𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐒 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑

location:  violet ,  10:33 pm

he lessens the pangs of a headache     with beer ,     the bottle held against the corner of his forehead     like an ice pack ,     and remaining there for what has seemed like a lightyear .      crisp ,  cool precipitation     leaves its droplets behind ,    free falling to lashes ,     among eyes that more so blink and flicker     against its own natural will     than it does at the sprinkle of water .     they stare below ,     vacantly ,     where skin grows raw ,     red     against the numbing chill     --     but it doesn’t numb .     relief barely lets up     --     perhaps this wasn’t the best place to go in order to heal ,     where rampant smells ,     roaring music ,     running mouths tend to be ,     one is more likely to create a headache than treat one .     yet ,  somehow ,     remorse doesn’t yet wash over his shoulders .     mind still promotes     peace and quiet     as this part of the sphere ,     functioning like a jungle    or a gymnasium ,     enwraps him ,     and he sits there ,     letting it hold him .

it takes a split second to process the image before their eyes, and the inevitable thought that pops up as the man leans over the door frame is a harmless rendition of he looks like shit. not that they aren’t used to this — the puffy eyes, half-crazed look. that, if anything, is the sign of good business, or a loyal customer if you will. surely someone who’ll come again, and again, and provide reliable payments for fear of any trouble. kara smirks, head tilted in curiosity. perhaps they get a kick not just out of the business — there’s a soft kind of pleasure in supplying to the self-named good guys, isn’t there? to know the light of whatever bright, morally-guiding lighthouse leads them gets dimmer each time they show up on their doorstep.

“thought you narcs got them for free on the job”. a half scoff let out (their disliking for that side of the law does not come from a nature-dictated rivalry between their factions. they just really can’t stand the stupid faces they pull when they claim to be sacrificing themselves for the greater good). a distant corner of their brain echoes back the notion that perhaps they should be able to sense a deeper sympathy for the man before them: recognize parts, if not of themselves, surely of their brother in the way he looks worn, shadow-like, half faded out of existence. the awareness instead only turns them harsher, their clay-like demeanor hardening at the intrusion of a thought much rather buried deep within. 

“you look like shit”. the off-handed remark hides a secret message — i have the upper hand, it says. you have your badges and your cuffs, your monthly pay and dental care, but i own the filthy core of your shame and the one thing keeping you as sane as someone as fucked up as you can be. kara smirks, stepping aside just enough to give off the appaearance that they care enough to let him in. “what do you need?”

--

squint .     nickname slips past his shoulders     and fits him like a snug suit ,     and he wonders     --     does he deem himself that obvious ?     for narc     tends to affiliate itself     in close acquaintance     with a certain type and ,     while his eyes continue to narrow ,     he stares them down ,     really looks at them now ,     like domineering gaze     held upon himself     holds itself     like a blinding light ,     creating wariness of what they may know ,     or what they may find ,     for he should know himself     ----     remarks can be half facts      written upon involuntary thoughts     or guesses ,     despite mien ,     despite the demeanor he holds ,     the tattoos too visible to smother     in the fold of collar     and grip of sleeve .

for consensus ,     he always thought he blended into the scene     with his guise ,     his skin like gauze ,     ready to preserve the true nature of his essence ,     wondering when the body won’t need room     for those breathing holes ,     wondering when he’ll just die already .     but now ,     perhaps it’s unraveling from him .     perhaps this tug - of - war     between what’s good     and what’s right     has given him up ,     and he’s now just wearing at the seams .     

nevertheless ,     he’ll just denydenydeny ,     even now     just as he has no choice     but to hide fear     of what might be in the far distance     of his fate ,     letting the sails of this boat     force him further towards the blinding light ,     against the current ,     against the waves     created by his own self - made solutions ,     towards lighthouse ,     where sufficiency towards emergencies     might save his life     or his sanity .     “ ain’t no narc  ...  ”     he makes sure to mention     before forcing himself to stand up right ,      letting hands fall from the threshold     and widening the second of one last look ,     flickering with small resentment ,     before he saunters inside .     

a small swagger in his step ,     as if he’s got his wires tapped in this place     and he could switch a plug at about any time     any day     and maneuver who’s got the upper hand here    ----     did he already forget he didn’t bring his badge ?     perhaps .     surveying the room again ,     he turns towards them ,     “ just visiting town     --     it’ll be a while before my doc can provide me with a refill     --     ludes. ”

ah. there he is. his resentment is as gentle as he looks — not the hailstorm she imagined, in some biblical fashion of a punishment, her the discarded sinner begging for forgiveness in the midst of a plague. it is as quiet as vapor instead, a fume just softly radiating off of him, undetected, unscented, yet it carries the disease she herself has instilled: she imagines it like tendrils, soft ink-like arms reaching out to fill the empty spaces. funny, how everyone she loves ends up looking like ink after a while.

i wish they would’ve mentioned it to me. the sentence isn’t met with the kind of question a part of her (a childish, demanding part of her — an illogical, damning part of her) would want to oppose. there is the seed of a protest blooming at his words: why would they have mentioned it? she’d been caught just as unaware, but she was the one cornered at the end of the office, imagining escape routes that she still wouldn’t find the courage to run.

but his face holds shades she believed she could’ve forgotten (how stupid), and though he looks older (and it looks like the color has been bleached out of him, like the very face before her could not match even the dullest smile offered for the sake of a friendly get-together, back then, a hundred years ago) — he looks the same, somehow. a land once flourishing now barren, but the signs are still there — a hint of moss signals life, a shade of red says he recognizes her still.

“yeah. who would’ve thought. well — surprise.” small talk is a grinding, tiresome curse, and it comes with the weight of all the things she should be saying but can’t remember, her script forgotten, her roles mixed up. is she the villain now? is this shapeless downpour of a feeling (something resembling light, the scent of coffee mixed with cinnamon: she thinks of the word home, but it quickly falls down and crumbles, the memory itself succumbing to the wearing of three years that have, somehow, defeated time and turned themselves in centuries) — is it supposed to be replaced by hatred, off-handed cruelty, a casual anger that might taint a dynamic still expected to be somewhat professional?

she’d look at him when things fell out of place. when the meaning was lost, when her vision got frayed and the fragments didn’t match one another — she’d look for him for a thread, a way through the labyrinth, and if getting out was too far out an option, they’d still somehow manage to find a place in the middle. now she looks and he is not looking back: she’s made a home of this labyrinth she’s exiled herself in.

her gaze drops then, finds an excuse for distraction in the tip of her pen, fingertip tapping it lightly, wishing for something sharp instead. silence is a loud, thundering noise: it beats against her ears, pulsing in her veins, and sometimes it echoes the words he never said, still somehow she longs for. conversation was easy once, raw matter to be shaped by kindred, albeit shadowy, minds: now she’s forgotten their language, the codes they’d encrypted for one another, and small talk, it seems, is the only way to get a message through. her eyes return upon him, wary now before she utters her question: “so, uh. how’ve you been?”

--

surprise .     in the midst of fumbling with notes ,     mess of scribbled sheets ,     words of the unknown     he has yet to acquaint himself with ,     he stalls ,     incredulously ,     at the word ,     like she just acquired an audacity     to worsen disenchanting news ,     like his ankles are only standing     in the beginnings of the shallow shore     and he won’t have truly tested these waters     until he’s doused himself     up to the neck .     strange ,     since he already feels like he’s on his way     --     to drowning ,     upon enduring child’s play ,     with this mere feeling of first days ,     awkwardness prickling up his spine ,     the unclipped fingernails     of troublesome dread     tracing their way towards the nape of his neck ,     making first days more cumbersome than they have to be     --     for so little as a dry joke ,     he realizes  ...     he realizes this and ,     when he does ,     he decides it’s best to just continue on ,     to not dwell on trivial matters     ( as much they pollute the bigger picture ) ,     especially not that of a passing quip ,     a thoughtless remark ,     now becoming only apart of the past tense . 

for once ,     finds relief in the fact that his head hangs low ,     knowing he can carry on ,     play it off like it was nothing ,     pretend he was fixed by something     so little as a meddling stain     or questionable item found astray     --     mimicking a mental iteration of ,     what are you doing here ?     for all these sorts of elements provoke the same question ,     don’t they ?     what is this doing here ?     what is she doing here ?

somehow ,     he gets so lost in thought     about it ,     he nearly forgets to hold the fort closed     against his stream of consciousness ,     against all his qualms ,     as they beg to bleed through the cracks .     and they find one ,     unconsciously allowing a     silent     shake of his head     as he goes about mindless tasks ,     like hauling out a binder ,    unaware to his own behavior     --     he’s more so focused     on refusing to look back at her     again .     instead ,     his back ,    gradually becoming bonded by cement ,     faces her ,     as if shoulders have eyes of their own ,     and they stare ,     knowing she’s sitting there     to not work ,     but watch .

characteristically ,     he hates the small talk     --     just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse ,     she lets herself continue on ,     perhaps out of courtesy ,     or genuine curiosity     --     does she truthfully care ?     for this ,     he stalls again ,     slowly ,     like a railroad train ,     interrupted by hindrance ,     not exactly mulling on the weight     of what can only be considered formalities ,     for she now stoops to the level of nothing significant     except a stranger ,     one he already knows all too well ,     one that perhaps knows just exactly how he’s been ,     or how he is ,     currently ,     as of right now .     

glancing up ,     he takes in the sun rays     that remain shining down ,     miserably sprucing up the flaws of this ill - willed sketch ,     seeping through the blinds     --     surely ,     not enough help to make light     of this situation  ...     he acts     on the opportunity of a fruitless distraction ,     ignoring her question ,     stepping around the articles of clutter     and putting all of it between them ,     distancing himself away from her altogether ,     muttering ,     “ need some damn light in here  ...  ”     under his breath ,    like words are only prompted by rhetoric     and these lifeless conversations ,      impending ,     will only be full of idle comments ,     musings spoken aloud     and directed and acknowledged by no one     but themselves .     “ i know they had you living out here for a while ,     but i didn’t know     they had you holed up in here     like a bat . ”

He had considered not meeting with Kaz at all, dismissing his threat among the array of other responsibilities he had. One being keeping an eye on Elise who had become much more insistent on exploring Red Ridge than he was comfortable with. But comfort was something Taron hadn’t had in a long time, even with the cushions provided to him by the program. He decided that it was better to meet with his client on their terms to entertain the idea that they did, in fact, have the upper hand at the moment. What was this that he was walking into? An interrogation, or a confrontation? Either way, some compliance would be in his favor. Eryk Kaczynski was, after all, part of law enforcement. 

Taron closed the car door, blue irises flickering briefly around the vehicle for any threats and he ensured that he positioned himself in such a way that if need be, he had easy access to his weapon. He was a dealer, not a killer, but things in Red Ridge were becoming painfully monochrome in conjunction with it’s name. 

“But you won’t,” The twenty-four year old pointed out, but his words were plain. It wasn’t demeaning, yet. It was a gentle matter-of-fact. “That is, unless you want similar charges under your belt.”

confidence echoes .     it resounds through the vehicle     and off its walls ,     agitates his incredulous features     to flicker ,     intensifying the expression of     what resembles     a bull ,     further irate ,     for threat presents itself for what it is ,     yet extent of the matters     and what lies within falls unknown     ----     “ what ? ”     ----     into his lap ,     where polyester stretches taut against left thigh ,     sustaining the black outlines of a weapon     he has no reason to hide .     but does .     and upon uncertainty ,     lays palm upon of ,    at the peak of opening pocket ,     where a last minute resort     awaits on standby .     “ what the fuck are you talkin’ about ? ” 

location :  outside of vanderbilt inc .

dry landscape ,     of desert ;     it feeds sporadicity ,     bouts of life - sucking air ,     dry spells that practically empty the lungs of moisture .     it throws patchy grasslands ,     blows dirt across the lines of pupils cowering from the sun as it begs so desperately to blind .     so ,     when it rains ,  it pours .     a god knows the gravity     of a storm     could never hurt no one ,     or rather ,     the ones who need it ,     for care ,     for crops ,     for clarity .     simply ,     a storm is the clouds     that form ,     billow and collide     into one another     like a clamoring pack ,     rushing to get from one side to the other .     it is in the sky overhead ,     but not only that     --     inside a man’s own head ,     rumbling terribly ,     brewing  ...    feeding metamorphosis . 

below the intent of a furrow ,     teeth grit     against clenched jaw ,     and eyes simply stare     out through glass displaying contrast ;     the casts of black and white shadows ,     bleeding together like a mundane painting ,     streaking against windshield ,     something to look at while he waits     and he waits .

things have been said ,     secrets have been mentioned .     and therefore ,  there is a tinge of unease ,     albeit a strange sense of calm ,     slowly brooding into anger ,     for his wits ,     as much as they’ve improved ,     remain to be a disarray ,     abashedly by the fault of no one     except himself .     for some stupid kid ,     holding more power      than what appears to bear on his shoulders     --     what did he see ,  innocence ?     if not in his aura ,     then in his eyes ?     when he sees headlights ,     halting ,     then flickering off ,     the boy king himself stepping out ,     he notices the actuality in judgement ,     ironically amid storm ,     for what it really is ,      and internally owns up the lapse     in case anyone else besides himself     realizes what he did .

“ neither ,  this was     ----      a bad question . ”

“ no  ...  ”     then ,  a surrendering ,     “ yes . ”     the most truthful he’s been ,     in which simple answers     are powered out     with reluctance ,     the small hiss of his lips ,     as he gives in ,     eyes closing and opening ,  slowly ,     as he says it ,     for loneliness is more of a familiar neighbor ,     knocking on his door     every now and again ,     more times than he’d like to admit .     he wishes it would give it a rest ,     especially when he feels the need to fish for excuses ,     in this moment ,     questions for other answers ,     when underlyingly ,     he might or might not need them .     “ don’t we all get like that at one point ? ”

how honest are you about your thoughts and feelings ( i . e .  do you hide your true self from others, and in what way ) ?

eyes poke around .     one would be able to tell he doesn’t like this question .     and arms crossed ,     closing him off to the world ,     it’s obvious he values his privacy ,     especially as of right now .     “ i’m as honest as i need to be     ----     i don’t trust people outside of the job ,     how about that ? ”     in the pit of his tone ,     it sounds as if he says this      like he has something he needs to prove .

what makes you laugh ?

finally ,  a question that stumps him .     “ ...   i don’t really know  ...     i can’t remember the last time     i really laughed  ... ”     oddly enough ,     he just so happens to chuckle at that .     yet ,  it is empty     and hollow,      never of fulfilled of poise ,     ultimately disingenuous .     “ anything ,  i ‘spose . “     to this day ,     he doesn’t underestimate himself.     “ just gotta catch me on the right day . ” 

how do you deal with stress ?

“ you ever hear of zzzquil ?     there’s no point in it ,  but     --     it gets the best of us .     so ,      i normally just like to sleep it off myself .”     he second guesses his answer ,     suddenly realizing that doesn’t sound very professional .     so he quickly adds ,     “ either that ,  or just  ...     get the job done     quicker than it needs to be done .     simple as that . ”

are you spontaneous ,  or do you always need to have a plan ?

“ plans are convenient .     they usually don’t get me anywhere though .     i’m      --     i’m a person that doesn’t like to be rushed ,  so     i try not to have deadlines .     it’s like asking an egg not to crack ,     just let me do what i want     at my own pace . ”

what are your pet peeves ?

“ incompetent people  ...      or you know what ,     stupid people .”     for this ,     he doesn’t spend much time thinking about it .     “ people that have no idea what they’re doing ,     and then look at you ,  and   --   and   --   and then wait for the moment when you make one mistake  ... ”     is this personal ?     he trails off ,  decides to drown out noise ,     instead diverts     on something more worth explaining .     “  ...    also ,  those guys who say ,     ‘ we’re pregnant ---- ’     i mean,  what the fuck is that ? ”