall forward in a crumpled heap once more.
Over and over, and over again he tries, until at last his body can no longer move at all, and he is stuck, lying on his back, staring up at the endless expanse of blue sky above him in frustration.
Later he will be bundled into the back of a cop car and driven back home to the hysterical shrieks of the cocksucker. An hour following that, he will be dragged off to Doctor Harmon's office for an emergency assessment. By midnight he will be lying in a hospital gown, under heavy sedation in a psychiatric ward while his family fill out the paper work for his four day stay in the reception. And then next week he will sit in front of Principle Figgins with Larry, apologizing and promising that it will never happen again.
But that is then and this is now. For now he has to deal with the guilt of having left her all alone, until eventually his eyes close over and he drifts off into fitful slumber.
The first time he sees her after the incident is behind the bleachers on the playing field during recess. It is also where he finally learns her name.
Admittedly, the bleachers are not a place he normally frequents. He is there under self imposed exile, away from the pitiful looks and whispered scoffs that have been following him around all morning. No one has bothered to talk to him so far, which is good because he might kill them if they try.
The batteries in his disc-man have died, so instead he entertains himself with reading about how Raoul Duke and his attorney, Dr Gonzo blaze a streak of pharmaceutical havoc across the state of California. It is when the narration begins to spiral into fit of adrenochrome induced madness that she finds him.
"I figured you'd be here. It seems to be the place to go when you don't want to be found."
He snaps the book closed, lifts his head and turns it to look at her, all thoughts of Duke and his incoherent babble forgotten. She's wearing what appears to be a yellowy cream and brown wedding dress cut from a gaudy 70's pattern curtain, a grey cardigan and a black trilby. It all clashes horribly together, but the self assertiveness in her expression carries it off. He watches, fascinated, as she shrugs off her satchel and throws it on the ground before sitting down in front of him with her legs crossed.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
There is no pity in her face, no mockery. He didn't expect to find any there. He still checks however, just to remind himself about how different she is from the rest.
"I didn't try to kill myself." It's humiliating saying it, but he has to. He wants to make it absolutely clear to her that he would never abandon her in such a way.
"I know." She thumbs a cigarette from the carton and places it between her lips. "Anyone who knows anything will tell you that you can't kill yourself by jumping out of a second floor window. Not unless you're really determined or just plain dumb. Want one?"
He declines. "I forgot to take my meds— The other day," he adds quickly.
With bated breath, he waits anxiously to see how she will react. He needn't have worried however, she appears completely unfazed by this new revelation. Part of him suspects that she might have anticipated it even.
"No wonder you jumped." It's sounds so normal coming from her, like it's nothing but a common, every day occurrence. "My Dad's a psychiatrist," she explains. "He sees it happen all the time. From what I hear, those things pretty much screw you into chemical dependency. Forget to take them once and you'll find yourself climbing up the walls like a coked up spider monkey. So where did you go? Afterwards like?"
"To the beach. I ran the whole way there, needed to clear my head. It's about the only thing that works when I... things get crazy."
He doesn't feel the need to explain to her about the hospital. From the length of his absence she has probably guessed that already. The guilt from that day is still there. It gnaws away at his insides every time he looks into her face. She doesn't seem to notice however.
"When it gets like that for me," she says. "I like to lock my bedroom door and put Pearl Jam on full blast. Hole's good too, Courtney's voice is pretty pissy..." She falls silent, thoughtful, and when she finally brings herself to speak again, her voice is distant. "Do you ever think about it? You know... killing yourself."
Admittedly, he has never been one for suicide. His destructive appetites are more homicidally inclined. "It's not really my thing. You?"
She tilts her head to the side. "Sometimes, but then I remind myself that this world is for surviving."
The way she says it makes it sound so cool, like it's nothing but it scares him to think she has even considered it. Gently, he reaches forward and plucks her wrists from her lap, turning them over in his hands so that the scars face up beneath the material of her cardigan, and he pulls them onto his knees. Her fingers tremble a little but she does not try to resist. She is not frightened, only surprised.
"What's so bad about this world that it makes you want to leave it?" he asks.
A single word from her and he will take care of it, just like he did the valley girl. Whoever or whatever it is, he will make it go away so that it can never hurt her again.
"Moving state, high school bullshit, asshole parents." She shrugs. "You know the drill." But there is more to it then her pride and her strength will let her admit. He can see the tiredness lurking behind the fire in her eyes.
"Do they hurt you?"
She shakes her head. "No... they hurt each other."
He listens quietly, venturing only the occasional question or word of assurance as she tells him all about her life before and since her move to LA. For the remainder of recess, they speak of her father's infidelity, her mother's weakness and the replacement child that no one has bothered to inform her of.
They also touch a little on his own home life, but he finds himself wanting to shield her from that as much as possible. After all, life with the cocksucker and Larry makes the relationship between her and her parents look like something straight off the Brady Bunch.
It is only through listening to her problems, that he finally comes to understand why she cuts and contemplates suicide. It is not because she is sad or even psychotic like him, it is because she is angry. Her monsters are rage, and rage always leaves a helpless exhaustion in its wake.
Once she is done, she removes herself from his grip and fumbles around in her bag for a lighter to light her long since distinguished cigarette. The ghost of her wrists is still there however, weighing heavy and warm on the palms of his hands. He curls his fingers closed around them.
"Are you free this weekend?" she asks as she blows out a thick grey cloud. "To hangout, I mean. My Dad's away in Boston to see some ex-patient of his, and I'd rather not spend another night alone watching reruns of Dark Shadows or worse, watching them with Mom."
He nods and she quickly tears a piece of paper out of her note pad and scribbles down her home phone number on it.
"I'm Violet by the way," she says as she hands it to him. Her handwriting is unfittingly girly and refined. He folds it carefully and places it in the pocket of his flannel shirt to keep it safe. "You're Tate, right? I saw your name on the library card of one of the bird books you borrowed."
The fact that she is completely unapologetic about spying on him makes him like her all the more.
To be continued...
A/N: Thank you guys for all the amazing reviews on the prologue! I would encourage you to sign in so that I can write you a response. So anyway, I hope you've enjoyed reading this cause I'm certainly having a lot of fun writing it. Yes, Tate is completely insane, but we all knew that already.