Lark Rivers

In an effort to get organized I’m going to be putting my writing here and clean up my tagging system.

Current Projects

(stories will be added as snippets are written)

Previous Part #27 here

POV - Eugene

Eugene scrolls through the guy’s channel—four hundred and fifty nine videos spanning a little over six years, wow. That’s, what—more than once a week? On average? And they’re extremely well organized; snippets of news reports named by Country-Channel-Air Date, breakdowns and explanations of articles and reports from…. Eugene doesn’t recognize all the different acronyms but he does know the WHO and the CDC, it’s easy to extrapolate from there.

“So what kind of zombies?”

Because the thing is, it is possible. Not actual dead people getting back up for a stroll and snack, but sicknesses making people aggressive; rabies comes to mind—that fungus that infects caterpillars—or a new party drug—but even if it isn’t anything so dire, they’re due for the next pandemic.

(Go figure it would be starting while he was taking an internet break—but it would have been something, the world doesn’t stop turning just because you crawl under a rock.)

“Who even cares, I’m more worried about the reactionists. Got home just in time to catch my dad loading his rifle because Mrs. Fletcher didn’t turn around when he said hi to her this afternoon.”

Because this is America, where people get shot every day for way less than chewing on their neighbors—honestly, you’re lucky if you don’t get shot for chewing out your neighbors.

“Isn’t she deaf?”

Previous Part #26 here

POV - Eugene

“Eugene?”

“Did you remember to take your meds this morning? Wait—did you talk to the doctor about your meds—about the baby?”

“No, dopus, the people who’d make the Virgin Mary pee in a cup before they’ll prescribe you a baby aspirin wouldn’t think to go over my prescriptions when I caught the preggo.”

“Ok but to be fair she ‘caught the preggo’ too, so…”

She makes a noise that’s either a cough or a laugh, the connection isn’t great. “S’a fair cop—and yea, it’s fine. She said what I’m on is the thing they typically switch the mamas over to anyway—my blood pressure might go up a little but we’re keeping an eye on it—breathe, Edge—“

“I am!” (He wasn’t—changes the subject.) “What are you spamming me about? Sorry I didn’t pick up, I was trying to unplug for the night.”

“Eh, you know, maybe it’s the end of the world, maybe it’s maybelline.”

Of course it is. Well, that would explain the run on the gas station. “Zombies or aliens?”

“Zombies, alas.”

“Alas, I had a twenty on aliens.” He deadpans.

The next crackle is recognizably a cackle. “Well let this be a lesson on diversifying your investments~ Seriously though—YouTube, BananaGrenade has been compiling the live footage as it airs.”

“Because someone named BananaGrenade is totally going to be a reliable news outlet.” But he puts her on speaker anyway, opening Youtube and searching for the username.

Previous Part #25 here

POV - Eugene

He’ll eat and do a crossword puzzle, fool around on the piano while he waits for the washer to finish its cycle, move stuff over to the dryer—he’s been debating getting one of those new ones that washes and dries in the same drum, but he’s not sure he trusts the technology yet—it just seems like a fantastic way to burn your house down—finish his book, put his laundry away and pack for the weekend, turn in early…

Call Winnie, maybe, if he’s still feeling too restless to sleep, but she spends the evenings with her son, so Eugene will hold off ‘til after lights out, at ten—and honestly he can’t imagine he’s going to last that long, as wound up as he is, he feels like he got hit by a bus.

He’s half way through Gymnopédie No.1 (or… more or less, he’s gotten rusty) when his phone starts buzzing, and he tries to ignore it but the texts start coming faster and faster until it’s a fairly constant stream and he picks it up out of plain curiosity; if it was important they’d call, but if it wasn’t important they wouldn’t be spamming him—unless it’s a literal spammer, in which case they aren’t going to stop until he texts back to opt out—but it’s Nat.

[Nat] Hey drop what you’re doing and go home

Huh, he doesn’t know how he missed that one, it must have come just after he’d pulled out of the gas station.

[Nat] U home yet?

[Nat] Did you get home okay?

[Nat] Text me when you get home

[Nat] Stay off Main Street there’s a pile up

[Nat] Call me I’m freaking out

[Nat] Seriously if you’re not dead I’m going to murder you to death

[Nat] OMG

Previous Part #24 here

POV - Eugene

It’s so dumb he can’t help but laugh, and pockets his phone away feeling worlds better just for that.

(And yea, he knows he really should call his sponsor, too, but he thinks he might call Winnie instead… Fred keeps telling him he needs to prioritize his sobriety over his relationship with his brother and yes, Eugene understands that, but Winnie understands why he can’t.)

(Except he’s going to be spending the weekend with her anyway…)

He goes home and gets his laundry going and runs through his Bad Day Self Care Checklist. No doomscrolling (he’s on a three day streak he’s actually more proud of than is of staying sober—tumblr is a hellova drug), no video games; he’s spent the last two years turning his apartment into a sanctuary, a home, building a meatspace he doesn’t feel so much of a need to escape.

Not everyone is fortunate enough to be able to—most people aren’t—but you can’t pour from an empty glass. He’s no good to anyone if he can’t stay sober.

Previous Part #23 here

POV - Eugene

Eugene gets stuck in traffic on the way home—tuning into the afternoon traffic report on the radio tells him little beyond what he can see already; there’s been some accident that’s big enough they’re detouring everyone off the three exits leading up to it, but he gets caught between the second and third, and it takes him almost two hours to get peeled off himself, and he has to stop and get gas or else he isn’t going to make it—and of course everyone and their entire family reunion is filling up every! gas! canister! in the tri-state! area!

He’s running on fumes by the time it’s his turn at the pump, and only barely gets a half a tank before the pump itself runs out—thunks his head on the frame of his car a few times in frustration and counts backwards from ten, pulls his cell phone out and texts his dealer, Bens.

(He deleted his number from his cell phone a year ago, but there’s no deleting the number from his memory.)

Bad day time out 72 hours?

[Unknown Number] 5:34 pm - No fun 72 hours you got it

[Unknown Number] 5:35 pm - Put you on blast or you good?

Eugene debates—but he won’t be able to get ahold of anyone else who could maybe sell him something once he checks his phone in, at Ellington Park, so he should be okay.

It’s good

thanks tho

Previous Part 22 here

POV - Gabby

She smiles, tongue between her teeth, and checks outside down the hall before leaning in to kiss him.

Gabby wishes Gabe would bite her, but he doesn’t.

But it’s short—even with the door closed—locked—to prevent any other patient coming by from attempting to steal the scissors while she works—the big picture window is there to prevent this exact thing from happening, they don’t have time or privacy enough for more than a kiss and Gabby focuses on anything else; the ever present smell of the cleaning supplies, the seam of one of his socks twisted off center in his shoe, the book he has waiting for him back upstairs…

And he reminds himself it could be worse—has been worse—this isn’t Gabe’s first relationship and even if there’s no accounting for Ms. Riley’s taste in men, she is far and above the nicest partner Gabe’s ever had. Yes it’s a breach of ethics but she isn’t doing it for kind of power trip, or to be cruel. She isn’t violent or controlling—she doesn’t even really like anything weird, the straightjacket really is just because as much as she enjoys Gabe’s company she really isn’t stupid enough to take chances—she’s just… in love.

It happens.

It happens. It could be worse.

He’s getting a haircut out of it, anyway.

Previous Part #21 here

POV - Gabby

He can’t. He physically can’t. There are too many safeguards in place—her swiping Thompson’s phone for him was one thing, but anything anyone could use to—to do something like that—are locked in the kind of cabinets that take codes, not keys—and those cabinets don’t open if a patient like Gabe is in the room unrestrained.

Gabe is toothless, here. Threats—bruises, at the worst—are all he’s ever managed. They’re safe—she’s safe.

“Are you working overnight, tonight?”

“Get yourself in trouble and I might be able to pull some strings~” She winks, “Did you come here for a haircut or a booty call?”

Gabe sighs bealagardly. “Might as well. But for the record, I feel like if you really cared about me you’d trust me without the straightjacket by now—I mean, I get it, bondage is sexy—but it’s only sexy because it’s novel and it’s not really novel for me, you know?”

“Aw, poor baby, someone doesn’t trust you after you threatened them with mutilation and auto-cannibalism?” She coos, shaking out the cape, “You’re so cute when you think you’re smarter than me. Chair, straps; you know the drill.”

He smirks, but does as instructed, sitting down and buckling his right hand into the corresponding restraint, laying the left in the other for her to lock down in turn. “Can’t blame a guy for trying. Just—remind whoever’s on dinner duty to taze me, please, I’m reasonably sure Gabby drugged me this morning—I end up in a coma nobody gets what they want.”

“Oh I don’t know, sexy coma patient is pretty novel I think I could do just fine.”

Previous Part #20 here

But it isn’t Mr. Dormel manning the Courtesies Office, when Gabby gets down there, and he stumbles, his feet stopping in the doorway without his permission.

And he tries to run, but it’s too late—it’s always too late.

It’s Nurse Riley—Dawn.

And it’s so stupid—it’s cyclic, Gabby knows—if he could just stop caring, this would stop happening—Gabe is a manifestation of repressed anger—but anger is a secondary emotion; rage is the fight part of fight or flight—he isn’t angry, he’s scared—but just knowing what the problem is doesn’t fix it.

And it’s so stupid, he shouldn’t care. Ms. Riley isn’t—she isn’t a bad person, she’s never hurt him, she never would—she’s only bending the rules a little, because she’s in love. It happens.

“Mr. Rothschild?” She says politely.

She tries to be polite to him—she’s not a bad person she just doesn’t understand—if he could just tell her—but he can’t—he can’t tell anyone—he’s tried—so many times—but his throat closes up and his feet won’t move and it feels like sand slipping through his fingers—the tighter he tries to hold on the faster he loses his grip—

And then his shoulders relax, all the tension bleeding out of his spine, and his body isn’t his anymore.

“Dawn~” He hears himself say. Feels his mouth pull into Gabe’s cold grin. The one that has never met his eyes, but she doesn’t understand that—her own brighten at confirmation it’s Gabe she’s talking to. “Where’s the Doormat?”

She laughs, “He called out sick—new superbug in town, apparently—you want a haircut?”

“I want to cut off all your fingers one by one and force feed them to you.”

Previous Part 19 here

POV - Gabby

Attendance at breakfast and dinner are mandatory, but they aren’t overly demanding about what or how much you eat—not here—they provide healthy options, as long as you eat something, as long as your weight stays within a ‘safe’ range, they don’t force-feed you.

Not here.

So Gabby sleeps through lunch, goes back to his room to straighten everything the orderlies left crooked in their search for the phone (they try, but they don’t understand—but he does, he doesn’t expect them to photograph everything first and then use a protractor to put it back, that would be ridiculous), showers and plans to spend the rest of the afternoon reading—Dr. Reynolds brought him a book on the history of the Bolshoi Ballet Company—but his hair has gotten long enough to feel slimy on the back of his neck and he tries scrubbing it dry with a towel but now that he’s felt it he can’t un-feel it… Unless he takes another shower and wraps his head in a towel—like his mother used to—but there’s no guarantee that would work, and it seems pointless to try when the obvious and much more effective solution is to go ask for a haircut, since he apparently needs to anyway.

Previous Part #18 here

She puts her hands on her hips. “Now, Mr. Rothschild, this is only the second time in—how many years?”

“Three…”

“Three years that it’s been a staff member’s fault, and you know it.”

He does.

Usually it’s one of the other patients. Nobody likes being institutionalized, but family and friends often take the idea of a loved one being cut off from the outside world even harder than the patient themselves. And—when someone does smuggle one in, you can’t really blame the patient for not voluntarily turning it over, no one is here because they’re walking bastions of self control—and nobody likes being institutionalized.

God just the idea gives him goosebumps. Hypocrite.

But it’s not like he’s checking himself in as a patient—they don’t have guest rooms, but he can crash in one of the on-call rooms with the night shift—and it’s not a bad idea. The kind of pragmatic solution his primary therapist, Dr. Waller, usually recommends; easier to believe you didn’t leave the iron on if you take it work with you—which—he’s never ironed his clothes but since getting his own apartment off campus he’s done that with his space heater a few times—chucked it in a grocery bag and taken it to work or class with him…

(He’s lost more than one heater that way but it’s not like he can’t afford to replace it.)

Talk to Dr. Meyers, treat himself to a front row seat of Ellington’s Parks security routines, maybe even talk to Beth herself—casually—not to dissuade her, just to… advise her. If she wants to be friends with Gabby, the kinds of topics that usually trigger Gabe’s emergence, and what that looks like, when it isn’t obvious—because it isn’t always obvious.

Eugene learned that the hard way.

Previous Part #17 here

(It did start him down the Path of the Popping of the Pills, because nothing hurts the way burns hurt, but let’s be honest, he Probably would have wound up there anyway.)

He doesn’t know how long he stands there—the knock just about gives him a heart attack, before Jenner’s low, steady alto follows it. “Mr. Rothschild? You—you didn’t take the phone, I went to give it to Dr. Meyers—“

“Who’s with Gabby?” He cuts her off.

“Fadel. Everything is fine, Mr Rothschild, we just wanted to make sure you were. Dr. Meyers said you hadn’t been back to get your things, and your car was still here…”

Oh god. Eugene rakes his hands through his hair and tries to scrape his composure back together. Unlocks the door—he doesn’t remember locking it in the first place—abashed. “Been freaking out that long?”

Jenner is nearly as tall as Graham is and every bit as wide: just… six feet of solid Swedish-Nanny beef—he wishes again she had been one of their au pair, growing up; she would have noticed what was going on with Gabriel sooner.

She would have cared.

“Less than an hour,” She says gently, “Was it… him talking to Beth?”

He nods.

She lays a hand on his shoulder and squeezes—warm and steady, comforting. “Why don’t you ask Dr. Meyers about staying over the weekend. You know all our policies front to back but you don’t see the routine application of those policies—the standards we adhere to on the daily—“

Previous Part #16 here

Rinses the mess down the drain with shaking hands and braces his arms on the rim. It’s shockingly cold, in spite of how cold he feels.

Or hot. He isn’t sure.

That’s okay. The sink is cold. That’s good. That’s... One thing you can feel.

Two things you can hear. He doesn’t think he can really count his pulse hammering in his ears, but… the water. He left the water running. It’s too loud to hear anything else—he lets it run over one of his hands, not sure he trusts himself to keep his balance without the other to lean on.

It's cold.

He rinses his mouth out and splashes some water on his face before turning it off.

The lights buzz. That’s two.

Was it three things you can feel—no he already did feel. Three things you can see.

The sink. The mirror—and the rest of the bathroom reflected in it.

Himself.

There’s an half-inch, half moon scar under his left eye. So old it’s barely visible anymore. Today isn’t the only time Gabe’s threatened to blind him—that day he just happened to have something in his hand when the idea struck.

There are others. He turns his free hand over. A cigarette burn on the back of his wrist. He’s always told people he did it to himself, when he was a freshman in highschool, trying to look tough in front of some seniors. The truth is Gabe caught him trying to steal his cigarettes.

Previous Part #15 here

(What was Gabe doing with the bodies? They lived in a high rise, they couldn’t all have ‘ran away.’)

But—he feels like he sweats through his socks, but he keeps it together, keeps the conversation going, until Gabby’s energy starts to lag, under the combined onslaught of the drugs and the warming afternoon—because… it’s fine—it is fine. Eugene will talk to Dr. Meyers about his concerns, and they’ll do whatever it takes to keep Beth safe while helping Gabby meet his socialization needs. That’s the whole point of this place, and they’re good at it.

“If this… works,” Gabby says sleepily, “Would you come see me twice a month?”

“How about I start coming to see you twice a month whether it works or not?”

“Not if it doesn’t work. Not if it’s him. I don’t want… you don’t need that.”

Eugene swallows. “How about if we see what we can get away with?”

Gabby sighs. Nods. Smiles, but thinly.

“Yeah—yeah. Let’s see what we can get away with.”

Their whole relationship in a nutshell.

He embraces the exhaustion to blunt his mounting anxiety, keeps his posture loose as he watches Gabby doze back off—doesn’t bounce his knee or bite his fingernails or chew his lip or jump up, when his brother’s breathing finally does even out; gets up—calmly—and walks out.

Because it’s fine. It’s good. He wants Gabby to have friends.

It’s cool. It’s fine.

Previous Part #14 here

But she’s kind.

And she believes in the system. It worked for her, after all.

(And she was not an easy case.)

And it’s been two years since Gabe attacked anyone… six months since the last time he trashed his room, even.

And god Eugene wants Gabby to have a friend so bad but why did it have to be Beth? Why not Lawrence? He’s more than capable of defending himself if he had to, and he and Gabby both have OCD, and…

Literally nothing else in common. Their OCD symptoms don’t even present the same way.

(And even if they did, you can’t build a friendship out of comparable diagnosises.)

Vicky? She likes a lot of the same things Gabby does and she doesn’t take crap from anyone—and with her sense of humor she’d probably get along with Gabe like a house on—

Okay maybe not Vicky.

“I’ve missed you, Gigi.” Gabby sighs. “I didn’t expect this to work—oh—that…”

He pats at his pockets and turns up the cell phone, which Jenner gets up to take with a polite, “Oh! Thank you, sir.” Like he didn’t steal it to begin with.

Because he didn’t. Gabe did.

It’s one crisis averted, but the issue of Gabby making friends with Beth still has Eugene’s blood pressure through the roof—she’ll be the first friend Gabby’s made here—Eugene can’t take that away from him—

But all he can see is their last dog.

The last friend Gabby had.

Before their mom took a shine to it and declared it her purse-pupper.

Previous Part #13 here

At twenty-six, he’s running a little behind where he planned to be, but lots of people pursue their education in starts and stops, and just as many do so for addiction related reasons as any others, but in Eugene’s defense the lawsuit ate a couple years too.

“Are you?” Gabby presses.

“Yeah, the new semester starts next month—But what about you, man—what have you been up to?” There’s a path through the landmines, he always gets farther letting Gabby lead the way.

Gabby hums contentedly. “Painting, mostly. We have a new art teacher—oh, and Beth, have you met Beth?”

Eugene tries not to let his heart’s sudden attempt to crawl up out of his throat show on his face. “Yeah, I think I’ve met Beth…” he says as neutrally as he can.

It’s a controlled environment, she can’t get into the high security wing without an escort and Gabriel can’t leave it, and she knows he’s…

Dangerous

Sick

Struggles with violent impulses.

“Yeah, we’ve been hanging out—she likes cooking too—baking more than cooking. But she’s putting together a recipe book of everyone’s favorites. I gave her my pancake recipe, the ones you used to like.”

“Still do,” Eugene says lightly, “Still make them every Sunday.”

“Yeah?”

“And Thursdays, when I need the boost to make it to Friday. And Tuesdays, sometimes. If it was a really crappy Monday.”

Gabby snickers, “You’re gonna get fat.”

“One: according to my doctor I am fat already, and two: bring it! Chicks dig chubby guys these days. They call it fluffy, it’s the new-new-black.”

Previous Part #12 here

More than.

Because now his brother gets to nap in a garden, and Eugene might get to have a conversation with Gabby within hours of Gabe threatening to carve his eyes out with a melon baller.

It takes him almost an hour to come around (no one comes by with the located phone, so Eugene braces himself to ask—but later), but sure enough, when Gabriel stirs, it’s Gabby’s shy smile that answers Eugene’s own.

“Heeey Gigi.”

“Smart move, with the pills.”

He ducks his head, half shrugging, “Seemed like it was worth a try. Wanted to get to say hi this time.”

“Hi.”

“Hi~”

They sit there grinning like a couple of idiots, before Gabby shifts to try to sit up a little more and exhales at the effort, blinking rapidly. “Oh—they gave me the good pills. Okay—nevermind that. How have you been?”

“Really good,” Eugene lies.

Well. He is thirty-two days sober again. And chilling in a garden with his brother.

(And he’s going to have to figure out some way to arm wrestle Nat into accepting child support—but that’s Tomorrow!Eugene’s problem. Today is good.)

“You?”

“Been worse~” Gabby says wryly. “Did I miss your graduation? I lost track of time last… something. Sorry…”

“Nothing to be sorry for—it’s only my Associates degree, they don’t really have a graduations, just… ‘here’s your certificate, are you coming back for your bachelors?’”