Chloe
leans in close, sharp stink of booze on her breath, joint dangling lazily from
between slack fingers. She waves it in front of his face with exaggerated
motions, almost dropping it in his lap. He makes a gesture that more or less
indicates the negative, and she seems content to let her head slide down to
his lap, raccoon eyes attempting to follow the leisurely spin of the ceiling
fan.
It's
too much for him, making him a little dizzy. Well, dizzier. Letting his head
fall back against the wall, he tries to find something a little less inclined
towards perpetual motion to focus on. Furniture looms up crazily around him,
dark and vaguely imposing from his vantage point on the floor, which seems to
be more comfortable than he remembers. Legs pass by, occasionally throwing
greetings in his direction. The whole room is slightly off-balance, but in a
pleasant way. He likes it. Tilts his head a little to see if he can improve
the angle, but decides that it's better the way it was. Chloe mumbles
something about caribou to his groin.
He
reaches for the bottle next to his leg – two-dollar stuff, the primary
source of sustenance for any dedicated college student – and grabs his
plastic cup. Well, a plastic cup. Rather sticky, come to think of it.
But he's not going to drink wine straight from a bottle, 'cause he's Dan. And
Dan's a classy guy.
Legs
are talking at him again. A little more insistently than usual, this time.
Louder, too.
"Dan."
Well,
they would appear to know his name, anyhow. He drags his eyes upwards, until
he finds a face. It's a little startling, but he gets over it quickly.
The
face seems to belong to Brett, so he gives it a shot. "Brett." Huh.
Who knew Brett had such great legs?
"Dan.
Finally." Definite impatience there – he'd have to be drunk to miss it
– but also a bit of… worry? Dan blinks a little, watches the way Brett's
hands wring around each other of their own volition. Perpetual motion, like
the fan.
"Mmh?"
"Phone
for you. It's your mom. She… um, she sounds kind of upset." Twist,
twist, wring. Man, Brett's really sweating, his hands glistening. Is it that
hot? He doesn't think so, but he has been known to be wrong on occasion. No,
he can't really believe it, either, but it's true.
"Dan?
Dan, you've got to get the phone. In the kitchen." Bouncing on the balls
of his feet, now. Man, the guy must be really worked up about something.
"The
phone, Dan!"
"Right,
right." Sheesh. Never realised Brett was this uptight.
He
slides his way up the wall, pushing up and inching his feet back until he's in
the upright position and his tray table's secure. Snickering, he turns in the
direction of the kitchen, aided only slightly by Brett's hands on his waist.
Cheap wine sloshes over his hand and onto the carpet. Shit. That's gonna leave
a stain.
Kitchen.
Kitchen.
Hey,
cookies.
Phone.
Right. He holds it somewhere near his face with his shoulder.
"'Lo?"
Crumbs spray everywhere in a golden shower. He starts laughing again. Man,
gotta get himself under control, or he's gonna choke. The not-so-sweet strains
of 'Waterloo' filter in from down the hall, followed immediately by a chorus
of jeers, and he rolls his eyes. Laurie'd been given strict orders to keep Max
away from the record collection. Damnit.
"Daniel?"
His mom's voice, high and thin. Shit, she sounds worried. Better clean up his
act a little. He clears his throat, trying for a serious tone. No more
giggling. Not that he giggles.
"Daniel,
Daniel, there's been… Daniel… there was an accident, and…."
He's
starting to worry, himself. His mom never sounds this out of control. He
flicks nervously at the phone cord, watching it bounce. Boing.
"Danny…
it's Sam."
Silence.
And
then there are words – "truck", "birthday",
"accident", "friends", "high" – but they're
not really there. A couple of people saunter into the kitchen, drawn by the
possibility of snacks and liquor, and Lee staggers out, drawn by a sudden need
to locate the bathroom. Agnetha and Frida warble from somewhere off to his
right, voices slowing, deepening, drawing out to impossible lengths. He stares
at a crack in the tile just above the sink, and tries to ignore the way that
dark, watery blood spills over his hands and into the corner of his vision,
his cup no more than crumpled plastic in his fist.
He's
high. And drunk. And high. And for once, it's no fun at all. It's usually a
lot more fun than this. The sound of retching drifts in from the general
direction of the bathroom, and he can smell the chrysanthemums just outside
the kitchen window. Spots dance across the wall. The world is slowing down
around him, grinding to an inexorable halt, no matter how much he jiggles the
cord or kicks at the cupboard. He'd like this hallucination to end right now,
thanks.
He
takes a shaky breath and drops the cord, leaning against the wall.
Fuck.
His
father's voice cuts in. Low. Quiet. Crystal.
"You
killed him, you spineless fuck."
And
suddenly, he's stone cold sober.
--The
End--