“We gotta stop meeting like this, sugar," the nurse leaning over him said as he woke up, dazed and confused, in the same hospital room he regained consciousness in over a year ago, with only half his vision intact. Her dark eyes were kind, concerned, familiar – like a teacher that lived at school, the same nurse in the same room; him with the same sinking sense of dread, that life as he knew it was over and he’d been reborn into another, worse existence.
“What happened?” Alonzo croaked, his mouth dry and foul-tasting, as blurred memories filtered slowly through the muck inside his throbbing skull. A lonely backroad. Blood on the asphalt. Screams in the night.
The nurse pursed her lips as she put the finishing touches on the bandage wrapped around his head. “Doctor will be in soon." She nodded to the chair in the corner. “You want me to wake up your sister?”
My sister? he thought, turning his head – oh. Sharon was curled up in the seat, dirty fur coat draped over her like a blanket, legs folded close to her body, as fetal as she could get. Tiny, with sharp, birdlike features, and pale as a ghost – how anyone could buy that she was his sister was beyond him.
Nurse must’ve felt bad for him, played along as a favor.
“No,” he replied, his voice a little clearer this time. “I’ll wait. Thanks,” he added, as an afterthought. She nodded, and put a hand on his forehead, gently brushing the hair out of his face.
“Not a problem, baby. You just get some rest.”
She left the room briskly, pulling the blue curtain shut behind her – leaving him in silence, save for the beeping of machines and distant murmur of voices in the hall. He tried to remember –
The impact of glass against glass, one shattering the other in mutual destruction. Angelo’s voice calling after him, barely audible over the shitty dive’s shitty music.
Cursive handwriting scrawled onto a white sticker –
He groaned, causing Sharon to stir, stretch, yawn.
“Lonnie,” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes stumbling on wobbly legs to approach the bed. “You okay?” The same look of concern in her pale green eyes as the nurse – he must look like shit.
“Fine,” he said, unsure. He moved his limbs a bit as a test. Nothing seemed broken, just very sore. Tightness, sharp pain in his chest as he inhaled. Maybe a cracked rib? Mostly it was just his fucking head – hangover amplifying whatever else he had going on. Concussion? “Your makeup’s all fucked up. Makes you look like a raccoon.”
She rubbed at her eyes some more, smearing the black around further. “Better?”
“A slutty raccoon. That got drowned in a lake, and resurrected by a wizard. An evil, pervert wizard.”
“You’re fine, then.”
“What happened?”
“You don’t remember?” Sharon dragged the chair close to the bed, plopped back down into it and crossed her legs. Her fishnet tights had a long rip up the side, and he fixated on it. Was that there before? She was always wearing stupid ugly fucked up clothes, designer shit that she messed up on purpose to look edgy. Maybe she ripped them for real this time, he thought, and felt a sadistic thrill at the idea, immediately followed by guilt and nausea. She waited by your bed all night, you asshole.
“I remember some.”
“You were pretty fucked up.”
“Okay,” he replied, impatient. Figured that one out already, thanks. “What else?”
“You –” She hesitated. “We were at Caballos. You remember that?”
“Vaguely.” He remembered shots. Lots of shots. Too many.
“Right. So you showed up at Caballos, and you were like, crazy. Like you were on speed or something. Were you on speed?” He shook his head – regretted it instantly, wincing in pain. “Well, anyway, we did some shots, some guys bought us a couple rounds. You know, normal. I started chatting to one of em, lost track of you – then suddenly I hear you screaming at Angelo for like, calling you a whore or something – ”
Oh, wonderful. That conversation had been public.
New theory – he was in the hospital because he had jumped in front of a car to end his pathetic, worthless life.
“And then you just ran out, so I left too – that guy was kind of a creep, anyway – and you were super duper mad, and you said you weren’t gonna go back to Del’s, and you wouldn’t say where you were gonna go instead, so I was like, let’s go to mine, right. Smoke some hash and watch a movie or something. And you were like, kinda calming down, but you were still really mad, and then these guys pulled up.” She paused, looked down at her lap, where her hands twisted together anxiously. “They said some stuff,” she continued, her voice going quiet, still avoiding his gaze. “To me, mostly. And it was just stupid, Alonzo, it was nothing. The usual bullshit. You shoulda let it go.”
He remembered – or at least, he remembered the line that sent him over the edge.
“Don’t worry, baby, there’s room for you too,” the guy had said, leering at him. “My friend here loves tall girls.” The friend, laughing in the passenger seat.
The slurs and the cat-calling he could deal with – the usual bullshit, like she said – but the lie in the words made him see red.
You don't actually think I'm a girl, you piece of shit.
“You started screaming at them, saying all kinds of shit. You were gonna kill them or whatever. They were just gonna laugh it off and leave, though, the guy was driving off. But then you picked something up off the side of the road –”
An empty beer bottle, brown glass smooth in his palm –
“And you threw it at the car, and it hit the back windshield, and it shattered it. I don’t even know how. And they fucking stopped, and they got out, and –” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I thought they were gonna kill you, Lonnie.”
His blood on the asphalt. Her screams in the night.
“Another car came along, thank god, so they got out of there quick. But you looked so fucked up, I...” She bit her lip, said nothing for a moment. “It was fucking stupid,” she repeated, finally locking eyes with him again. “You should have just let it fucking go.”
“So what,” he said, licking his lips. Dry. His mouth was so dry. “I was asking for it? My own fault for being a mouthy fucking fag, is that it?”
She blinked, surprise alchemizing into anger. “That’s not what I said.”
“It is, though. How is it not?”
“It’s not about you being gay or whatever –”
“Or whatever,” he drawled. “Fuck you. Say what you fucking mean.”
“– it’s about you being so fucking angry all the time. What do you even have to be so angry for? And yeah, whatever, Alonzo. I don’t know what your deal is – "
“What do I have?” he asked incredulously. “Are you fucking stupid? I’m –"
"– because you won’t explain it to me. You wanna be a girl? Is that it?”
"Disfigured, I'm fucking – no.” His brain caught up with his ears. “I don’t – no.”
“Then what? What’s your fucking problem?”
“I –” Alonzo swallowed hard, trying to organise his thoughts, but it was a topic that was difficult to organize even at the best of times, and he was running on fumes. “You wouldn’t fucking get it,” he said at last. “Because you’re a vapid rich cunt playing pretend. Thanks so much for coming down from your ivory tower to hang out with all the gutter scum freaks. We’re all so fucking grateful.”
Sharon stood up, shoved the chair back, eyes blazing. “Fuck you, asshole.”
“Go on. Tell me how you really feel. You stupid fucking bitch.”
She wavered back and forth, fists clenched, face contorted in rage – looked like she wanted to hit him.
Do it. Hit me.
Finally she unclenched her fists, wiped at her eyes angrily. “All I was saying,” she said, her voice cracking slightly, “is that you could have fucking died.”
“Well, I didn’t,” he snapped. “And how wonderful for everyone.” He twisted his head away, making her disappear – felt tears prick at his eyes, bit his tongue until they went away.
He heard the chair scrape against the floor. “I brought you a change of clothes,” she said. “They’re in the bag in the corner. Your other ones got all fucked up. From all the fucking blood.” This last delivered sharply, reproachfully – he bit his tongue harder. “And I called Angelo while you were passed out. He said he’ll pick you up when you get discharged. You got his number, right?”
Alonzo didn’t say anything, and she walked around the bed, back into his field of vision – fur coat pulled around her shoulders. He closed his eyes to shut her out again, and heard her sigh irritably.
“You got his number, yes or no?”
“Yeah,” he muttered.
"K." He could feel her hovering there, her silent, disapproving presence so loud it made his bones ache. “You should try not being such a fucking asshole all the time,” she said finally.
Sorry, he wanted to say. Didn’t say anything, just kept his eyes shut until he felt her leave, heard the sound of the curtain yanked back, the click of her heels against the linoleum receding into the distance.
Probably fucking Louboutins or something.
Asshole. Stupid bitch. Worthless piece of shit.
---
Alonzo can’t decide which he hates more – the sudden transition from darkness to bright, fluorescent light directly in his face, or the horrible buzzer that accompanies it.
“Count!”
He pulls the scratchy wool blanket over his head. 15 days down. 5 years, 49 weeks, 6 days to go.
The door to the pod clicks as it unlocks, and he rolls out of bed, eyes squeezed shut to allow time to adjust to the change in brightness. Feels his way to the sink, turns on the tap, splashes water in his face, and opens his eyes to stare at himself in the mirror.
Contemplates last night.
Get the fuck off me.
He inspects his reflection, looking for some sort of change in his countenance, some physical manifestation of the line he crossed, but there’s nothing. Just the same miserable expression he’s worn every morning for the past 17 years.
This is fucking weird, man.
Alonzo hooks his fingers into the sides of his mouth and pulls until it hurts, reforming his features into a maniacal grimace, as grotesque as he can make it.
You want to kiss me?
“Not even a little bit,” he tells the mirror, wiping the look off his face, rubbing his cheeks to smooth out the lines in his skin – then directs a cheerful “Rise and shine, cariño,” to the lump behind him, selects an outfit from the stack of clothes he’d folded the night before. Black sweater was still good for another wear (he sniffs it to make sure); pairing it with a white scarf this time, patterned with red lipstick kisses, and pastel pink flared pants with red stitching down the sides. Like a Valentine.
When he turns around, Miguel is still in bed. He tuts.
“Pumpkin. The boys in blue are on their way. Chop, chop.” No reply, no movement, and he lets out an exaggerated sigh.
“Suit yourself.” He slips into his heels and exits the pod seconds before Murphy reaches it, calls out his name, followed by, “Alvarez.”
“Still sleeping,” Alonzo says. “Busy night.”
Tired, he thinks, and suppresses the urge to giggle.
Murphy stares at him coldly, then reaches past him to knock on the glass, opens the pod door. “Alvarez, get up.”
“Do leave him alone. You can see he’s in there, can’t you? Miguel, darling, give us a wave and let the nice man know I haven’t killed you.”
Miguel flings the blanket off him and gets up, marching stiffly over to the entrance of the pod to stand beside Alonzo, pointedly not looking at him. “I’m up,” he tells Murphy, who nods tightly.
“Right. Next time, I don’t wanna have to tell you.” Murphy shoots Alonzo one last disapproving look before moving on down the line.
Alonzo mouths “cunt” at his back, then turns to Miguel. “Morning, sunshine.”
“Don’t talk to me.”
Alonzo makes a show of zipping his lips and throwing away the key.
When count is over and the buzzer sounds again, Miguel does an immediate about-face, walks straight back into the pod and crawls into bed again. Alonzo stands at the door, watching.
“Not coming to breakfast, sugar?”
No reply. Alonzo inhales deeply. How very predictable. “I’ll bring you something back,” he decides. “Got any preferences?”
Anything. Even a “fuck off” would do.
But he gets nothing.
Whatever.
“I’ll just see what I can scrounge up, then,” he says to the empty air. “Catch you later, baby.”
---
Feel bad, he commands himself as he joins the procession of inmates shuffling to the cafeteria. You’re a bad person. You should feel bad.
He doesn’t, though. Doesn’t feel anything – like someone has reached inside him and scooped out all his emotions like the innards of a Christmas turkey, leaving him completely empty and hollow, a gutted corpse walking around undetected amongst the real human beings.
It would scare him a little, if he was capable of being scared – but fear, he reminds himself, is an emotion!
“Sooo.” Fiona bumps her hip into his, startling him out of his reverie. “A little bird told me you got transferred in with Alvarez. Dish, honey.”
Alonzo zips his lips again. She gasps, raising her hand to cover her mouth.
“No. I don’t believe you.”
“Didn’t say anything, chi-ca.”
“Where is he?” She peers around. “I don’t see him.”
“Oh, he’s getting a little extra shut eye. Very eventful evening, you understand. Got a lot to process.”
Fiona laughs. “I can imagine. Miguel Alvarez! Who would have thought.” She shook her head. “Gotta say, hon, I didn’t think you could pull it off. Color me impressed.”
“Well, to be honest, I think he might be a teensy bit mad at me.” He waves his hand dismissively. “But he’ll come around.”
“Oh, I’m sure he will, darling. Don’t you worry about that.”
“I mean, he wasn’t too thrilled, at first. But,” he tilts his head playfully back and forth, “you know how it goes.”
“Don’t I,” she agreed.
“Really, I don’t think he was too thrilled at the end either. But that’s normal.”
“Sweetheart, it’ll be fine. Come on, let’s grab seats.”
“I don’t think you’re listening to me,” he says brightly, grabbing her wrist. She looks up at him, suddenly alarmed, and he smiles at her. Maniacal. Grotesque.
“What are you doing?” She tries to pull away halfheartedly, but he hangs on. “Stop messin’ around.”
“I’m telling you,” he says slowly, “that I think he might not have been thrilled at all.”
She stares at him, her face blank.
“About any of it,” he stresses.
Fiona yanks her hand away more forcefully this time, and he lets the connection break. She looks for a moment like she wants to say something, and then seems to change her mind, her lips pressed together into a thin line. Whirls around and struts off, grabbing her tray and heading towards Tony.
Alonzo looks down at his own tray and decides he finds the idea of eating completely revolting. He abandons it and walks back in the direction of Emerald City, halted by a guard stepping in front of him.
“Where d’you think you’re going?”
“Not hungry.”
“Too bad. Sit down.”
“You sure?” he says, a couple bills appearing in his hand. Abra-cadabra. The C.O.’s eyes lock onto them, then dart around the cafeteria quickly before allowing them to disappear into his pocket. He steps aside, and Alonzo smiles graciously at him.
“Thanks, sugar.”
“Beat it.”
Asshole. I hope you have a heart attack and die on your way home.
He saunters down the hall, enjoying the sound of his own heels clicking against the linoleum.
---
“Guess who’s back,” he announces to the empty pod. “Sorry I didn’t bring you anything, baby. It was all disgusting slop, anyway.”
Alonzo lifts the abandoned blanket and peers underneath, as if Miguel might be hiding there, having magically shrunk down to the size of a mouse (perhaps by an evil wizard, he thinks to himself). Casts it onto the floor and begins his search.
Hands slide under the shelf above the sink, fingers pulling at the edge of the mirror to inspect behind it. Looking for any odd cracks in the wall, rummaging through clothes and footlockers, feeling under both beds. Finally he finds what he’s looking for, in a carefully concealed slit on the underside of Miguel’s mattress.
He kicks off his shoes and sits down on Miguel’s bed, turning the shank over in his hands, appreciating the craftsmanship for a moment before slipping it into the waistband of his pants and laying down.
“Miguel Alvarez,” he says. “Migueeeel Alvareeez.”
He briefly contemplates the likelihood of the existence of a second shank, one Miguel may have taken with him to the showers (presumably – he’d heard the spray when he entered the unit), and quickly disregards the notion as “improbable”. No one was around, what would be the point?
“Migueeeeeeeeel Alvareeeeeeez.”
Counts the rows of springs above him. 23. Lucky number 23.
If I stay here, he can’t get back into bed.
Alonzo reaches out his arm, fumbling for the blanket on the floor, then pulls it over him – as he does so, Miguel’s scent hits him in the face, and he presses the blanket to his nose, inhales deeply.
Miguel Alvarez.
I hear you’re the man to know.
He tosses the pillow to the opposite side of the bed and starts to wriggle around to face the correct direction, then changes his mind, grabbing the pillow with his feet and clumsily launching it back towards his face. Rolls onto his stomach and buries his face in the pillow, the smell even stronger, enveloping him. He can feel himself getting hard, and he grinds his hips against the sheets, clicking his tongue disapprovingly at himself as he does so.
No way – you hear me? No way that I’m ever gonna be your bitch.
Alonzo kisses the pillow and shudders, moans softly, grits his teeth. Snakes his hand down to his waist and adjusts the shank so that the point of it presses into his groin, and gasps.
Bitch. Bitch. Worthless piece of shit.
He feels tears prick at his eyes, and bites his tongue until they go away.