Chapter Text
January 6, 1971
The first and foremost thing Ava could focus on when she disembarked the train — a singular suitcase in hand paired with an overfilled backpack, her best working pair of beat-up Converse, and a flimsy jacket she got at the Salvation Army for cheap — was how horribly cold the weather was.
This took the spotlight as her introduction to Massachusetts for the majority of the first 2 weeks.
She was lying messy underneath the hotel bed's duvet, the material scrunching together at her front and leaving her back completely exposed, as her eyes circle the calendar — the one she bought for a cheap cent at the souvenir shop placed very purposefully beside the entrance (or, exit, in her case) of the train station’s vestibule — pinned to the wall with 3 flimsy pieces of tape on the left, center, and right. Vision tunneling down the 1 at the very bottom right side of the page. 1. January. January it wasn’t supposed to be January yet.
Her eyes close, she rolls onto her other shoulder, focuses her attention to the low buzz of the air conditioner behind her. The occasional thump coming from the inside of the robust machine, trying its best to process cool air into something that could, at best, be considered mildly warm, blowing into her back, the sensation dragging across the length of it till the prickles of cold wear down just a bit.
Dragged, she finds this applies perfectly — if not, more intensely — to the state's harsh, long-lasting winters.
“The winters there’re pretty intense, as far as I’ve heard. But there’s an appeal to it, I’d say.”
He’d been monologuing about his future that day. Of dreams and aspirations he’d wish to accomplish in adulthood because, well, he wanted to. There’s no stopping a talented young boys yearning for the American dream. Boston was referenced in the wave of it all. Only once was the weather mentioned, like an item washed up on shore, making a brief appearance to the world until the ocean wraps its mouth around it again. Pulls back with the object inside until, finally, it’s swallowed back down inside the ocean's expansive stomach.
Though she’s new, she at least did some pretty extensive background research (a magazine, specifically, a New York Times magazine worth 50 cents!) into exactly where she was running to.
Typically, the winter in other states begins during December, lasting until late February or early March; here, it’s a slightly different case, where the season starts in the middle of or up to late November, dragging on until the end of April.
It’s the beginning of January, when the weather is nothing less than a sharp, brittle arctic cold that clings and cracks at your skin while your breath freezes mid-air with your body shivering everywhere in repulsion of it. Tensing up your shoulders or clattering your teeth together just to somehow make more of itself. Snow coats the city at this time of year as it plasters all over building roofs, cascading down walls, before settling on any remaining surface below to mix in with the rest of the trash. The sidewalks, in particular, are a bit of a grey, slushy mess, combined with junk and whatever unwanted leftovers someone had before littering it all over the floor.
Appeal where?
It’s at this time that the wintertime doesn't even think of grazing at the beginning of a slow transition that builds up into spring; It would be stupid, even wishful thinking, to believe that any sort of hot, comfortable warmth would follow to bless the heavy snowfall that she’s come to know as Boston during the winter. But a girl can dream, you know?
She’s a bit late at noticing the thick slop of disregarded food on the floor so she takes a hard step to the side that makes a slender sore begin to run across her spine, similar to a vine wrapping around the bone as she’s walking, slowly swathing down to her legs — fuck, maybe she should’ve brought her cane!
Calm down, you took enough pills for it to die down a bit.
That does enough to reassure her, but not enough to relieve the little ache that resides in her spine — though the two, she finds, are always interchangeable, yet never simultaneous — But who cares? It’s still her body, so she can do whatever the fuck she wants with it.
In front of her is a small patch of mushy, liquid snow blended with discarded food leftovers that emits a rancid smell, one she doesn’t notice until she finds herself stumbling on her next step, twisting slightly to the left before a sore nerve shoots up to her spine, like a shoelace tightening a knot. Fuck, never mind, I should’ve brought my cane.
Her back bumps against the pole of a streetlamp — cool metal seeping through the too-thin material of her jacket to corrode her skin as if it were acidic, like a vampire to steel — making her wince but still giving her something solid to lean on. A heavy exhale she didn't know she had escapes her lips, leaving the vague, foggy outline of her breath being quietly shushed away by the air, watching it twirl around for a moment before rolling her head to the side at a degree to see a tiny corner store at the edge of the street right beside her, a Goodwill.
Goodwill, home to at least 80 percent of her teenage years' wardrobe — the other 20 percent being ran-through hand-me-downs that were probably decades old. Though it hardly made a difference to her — the number of these has been accumulating over the past 2 years, and the thought of it makes her melancholic for reasons she doesn’t fully understand.
(You know exactly why. don’t ignore the question.)
There’s a sharpness to the ache in her spine now, like a puncture, so her hand finds purpose by going inside her purse and scavenging until she feels a familiar packet of thin rolling paper, with a small paper bag by its side.
She pulls the two out and, to the best of her abilities, tries to evenly pour the cannabis and roll the rickety paper around it. She somehow succeeds — thank god for sneaking out late at night — and puts it between her lips before attempting to spark her lighter— once, twice, flicking her thumb down the metal wheel a third time, which, to no avail, did not spark.
“Come on, work with me.” It takes a fifth attempt for it to spark, and by that time, she had already begun scanning the inside of the store.
Inside are 3 small racks of clothing: previously owned, 30% off in red marker, sitting atop a more meager rack. The clothes, in and of themselves, didn’t seem to be anything special; decrepit fabrics in various sizes and colors. One in particular caught her eye: a more bulky, fitted leather jacket. Brown with a slightly frayed collar and spots of what seems to be discoloration around the sleeves' cuffs, likely from hurried cleaning and improper drying.
Michael’s was quite similar, if not a bit more shabby.
Ava, freshly fourteen and granted the freedom of free roaming the town after proving her still-strained but ever-improving mobility (with the exception that she’d always been accompanied by at least one other child. Though that was never a problem. She had Michael after all!) So, with this newfound freedom, her curiosity was ready to be shoved into the world, and opted to explore the amazing world of thrift stores, which felt a bit like a wonderland. So many gadgets and clothing to choose from— she felt a bit overwhelmed by all the options laid out before her. Overwhelmed at how it’s already so much more than what’s been presented to her for most of her life.
The jacket was already a bit threadbare the first time they found it; the stitching around the collar was sticking out like an uncut blade of grass, and the 2nd to last button was missing, but that was just your typical find from a thrift store in — (Michaels words) — a small town.
“Small town,” obviously, she knew the definition of one. Duh. But she wasn’t able to accurately describe the beginning and end of the town, or the liveliness of the plazas and flea markets in the morning, or whether Michael was accurate in his description of downtown, not bustling but still thriving with some sense of community.
She couldn’t properly wrap her mind around a place larger than this one.
“It looks fairly big on me, no?” His accent was (still) especially present when pronouncing vowels. Mouth rounding around the “air,” volume dropping by the end.
“Yes, but for whatever reason, you’re still growing, so it’ll be better in the long run.”
“I guess you're right. And I’m not a giant, you’re just… well. Small.”
“I will hit you so hard with this crutch, just wait.”
The regular price tag, flimsy and attached to the cuff, read: $15.99. It’s 30% off, meaning it’s placed somewhere between $11. She could buy it, the store didn’t close till 10, and it was around…
The time on her watch read 9:41. She had time, and she could buy it; she could do it.
It doesn’t fully register to her that she’s tossed her joint to the floor to scramble with the rest of the trash until she hears a quiet fssh — it doesn’t matter much to her though, the distance between her and the building already closing until she’s in front of the door, hand wrapped around the handle, about to tug down when she picks up on the quiet tap-tap on the window next to her.
It’s obvious he’s still a boy, likely a pre-teen, because of the noticeable baby fat around his cheeks in contrast to his rather slim body. Ears that appear a size too big for his head — apropos of Michael, who appeared much the same in his early years at St. Michael's — He was around 12. Wasn’t he?
Her mind is lost in thought, only drifting back down when the open sign is flipped backwards to show a bright red sign with white letters “CLOSED” flat against the mirror, so she isn’t able to sneak in another look at him before the lights are switched off, the boy walking into the shadows and out of sight completely now.
The lighters lit again, but there's nothing at the end of the flame, just distant flickering as her thumb swipes down on the metal wheel as she walks away, once, twice, before fumbling it back inside her pocket.
Stupid, stupid.
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The dancefloor is kaleidoscopic; The sidelights emitting bright retro neon colour across the walls, each ray reflecting off the glass tiles embedded on many of the walls and bouncing onto the conglomeration of people on the dance floor like a painting, highlighting the outline of heads while illuminating their faces. Hues of the spectrum mix with the palest shade of porcelain white to the darkest form of cinnamon black, creating all sorts of various combinations of complementary and analogous colours.
She’s sure the people are surpassing the buildings' set capacity; every shrug of a shoulder is a bullseye into someone else’s chest or side. Every and any space for air is invaded to make way for some insistent strangers begging to put their tongues inside each other. Then again, the living conditions at St. Michael's weren’t amazing either, so she soldiers on.
It’s when she’s walking back to the bar, halfway empty drink in hand, when somebody elbows her shoulder, indirectly flaring up the surrounding area like a misfired firework, making her lose balance on that same side, and limp forward into somebody else. Luckily, the man catches her and terminates the start of some fucked up domino effect— she can hear him saying something, but she’s already back on her feet (with a small limp on her left leg) and darts for the bar.
She finds it with minor struggle — because of the crowd, trust me — and finds an empty seat beside four other barstools she eyes that are rather devoid of people before settling in and downing the Tequila sunrise down her throat until she feels nothing wet enter her mouth.
She’s drinking her refill when she smells a hint of something similar to ink. Of drawings sketched carefully in ink, of graphite smudged hands, and nearly chokes on the alcohol.
Her eyes scan both sides before her head ultimately turns to the right, in the direction the scent had come and gone from. Alike the smell, her compulsion to smoke a joint seemed to appear out of nowhere. But this stayed and stuck around her like how a fly is to fire — feeling the warmth of the flame flush her skin as she stretched closer, feeling the fire grow hotter and the glow brighter — as she smells it once more. Faint but ever present and she’s usually better at fighting off her urges, but she’s tipsy and likely well on her way to drunk, and so full of wants that they start to think for her.
Her hand goes inside her purse as she searches for any sign of her paper and filter, only to come empty-handed. Shit.
She’s made it to the women's bathroom (Wait, why am I here?) and instinctively goes to grab the knob when the door swings open, empty and quiet, the hinges echo. Thank god! Also how? It hits her then, as she crosses the threshold and inhales, that it’s just people doing weed. Wait fuck yeah!
“Fuck! Jeez, at least knock first.” All of the stalls are lined up to the right, and she can’t find exactly where the voice is coming from until she walks to the end and sees an open space, probably meant to be another stall, where two ladies are bunched in. One stands against the wall in the gap past the stalls, while the other sits on the floor nearby in a sort of protective position with both knees pulled up to her chest as she inserts a needle into her wrist. She isn’t even going to ask.
“What’re you staring at?” It’s from the first voice, and it’s coming from the woman standing. Tall, intimidating, hot. Also dressed in vibrant bellbottoms and a halter top so low you could practically see the beginning of her abdomen.
“I’m sorry I… Can I have a bit of that?”
“Of what? My grass?” The woman glances down at her joint and back at her, eyebrow arched so high it might as well hit the roof.
“Yes, I-I’m sorry, weird question, I know, but I ran out.” Ava’s reaching the stage of tipsy where she feels drowsy, but she wants to drag this night out for as long as she can, so she needs something to help her stay awake until the feeling comes back so she can gather her bearings to leave.
There’s at least 3 more seconds of awkward silence until she opens her mouth, lets out a series of giggles that sounds like an overheating teapot — she’s definitely high, “I’m messing, here,” as she hands Ava a rather disfigured joint she has to reroll.
“What’s up with her?” She nods towards the woman sitting down; her legs now sprawled in front of her, her head arched into the wall, the needle nowhere to be seen.
“Hmm? Some new shit she figured out from her medical classes. Personally, I couldn’t, needle scares me to shit.”
“Right…” As if on cue, the woman lying starts giggling and looking at her hands.
“Sheesh, you sure she’s okay? She looks spazzed outta’ her mind.”
“I’m fine…” more giggles.
The woman standing looks down at her, lightly kicks her knee with the front of her heel. “She’s fine,” and goes to take another blow at her joint as she shrugs.
“Yeah, I’m sure that’s true coming from the lady who's been high in here for who knows how fucking long,” A spark emits from her lighter, bringing the joint closer to the flame, and taking a draw out of it as she goes to lean on the wall to the opposite side of the two women, head arching back as she blows smoke out her mouth and she can already feel some of the sore in her back alleviating.
She can never describe the sensation, well, she could, just not accurately. At least, that’s what she thinks.
The closest she can get to it is water, in a sense. It laps around the inside of her head and rushes down her spine like a river dam, flowing into her limbs, and makes her feel like she’s floating in the middle of a pool. The buoyancy of the water below her helps keep her upright, limp, from the tension and stress that gravity wraps around her like a blanket, keeping her adhered to the ground.
She never learned how to swim; Michael never exactly considered it, no matter how much she pressed him about it. The two of them still awake past their bedtime, probably until midnight, whispering, at times, a bit too loudly just to be heard from across the room, that anybody with decent hearing could make out some form of speech from outside it.
How were they never caught? Has always been a question entirely beyond Ava, though it may have something to do with the fact that all the nuns in the orphanage were never below the age of 50.
“You have to teach me one day! What about during the summer? Best time of the year!”
“That would be futile, though, wouldn’t it? You can barely move a mile or two before your legs start shutting down.”
How silent she became at the declaration — realization falling on her just to make her crumple, like a boulder to a sand castle. How silent she was the next day, till he visited her inside the room, sat beside her, and said, “That was rude of me, I-I’m really sorry for that.” Looking at her with remorse rather than pity, wrapping his hands around hers with softness that would be long forgotten because of his attempts to “man up,” a phrase repeated so often at the orphanage. “Once we get out of here, I promise I’ll teach you.”
It’s not what she wants to hear, but she knows it’s the best she can settle for, not for lack of trying but because he’s scared.
“Babes, I really doubt you’re in any position to tell me that.”
“Okay! Well!” Her mouth remains open, but nothing comes out. What was I going to say? “When…” Oh, right, “When you walk inside a vacant bathroom, you don’t exactly expect to see a woman sprawled across the floor with a needle in her arm!” She’s not sure where the direction of this conversation is going, and to be honest, she doesn’t really care anymore, though the sentiment seems to go in vain when the needle lady starts laughing
“Chanel. And she’s Zori.” She emphasizes this by tapping the front of her heel to Zori’s ankle, who was now attempting (key word: attempting, as she managed to slip and slide down because of her heels, having to grab the stall wall from behind for support) — to get up.
“Me! Yeah, hi.” It came out slurred and rather lethargic, pushing her bangs to the sides of her forehead, previously stuck there from a likely mix of sweat and alcohol. However, certain strands do remain glued there.
Ava gained a much easier view of Zori. She wasn’t much taller than her; Ava's forehead was around the height of the top of her helix. She wore a silky wrap dress with funky spiraled, swirly colors down its length, and hair long and blonde with bangs at her sides, which might’ve made Ava mistake the woman for a hippie.
To be completely honest, that wasn’t out of the realm of possibility for Ava; she could imagine her in long, draped clothing that dragged onto the floor, collecting dirt and grime wherever she went, below an overstating poncho and a ukulele by her side.
The mental image was plastered all over her thoughts like a poster boy; the fact that she was inebriated and high wasn’t helping with any sort of damage control because the longer she stared, the more she illusioned Zori to adapt that depiction of her. She could feel a rumble in her chest that was definitely laughter.
Lo and behold, she wasn’t wrong, and she found herself laughing along with Zori in an uncontrollable state of ecstatic joy, with Chanel simply staring back and forth between them until the laughter died down. Now all the attention was on her
Shit, her stare looks like it’ll burn her alive. “So. What’s your name?”
“Oh, Ava.”
“Okay, Ava. So where’s your group? Or are you alone?”
“Oh..” The tips of her ears began to redden, “I’m.. Alone, yeah.” It hits a bit suddenly. She wouldn’t have been alone, at least if —
“Hmm, wanna join us? The rest of our group’s down at the bar, wouldn’t want to let a girl miss up on the opportunity.”
“I…” This isn’t the first time she’s done something like this, always sparked by a want to experience more, but that’s when there was somebody who would look after her.
She looks at Chanel for a brief moment, taking her in. Blonde hair and a striking figure. She’s in full glam, not even breaking a sweat, with an intense and heavy blue-eyed gaze that could probably laser-beam somebody to bits.
“Sure, actually! Wouldn’t want to pass up such an opportunity.”
What fucking ever. Who gives a shit anyway? If there isn’t anyone to look after her, she’ll just do it herself. She has an opportunity to forget, and she won’t pass that up for anything. Anything.
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The four barstools next to the one she sat in, which were originally vacant, now have two men sitting in the middle, perfunctorily slamming down on what she presumes to be the same beverage, at least that’s what she’s able to make out at a distance.
One of them catches Zori and Chanel out of the corner of his eye at first. He sprang off his seat while the other stayed behind, just watching as the man approached them first.
“Where’d you two go? Randell and I came over to meet, and you completely disappeared!”
His eyes diverted to their side, where they briefly locked with Ava’s, before reeling back to Zori and Chanel.
“Who’s she?”
“Her name is Ava, she seemed fun, so I brought her along.”
He looks at her again. This time, he actually takes time to do so, eyes moving up and down, resting on her chest for a few seconds, until landing back on her face.
The first thing she notices is the little mole on his cheek, which lies close to his mouth. Dark brown hair, tan, and noticeably the tallest among the rest of the group. A tight polo shirt that helps to broaden his shoulders and wrap around his biceps.
“You’re the girl I ran into earlier, aren’t you?”
Shit, that was him? “Shit, that was you! I’m sorry about that. It’s Ava, by the way- though you… know that. Right now, at least...”
“...Right. I’m JC. Come on then.”
“So, Ava, why’re you here all by yourself?”
The others are 10 inches deep into a conversation of sorts. Something about trying to figure out how to get into some exclusive underground club that Ava didn’t really bother to get into. This wasn’t anything permanent, and she wasn’t trying to look desperate and ask.
“I came here for something new, I believe. New to town, you know?”
“Ah, so no friends so far?” It’s not like they’re yelling, but because clubs are rather notorious for blasting ear-killing music, they have to turn up their voices a couple notches.
“Nope! I’m a loner as far as I can tell.”
There’s a hand tapping his shoulder now and she catches a glimpse of Randall as he turns around — she presumes it’s Randall because she feels extremely buzzy — passing a blunt already passed through the group.
“So, you have any interest in sticking around?”
She shrugs, “I’ll find out sooner or later.”
Maybe he’s pressing closer, or maybe it’s just her inebriation, “Have any interest with me or will you find out sooner or later?”
She barks a laugh; it’s not a special line, though it was sudden. “Well, pretty ahead of yourself, don’t you think?”
“Hah! Maybe. But you can never be too much next to a pretty girl.” His hand drops to her knee, and he shifts a bit closer.
Okay… “Well, since you’re that curious.” Her eyes dart up to the ceiling, actually pondering the question. It’s a bit hard to focus because she feels like there's a little man inside her head taking control of everything while she drifts off.
“I haven’t thought that far yet, honestly. Based on how fucking cold these winters seem to be, I’m not sure if I have any long-term plans.” Which is mostly the truth, considering she’s spent the past 2 weeks with no plan whatsoever besides meandering in various low-profile, low-energy clubs and bars just for the alcohol.
“Ah, seriously? We could use more foxy’s like you.”
“Wow, real smooth there, tough guy.”
“I’m not joking, though.” The hand on her knee travels higher, resting on her thigh. “If you’re so cold, then maybe I could… help.” It’s a shoddy pick-up line delivered with confidence as his hand groups at her thigh slightly. He looks down at her lips, gaze locking on them for a second too long before he looks back at her again with a lazy smile and offers the blunt.
She knows exactly what he means, knows exactly what the offer this entire conversation has been leading to is. She’s done this before, has even put in the work herself to make the first move, witnessed firsthand how well the payoff can be if she plays her cards right.
The hand groping her thigh starts to grip around it more tightly. The act causes a faint sore to spread in the area, making it ache quietly, but she shouldn’t care, so she doesn’t. Gathering some composure back, she places her hand on top of his and wraps it around.
Yet that little man inside her man, seemingly taking control of everything, feels uncertain— hesitant, and for the love of God, she can’t sponge together a reason why.
She leans in ever so subtly into his ear and, to the best of her abilities, whispers loud enough to be heard, “I guess I’ll have to find out.”
The ache in her spine as she leans into him becomes prominent enough for her to react physically with a shiver and a low whine, but she doesn’t dwell on it long because she finds hands around her waist pulling her closer into a kiss.
(What’re you doing?)
Outside, the air is nothing less than unruly— the gale blowing directly into her hair, causing it to fly sideways and cover most of the upper parts of her face, which would’ve left her practically blind if not for the sunglasses she decided to bring on a whim last minute, perched at the top of her forehead.
He walks ahead of her; the distance between them isn’t vast, but neither is it compact. They make no effort to close it.
Occasionally, he looks back— a quick turn of the head to glance down at her and say, “Just a little longer,” only to detach just as quickly.
Her attention drifts as they continue meandering towards his house, which she seriously doubts exists now, as her peripheral basks in her surroundings. She’s quick to notice the differences between New York (despite only living there for like a month) and Boston to compare them in a spreadsheet she created no less than 5 seconds ago.
One is that, compared to the domineering, always looming towers and high-rise buildings of New York, Boston was laid out much flatter, like a pancake. Two is whereas New York was much more decrepit; cities were much more industrial, properties and apartment buildings even more so, and not to mention rickety on the side of the city she managed to afford, Boston felt nicer, in a sense.
It was probably because of the beaches that bordered the state in an embrace, almost. Currents lapped over the sand slowly as the wind followed suit, shushing and blowing across the city. The moon, vibrant even in a reflection of water.
“My mam, before she- before the accident. She’d take me outside and talk to me about the moon. I can’t exactly remember most of what she said to me, but I just know she liked it lots.”
There's something about it tonight.
The notebook he was intensely focused on was pushed to the side as his posture, an awkward spiral where his mandible was tucked against his Adam's apple (god, how was that comfortable?), began to straighten itself out like a string when he grabbed at the armrests of his chair to sit up properly and look at her sitting on the bed, back leaning against the wall behind her.
In his most credibly pensive face, “Maybe… When you’re strong enough to walk farther, we could sneak out to the meadows near the church. See the moon outside?”
How light she’s feeling at the moment, like a feather, like the air could circle her— carry her up and blow her away to the currents and release her into the water.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’d- I’d really like that actually.”
She wants nothing more than to let the gale indisputably carry her throughout the sky until it drops her to the sand and lie there while the tide — insatiable in its pursuit for more as it takes from land — cradles her with its mouth as it licks at her skin, carrying her skin into its mouth as it falls off and melts under a wet tongue as the moon casts a light atop her. It’s there, bare and utterly gone, she feels seen.
She hears keys jangling, then the click of a lock, “c’mon in.”
The moon shines. It shines so beautifully tonight as it brings clarity to everything outside.
That light fails to reach her as she puts one foot in front of the other and steps inside the house— totally pitch-black inside, and feels a hand press against her back (feels needles press into her skin) and spin her around until her face presses against another's.
Would you recognize home if its face were right in front of you, Ava?
His face is scruffy, and it rubs and itches against her chin and mouth. She can feel insistent hands go up and down her waist, finding a comfortable place to grab at. Eventually, they find the
top of her jeans and his fingers rest there, twitching, as his thumbs circle the button.
She doesn’t have a home (did she ever?), at least not anymore (did she ever?), It’s gone now.
He pushes two in, making her arch further into the couch, her spine yelling in response, causing her to bite her lip to stop any sound from coming out. Though not all of it is contained, a muffle airs out in protest. She’s sure he hears it, maybe not for what it is, but he hears it and brings his other head underneath her shirt, traveling up, up, not processing he’s attempting to undress her before she feels the height of the moment reach her, only to be carried by the small bite of the current and swallowed back down all the same.
(Or maybe she just left.)
She slumps down, grabs the hand pressed directly against her chest, tugs it off almost forcefully. He rolls over next to her on the couch. Drowsiness and haze weigh down all her instincts to the point where the discomfort feels like a minor itch— though she’s sure that, even if she tried, getting up and walking would feel like a challenge.
(or maybe they both did.)
He gets back up and makes his way to what Ava presumes is his bedroom, and looks back at her. Her hearing feels almost unreliable; everything sounds inscrutable to her, and she can’t try to make out what he’s saying since the shadows are hiding the majority of his face, only being able to tell he’s talking based on the movement of his jaw. It isn’t until he's walking away that her mind finally picks up on any sort of sound.
“You can follow, if you want. It’s pretty dark outside now,” is the version she’ll go with.
(or maybe she just ran.)
She can, distinctly, sense the discomfort spreading again, like a rash. But she doesn’t care—she shouldn’t care.
(I miss you.)
The moon shines with so much beauty that night. Yet it’ll never reach Ava inside a dark room— alone and (what she comes to find out from the slippery cold running up and down her body is) shivering, in a stranger's bed.
(come home.)
The nippy air bites at the wetness at the apex of her thighs, as if it’s attempting to turn her frigid and crack her from the outside until there’s nothing left but her bones and the hairline fractions twirling around them like a spindel remains.
(...)
A blanket is discarded on the floor until she grabs it to cover herself, desperately trying to hide from nobody because, in the face of a desolate room, she hears herself scream the loudest it can as her body tucks into itself and tries desperately to make more of herself.
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The first thing she registers when she sturs awake, rolled onto her side, eyelids laden from exhaustion carried by the night before (and of a particular sort of unrest that still feels as unwelcome and uneasy as it did the first days she began realizing she felt oddly groggy and agitated after long hours of sleep — the feeling still lingering with her throughout the day — no matter how hard she attempts to grow accustomed to it.) as she wrestles to open them, was a dull and muted throb that felt more like a drumming pattern resting in the space between her two eyebrows. Thump, thump, thump. And closes her still half-lidded eyes shut with ease.
She still feels a bit fuzzy around the edges, her vision blurry near the corners, but she quickly recognizes it to be a result of her hangover, a direct consequence of the loads of alcohol that she chugged down her throat from yesterday—or, well, earlier today's shenanigans. She closes her eyes again and uncurls her tightly fisted hands (she doesn’t know when that started happening) innately arches them up, palms facing her face, as her wrists dig against her forehead, stimulating pressure to try and subdue the headache for at least a bit. She swallows and instantly regrets it because the sensation that follows is comparable to sandpaper— scratchy and rough, as if its rubbing against her throat.
She swings her arm to the side and feels it land on a bedside table. Her hand moves to-and-fro, like a spider, almost, until she feels her pinkie rasp against something that feels like plastic and is cool to the touch, innately her whole hand grabs it. She opens her eye softly, just to make sure it is a water bottle, and… lucky her! She opens both her eyes this time, but not without trouble. She has to blink rapidly to really get them to stay up, but even then, they remain drooping, as though a boulder were balancing on a tight rope. She sits up — hesitantly. With caution. Being wary of the tension in her core and of the dull ache residing in her back, following the linear path of her spine up and down. There’s a routine to that specific one, though. So intrinsic to her, she forgets it’s not natural.
As soon as she’s to lay her back against the headboard, unraveling the lid and arching her head so far back as she presses the bottle to her lips, rapidly sucking the water down her throat in hopes of alleviating the carpet-burn feeling spreading throughout her sore throat.
It takes about 5 seconds for her to finish the bottle — the icy water feels like a cool balm rubbed against the inner linings of her throat while she drinks till nothing but air touches her lips. It doesn’t work in the long run, she can already feel dryness cracking through the cooling effect, but… hey! If it works, it works.
She looks back down at the bottle before tossing it back onto the nightstand, realizing that the majority of her clothes are still on, though she’s grateful for that (she’s not quite sure that she would’ve had the energy to put them back on.)
There’s a grunt and a soft murmur next to her, disrupting her train of thought. It's then she realizes she’s still in his bed and needed to leave since… like… the moment she woke up.
Through the curtains, she makes out the outline of a beach; the snow today wasn’t as severe as yesterday’s, but the weather? Well, ain’t that one a kick in the shin with how fucking cold it always seems to be in the god-forsaken state. How the hell did I even survive with that flimsy jacket yesterday? Didn’t I get that shit from the bins?
She hears J.C roll and takes that as the sign to get her shit and leave. Sure, she might freeze to death outside, especially with how much colder beach weather is in general, but she just needs to wake up.
“Need a ride?”
It comes out a bit raspy and lethargic; his voice pitches off at the end of the sentence. Michael's voice was similar to that when he first arrived at St. Michael's, and only leved out into a deeper lilt as he approached the end of his boyhood. She can’t help but feel fond of the thought, only to wince at the reminder.
“No, no! I’m just going to the beach.” At that, he rolls over to face her and winks an eye open and stares at her for a second or two. She doesn’t blame him for the reaction, I mean, come on now. Who the fuck goes to the beach in winter?
Me. Apparently. Druggies do too, to be fair— that’s not the point!
“It’s January… And you’re going to the beach?”
“Yeah, it’s… It just helps, you know?” No, he doesn’t.
“Right, okay. One, it’s January, and it’s fucking freezing outside. Two. Your jacket. No offense to you, obviously, by any means, but it looks like paper could cut it into two.”
She’s already standing up, rebuttoning her pants, and bending over to grab her heels. “Well, I don’t exactly have many options right now because, ta-da, that’s the only jacket I brought with me.”
She’s re-lacing her heels when she hears him roll onto his back and sigh, “I could go with you? I have plenty of jackets. Thick ones that’ll actually keep you warm. Plus, I heard accompanying a pretty lady brings great fortune.”
“Wow, real smooth, hot-shot.” She reaches for her jacket on the floor, yet feels a sore nerve shoot in her back, so, as nonchalantly as possible, she lands on her butt and sits with her knees in front of her as she grabs and just stares at it while waiting for the nerve to cool down just a bit.
“However. I don’t believe I’m against you coming along. Also, you’re right, this jacket doesn’t do jackshit against the weather.” She earns a laugh from that.
“So, what’re your plans for being here?”
She’s sat on a raised ledge that serves as a line marking the difference between the two sides. Behind her is J.C., looming, as he sparks his lighter to what she presumes is a cigarette, and concrete streets leading to fun souvenir shops. Ahead of her is sand — the snow on it appears mushy and wet — not wanting to take any chances of getting her jeans soggy, she sat by the ledge. A fair distance ahead is the shoreline. Calm and slow as it reaches in and out of the shore.
“I’m not quite sure, to be honest. I think that for now I’ll just explore a bit. Mess around in some clubs and…” And what?
She’s not oblivious to the fact that she does, indeed, have no plan whatsoever. In fact, she doesn’t even care about it. She’s recited that to herself over and over again in her head, so it’s stamped into her mind as a fact. But the question. It echoes in her head like metal being banged into a shallow surface.
You have no idea! You’ve had aspirations, but you have no plan.
So she opens her mouth, listens to the cadence of her voice starting to creak like an unstable wooden pallet on the floor, “I don’t know.” She shrugs and gathers whatever remaining confidence resides in her left to say, “Whatever, I guess.” With as much anti-climaxness as a kiddie roller-coaster.
You never knew! You’re only here on a whim! Because
She hears him exhale, “You should come with me. Hang out with us tonight, if that’s the case.”
Wait what. Why?
“‘Cause,” shit, she said that out loud, “you’re by yourself and from what I’ve gathered you have nothing else to do.”
Her eyes light up a bit at his offer. He’s not wrong by any means and, looking back to it, last night went… amazing. It felt like the most fun she’s ever had in a while. The most fun she’s had after—
“Sure! Why not?”
She raises her head to look up at him and catches the clouds. The way they curtail the sky, making the view above appear rather unprepossessing, with dull, muted colours dashed all over. It looked a little depressing, as if at any moment it would begin to rain hail Mary onto the ground. However, she’s come to understand that that’s simply Boston. And, well, Massachusetts as a whole, it seems.
“Last night went really well after all. I think it’ll be fun.”
His lip quirks up a bit to the side— a smirk, if you will, and offers his hand. She takes it but feels reluctant at that familiar sore to her spine and for a moment she thinks to herself, “I want to stay at this ledge and observe the tide I want to sit and relax and enjoy the view infront of me I don’t care if the air is slowly fracturing my skin and making splinters of my bone I want to lay down and wait.” But he’s kind. So she stands up and cranes her neck up to look at him.
“So where are your friends at right now? I noticed the multiple other rooms in that huge beach house of yours— by the way, you must be, like, abundantly rich to be able to afford such a killer.”
“It’s- We’re like you, in a way. We don’t stay in one specific spot. We travel from state to state and linger for a while ‘fore moving onto the next. We just got to Massachusetts around 2 weeks ago, and we arrived here in Boston and saw that the house was vacant. We checked around and saw the owners wouldn’t be back for another couple of months or so, so we’ve been staying here in the meantime.”
Isn’t that squatting? Is the first thing that comes to mind before she feels him wrap his hand around her arm firmly— cruel and dour hands, harsh reprimands thrown directly at her until her eyes were red. The sides of her face faintly tear-stained as the streaks fell sideways from her eyes and coated the pillows below. Alone, alone, she was so alone—
“Where’s your hotel? Currently, my friends are at some kind of exclusive party in an area called Combat Zone. We’ll head there soon, but for now, it’s just you and me. We can relax here a bit.” He looks her up and down, “grab your clothes and come back here for mine and then leave. How's that sound?”
His hands are cold as they caress her arm up and down, not helping the chill of the outside surrounding them. But she can’t help but accept the request, how could she? He’s already offering so much in such a short amount of time, so what else can she do but accept it?
She swings open the door, lets it slam and hears it bang verbatim against the wall as she looks to her right and sees a trash can before running at it at full throttle, kneeling to its level — definitely nicking her knee a little — and letting everything just pour out of her mouth like a fountain. It feels disorienting and dizzy, vomiting her guts out, desperately holding onto the rims of the trash can with a dependent grip to steady herself. Yet there’s a sort of post-clarity in it, to seeing everything shoot out from inside you and vaguely sensing that a piece of you follows out.
She’s not unfamiliar with vomiting, the first few times she snuck out of the orphanage to some party run by another jackass high schooler's parents, she went headfirst into testing her limits.
Her pain wasn’t awful today; it was more on the dull side of things right now, but in her state of disquietude, she’s well aware it might start to spike up from her discomfort. Her back hunches against the wall behind her as she slides down until she’s sitting on the floor.
When J.C and she showed up, thoroughly fucked and a bit high, she felt a bit floaty, like she was slightly above everything the night could offer. They wandered around inside a bit before encountering the group, all bunched up inside a stall by the corner and counting out money.
One of them (Randall wasn’t it?) passed her a blunt to which she gladly accepted. From the look on his face, he snickered and went to whisper something inscrutable into J.C’s ear. They sat across from her, the volume of the music making anything that wasn’t directly next to her inaudible. He just smiled back and hit Randalls back.
Positioned next to Zori, all she got in return was a glare from the side before she continued counting down money with Randall. Sheesh talk about devoid.
“She’s only ever that giddy when she’s high.” Chanel appeared from seemingly nowhere and scooted the two women further to make room for herself. She was a bit more open, like J.C in a way. They shared the same nonchalant tone, but she had a bit of an attitude to her, and Ava’s not sure if that’s good or bad. She’d been eyeing Ava most of the night, just observing before actually talking, and they managed to laugh a bit here and there.
“You see all those bottles over there?” Chanel had to yell a bit for Ava to hear her.
“I’m pretty sure, yeah!”
“Wanna win some money off those!”
Her attention towards the table tensed for a bit. There was a line of people gathering around the bottles, taking bets on different people as they drank and drank and drank and
Fuck it.
“Hell yeah!”
She can still hear the cacophony of music from where she’s configured outside. Some strands of hair are stuck to her forehead from all the sweat and condensation that's pilied from inside the crowded building. Her spine hums a familiar hymn as she feels a prickling sensation running up and down it, so she brings her knees to her chest and cradles them as her back leans against the cold tiled walls.
It feels contradictory to wish to lie on a bed, any bed and rest her eyes as sleep drags her down — Dream of floating on water and being able to relax in her full existence because it’s there where movement doesn’t even feel uncomfortable — when she agreed with so much certainty to come along.
I can’t be a burden.
“Cat got your tongue?”
She didn’t hear the door open. Wait, no, that’s right, she left it open. She turns her head, and oh, it’s Chanel.
“Ha. You could say that.” It comes out a little slurred, like she did bite her tongue— Ow fuck my tongue!
Chanel remains standing and there’s something close to a domineering presence to her as she stands over her — (When she could barely move at all. Francis looming over her as she barks every despicable name under the sun at her. Making sure tiny pieces of spit land on her face.) — “You’re a pretty tolerable person.”
One side of Ava’s mouth quirks up. “Seriously, saying that after I ran out of the club because my tolerance is ass.”
And Chanel does laugh at that, “Not all your fault. You just happened to compete against the best of the best.” She takes a sip from the glass in her hand, “But, you’re okay. Fun. Plus, you’re able to deal with J.C’s bullshit.” Chanel smiles at that, but Ava isn’t quite sure why, and she probably would, but she’s inebriated, and there’s an incessant prickle in her back now, so she won’t even try to understand. All that comes out is a giggle.
The woman walks next to Ava and leans against the wall, takes another sip of her glass, and just looks at her. They interlock eyes, and she can’t help the tiny laugh that slips out of her mouth from it.
“God, she looks so serious!” No, no, that look is pity. Ava knows too well how that specific look is executed, but right now, she has an excuse to think of it as something different, like worry.
Worry like— You need to calm down before Francis smells the rum on you — worry worry worry
The lenses on Chanel's glasses are two different colours, it looks a little silly.
“You should hang out with us more. I know you’re new here, so you could move in with us for a while.”
Wait, what? Why?
The woman next to her just shrugs (Fuck, she said that out loud! She really needs to stop doing that), “From what J.C’s told me, your plans do align with ours. You got along with us just fine last night, and tonight’s no different. You have a better attitude towards us than most people who have just met us do, just saying. I think you’ll do fine with us. So whaddya’ say?”
I don’t know
She doesn’t have a plan; she’s not sure when she’ll ever have one or when she’ll ever make one. She’s not sure if she’ll find peace with…. Whatever it is she’s doing (acceptance, escape) with these people, but at least she’ll be able to figure something out with… Friends? Companions?
People like me. Or, well, Similar to me.
She leans her head farther into the wall. It’s better than doing everything by myself.
“Sure.” Ava looks back at her, “Wouldn’t want to let a girl slip up such an amazing opportunity, no?”
It’s better than being alone.
There are 2 seconds of silence as Chanel just stares at her, eyebrows furrowed in, as if she’s making out a blurry memory of something familiar, until her eyebrows begin distancing themselves. Her eyes widen ever so slightly, her face moving in stages, till she lets out a low chuckle that easily progresses into a loud laugh.
It’s much different than the rest of her. Whereas her appearance and attitude is much more put-together and sharp, her laugh comes out more as a flat cackle, broken and spaced out as her voice reaches a pitch so high it can’t be heard.
When the laughter dies down, Ava reaches the bin to help herself stand up. Her spine still feels sore and it’ll likely be a pain in the ass tomorrow, but she can’t find it in herself to care. She’s been given a chance at something new and fuck everybody else (okay, too far maybe) because she’s going to make sure she does this right.
They’re not at eye level. Chanel seems to be several inches taller (the grace of her 4-inch heels), so she has to crane her neck to see her. “Ready to go back in?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”
They make it back to their little corner booth— Randall’s likely gone solo, they came across Zori talking with some guy that (according to Chanel) had a notorious weed supply, and J.C.’s over at the betting table, shirt buttoned all the way down so that you can see his chest. There’s no arguing that he’s finely built, biceps curled tightly as he holds the glass to his mouth. She could spend more time observing him before she feels a tap on her shoulder to see it’s a joint already rolled, so, in return, Ava lights both theirs.
“You’re not half bad for shit like this.”
She knows she’s being examined, being auctioned into a role she has absolutely no clue what to do with, but Chanel is looking at her with an expectation she’s only ever used to with Michael so she can’t help but straighten her back, wave off a Boy Scouts sign to the air, and laugh back. Years of being confined to one spot can do wonders for making up for every single other sense, like hearing. Like differentiating the sarcasm and spleen in Francis's voice when she couldn’t bear to look at her.
But she won't say this. Not yet, at least. “I sure as hell hope not!”