you're too young & eager to love

I am so … not keeping up with this trying to write one thing a day. And I had barely begun! I blame, at least for the last two days, my busy schedule. So – I am presenting three very little pieces, which will (in my mind) catch me up from Wednesday.

We have:

1. Olivia + sickboy. Though using that nickname makes me think of Trainspotting.
2. Clementine + the twins (thanks to my pookie for the inspiration).
3. Fabianna + Denny + zombies. My attempt at humor instead of angst.




“I’m twenty-seven.” He says like it’s unbelievable, and Olivia can’t tell if he looked better in the hospital gown or now, here, like this – where his jeans are loose against his hips and his collarbones are sharp as ice picks. She opts for the hospital gown; it defined his sickness. Regular clothes make him the size she wishes she could be.

They compare their scarecrow wrists. The inside of his right arm is bruised from intravenous chemotherapy treatments. Olivia does not have scars though her ribs have, upon occasion, looked like scissor cuts against her sides. His hairless head reminds her of a newborn, and she runs her palm across it often as a compulsion, hoping for luck like the religious who rub the belly of Buddha.

The sickness inside of him mirrors hers, only his is more physical. A distinct lump that has made his insides a traitor to his body. Her ailment is not so easy to locate, a distortion of her mind’s eye.

They lay on his old couch together, covered by blankets but always cold. Neither of them creates enough body heat to help. Ankles intertwined and arms linking, his pointed chin on her thin shoulder. She follows the knots of his spine with her fingertips, and they laugh over soap opera reruns and an over-dramatic talk show where an acne-faced blonde is searching for the father of her child. The show’s subject makes them realize how little allure sex holds now. The treatments have neutered him, made him limp and useless. Olivia stopped showing her body when the viewers failed to appreciate her determination, admiration for the length of her legs replaced by concern for the nonexistence of her waist.


-


Jacob hurts her, pressing himself hurriedly inside, holding her hips with strong fingers. She’s surprised by the elasticity of her skin – surprised she can still be hurt by a man. Clementine, gritting her teeth, shoves a hand against his face in annoyance and he laughs, biting at her fingers.
She used to think that he didn’t mean to cause her pain, but he smiles with such intentional slowness at her that she knows differently now. Wonders where his rage comes from, if he learned it by the hands of his father, or if he needs it to hide his other emotions. The ones he, surely, considers to be weak.

The perfume she uses sticks to him. Samuel will be able to smell it later, and it will remind him of their younger days, so he’ll marvel at how the two of them were never granted the joy of innocence. If they would have even considered it a joy.


-


“What do we do?” Fabianna chews the nails of her right hand, her eyes darting back and forth from the horror in front of them to the prostitute beside her. She’s been meaning to ask if Denny can still be called one – she’s been out of business for a while, after all, but now isn’t the time.

Denny looks stronger but the fright tightens her mouth. Truthfully, they should be used to these situations, but there’s a rule for this world – you don’t linger long enough to get a good look at what’s chasing you. They get to now though. The reanimated corpse ten feet in front of them lacks legs, and its insides hang from where its stomach was somehow cut in half.

Fabianna thinks she can see the spinal cord, but the skin of the creature is so decayed that it barely looks human anymore. Arms stretched forward and mouth gaping, it tries to reach them, tries to grab clumps of earth to drag and propel itself forward – enticed by the smell of fresh, living, flesh. It’s almost comical, but Fabianna can’t help but think how sad her life has become. Nobody deserves to be like this, she wants to say. Instead, she keeps chewing her nails.

“… Ideas?”

“How the fuck should I know? Do we have to do anything? We could just walk away from it. Or hell, even around it.”

“We can’t leave it like this.”

Denny snorts. “It’s not a puppy. Might try to follow you home though.”

“I would want someone to put an end to it, if it were me. Ooh – gross. It’s slobbering.”

“Then you do it. I don’t like getting anywhere near those things. Smell about as bad as some of the guys I had to fuck back on church street when – “ Denny stops her anecdote, stepping a few paces back with Fabianna matching her. The mangled corpse is persistent, managing to crawl forward a few inches.

They stare for a handful of seconds before Denny yawns and starts to walk away. “C’mon. We need to find somewhere to bunker down soon. Don’t waste the bullets.”

Like a child, Fabianna lingers. She frowns, fidgeting with the dirty length of her ponytail. She considers trying to bludgeon it, but the only potential tool she has is a can of Campbell’s Tomato Basil soup. She likes that kind. Maybe if it was New England Clam Chowder …

When the thing lets out a hungry, inhuman snarl, she jumps. “Okay! So much for common decency.” She can hear Denny’s laughter from up ahead, and the brunette turns to catch up. “But I’m not trying to sleep in a goddamn tree again.”