latino_menace | Entries tagged with room 19

When he first enters the room, he's surprised to see that it's obviously been used. He was expecting this to be like a hotel, with everything new for the next person. Still, he approves of the furnishings, though it's a little smaller than he would have liked and not done in the sort of style common in 1979. Which is to say, it's furnished with taste, style and obviously expensive.

He heads into the bathroom to shower. There are bottles of shampoo and cologne, all expensive enough to be even out of his price range. They smell good though, so he uses them liberally. Wandering back out to the main room, he opens the wardrobe and looks at the clothes. Again, tasteful and expensive. He tries a shirt on and it fits around the shoulders but is too loose at the waist and the pants just fall off him. Exasperated, he turns back to pick up his original jeans...and that's when he sees the pictures.

At first, he thinks they're of his dad. Would his father know about this place? If so, why would he never mention it? He picks one up and...there's another man in them. And his father...doesn't look like his father. Not quite. There are similarities but not enough for them to be the same man.

The picture falls from his fingers and breaks on the floor. What did those people say? The doctor, and Teja. They knew me.

Older. They said they knew me older.

He yanks his boots on with shaking hands and bolts from the room, still shirtless and with damp hair.

What the fuck is going on?!

...you wake up and like most people, you think of nothing for a few seconds while the world becomes real again. You move and your shoulder hurts and then you remember.

It's back, you can have it back...

You get up and shower and you do this every day and more, three times a day sometimes and no one has ever had the nerve to tell you that it's a bit OCD and what are you trying to clean off anyway? And it doesn't matter because it never occurs to you that it's weird.

Sometimes there is cocaine with your breakfast coffee, like today, for example. It's the first time in a week or more because natural euphoria has kept you away from it but you feel tired today and icky and your head aches because you started drinking again yesterday. Or the day before. One of the two. There was celebrating before that too but that's celebrating and doesn't count. Yesterday (the day before/two days before) was because the ache was back and you crashed because you remembered that it had never really gone.

You remembered when she was in your room. You laugh and drink and fuck and then, at some point, afterwards, you wake up in the night and your eyes fall on the pictures that are still face-down and that damn orange shirt in the corner that you can't put away, and you remember. Then you drink and fuck some more because you know what? The life you got back still isn't complete and the only thing that will fix it is something that isn't here and in the meantime all you can do is tread water and fill the time and go back to work and laugh and kill and terrorize and it's all you ever wanted (before) and you don't know when it changed and y'know, it might be fun but that doesn't make it right.

You try to remember a time when you could wake up with impunity, and can't.

* * * * *

Ramon sits quietly in his room, eyes closed and head swimming, leaning back against the wall for an anchor. The stone Inari gave him ('...three wishes...') turns idly in his fingers and he almost stops it, almost, so many times. He wishes he could. It would be so much easier. But regardless of what some people may think, regardless of the evidence in some past actions, he does remember. He does.

'What will you do when you find him?'

'It's up to him.

...he's not my property to control.'

He won't make a wish to see him. He wants to but he won't. In his head, he's wondering whether a wish to erase all memories of him might not be the best course of action...but he'll never do that either. Sometimes, things that hurt are the things you hold on to most.

* * * * *

...some days you dream of wishes. Some days you wish to forget. And days like today, the only thing to hope for is a quiet room and a bottle with no end, until you can sleep again.

Room 19 has changed slightly. Very slightly. Random's things - once left lying around wherever the man had dropped them - are now neatly on top of a chest of drawers. The space that had been taken up with his stuff on the dresser is now acting as a sort of bar, with about seven different bottles of alcohol, a few mixers and glasses, and quite a lot of coke.

He lets Mary Anne go when they're inside and heads for the booze, ignoring the drugs. Two straight tequilas are poured and he holds one out to her.

'Hydration is good for you, I'm told. Wouldn't want you flagging.'

Heh.

When he woke up this morning, it was just like any other morning. Up, bathroom, shower, teeth, hair, clothes, breakfast. All normal...except the bit where he looked in the bathroom cabinet for a fresh razor and it opened too fast and smacked him in the mouth. No harm done, apart from a small cut on his upper lip that bleeds like a bitch for ten seconds, then stops. Whatever.

He goes to breakfast. Normal normal. Except the bit where he picks up his coffee with his left hand and a pain sears through it and causes him to spill the entire contents down his shirt.

Seriously, what the fuck?

He sighs and goes upstairs to change. That's when he gets it - suddenly the only clothes in his closet are black pants, a dark striped shirt and heavy black overcoat. There's dust on the hems of the pants and in the bathroom, a slightly frayed fabric band-aid waits on the sink.

He has to laugh at Bar's subtlety. It's fine though - he inspects the small cut and it looks exactly the same as when he got it back home. The band-aid fits the same. The clothes make it feel like he never left.

And that's it. Time to go. There are times when he knows how to take a hint and this is one he's more than happy to oblige.

Since his last conversation with Mary Anne, something has changed. It's like...admitting he wanted to go home made it impossible to think of anything else. He's been running over everything he knows in his head, planning strategies (not just for the deal but for after, when he's won), escape routes, ways to kill Jack, what to do with the virus, ways to kill Jack, what it'll be like being home, ways to kill Jack.

There comes a point though, when you can't look at maps any more, or argue with yourself about how things will go. Waiting sucks but he has no choice for the next few days; he can, however, finalise things with Mary Anne.

Which is why he left a note at the bar, asking her to come up, and why he's waiting for her now.

[...following this...]

Ramon's in his room, trying to staunch the bleeding. It doesn't help that he can't see to get all the porcelain out because blood keeps getting in the way and there are two cuts too deep to just stop on their own, not if he has to keep poking at them with tweezers to get the bits out. Running the whole mess under the tap isn't helping.

What really pisses him off is that Mary Anne hasn't given the valium back that she stole the other day. He could do with it. He's trying to make do with Scotch but this fucking hurts now and attempting to fix it on his own just isn't cutting it.

He doesn't know any doctors, he hasn't seen Nita in years and he can't get one of his fingers to move properly. Only one thing for it.

He wraps the hand up in a towel and goes to the dresser to retrieve some cash. When in need, offer to pay. There has to be a doctor somewhere in the bar that could use the money.

A birthday without him. Another birthday without him. Next year?

Christ.

He leans his back on the closed door and shuts his eyes. At least in here, there’s no need to worry about the front. No one is going to be coming in here. Never mind that they hadn’t really lived here for years - there’s still an orange shirt over the back of that chair in the corner, a dagger in the top drawer of the dresser. A wig from some show or another – hideous thing but it made him laugh – on top of the wardrobe. A toothbrush, a bottle of cologne. And pictures. All those pictures he took. They sit around, faced down, the people in them seeing nothing but the blank wood of shelves, the desk, the chest of drawers. He can’t stand to look at them anymore.

Maybe he’ll clean it up one day. Fuck, maybe he’ll hand the key back. Maybe.

Maybe.

But fuck it, today’s his birthday. He’s allowed to enjoy himself isn’t he? So he goes to the other dresser, the one that only he has the key to. It holds cash and guns and knives and drugs (and drugs, and drugs) and cocaine is what he wants tonight. No, needs. He can’t have what he wants but this’ll do. It’ll all do, for now.

It’ll have to.

Ramon struggles to get the key into the lock as he has an armful of Amberite right now, but manages it eventually. He kicks the door open, and then closed after they've entered, looking down at Random the whole time. His eyes are open but he still doesn't seem that alert, and that's enough to worry him.

He lays him down on the bed, then pours him a scotch and sits down next to him.

'Here. It might help.' A hand goes out and tucks some sticking-out hair behind his ear. 'Are you alright?'

The sleep had been dreamless. Unfortunately, being awake brought everything back.

Ramon opens his eyes slowly, unwilling to come back to a realiy that hurts so much. There's a moment of panic when he realises that Random isn't there with him because he can't deal with the idea of being alone right now. He sits up...and sees him, sitting on the end of the bed, looking like he hasn't slept at all.

He still can't find any words. Not after last night. He just reaches a hand for him and hopes he won't be turned away.

He's alone again and doesn't like it. After a month of being in the cell, he's tired of solitude. Random has just slipped out to get something to eat, he knows he wont be long. But still, in the meantime, he sits and tries not to let the walls close in.

All the same, he's not that happy about the knock on the door. It could be anyone and he doesn't exactly have a lot of friends around this place. So for a moment, he just looks up and doesn't move.