#maggey

Mave UND Zombey gleichzeitig: „Auf [Zombeys] Knie?“

by boo2020 [AO3] [FFnet] [Tumblr]

Rating: T, WC: 112156 (incomplete), Genre: romance, family, drama, Keywords: ensemble, post-SOJ, established relationship

Some character designs for 3 of the villains of The Days Where Pheeper Actually Had To Do Stuff TM ehehehehe :333 (Bronwyn has four arms btw but you can’t really do that in Gacha :p)

The Epic Evil Lesbians (EELs)

Day 14

           After lunch, the rest of the day didn’t go well. Well, that was an understatement. The temporary excitement I’d felt after making plans with Harrison to find the second Polaroid location was extinguished. I returned to Bert’s room after lunch, letting myself feel a bit more optimistic than usual.

           “Come on, Bert. I don’t care if you don’t want me to read to you. If I don’t, I’ll get fired,” I said. I pulled the cart into the room. He laid back in his bead, on top of the covers, which Heather had told me was part of their plan to make him feel motivated to get out more. Make his bed in the morning and he would be forced to get dressed in normal clothes, venture to the living room or rec hall, and maybe eat in the dining hall with others. Nope. Instead, he sat on top of the covers in his satin PJ’s. They were so ratty I saw right through the satin. His wrinkly nipple stared at anyone who talked to him. It was mortifying for everyone involved.

           I didn’t bother pulling my chair up to his bed. I knew better now. I rifled through the book selections, cringing. Nicholas Sparks and Janet Evanovich? How was that going to make anyone feel better? At the bottom of the pile, I found a copy of The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Diary by Sherman Alexie. How in the world did a banned book get in this box? I looked over at Bert, who had his lips pursed and head pointed at the ceiling defiantly with his eyes sealed shut. Well, I’d been wanting to read it. Whether an old white dude wanted to read about Native Americans on a reservation, I didn’t care to know, honestly.

           I sat in the uncomfortable stuffy chair by the window. Sitting, I watched Bert whip his head towards the door, in the opposite direction of where I sat. I rolled my eyes. The white clock almost blended into the stark white walls. Why did they have to make guest rooms feel like a damn sanatorium?

           I opened the first page and cleared my voice. I shivered, and pulled my cardigan around my shoulders tighter. Poor window insulation. Another fantastic note to make about the room.

           “I was born with water on the brain,” I said, starting to read. I didn’t pay any attention to Bert. Three weeks of complete silence and ignorance had pretty much solidified in my mind that he didn’t care about me being in the room at all. I’d been in here for 2 hours a day, 5 days a week, for 3 weeks, reading, because I didn’t know what else to do. My only instructions were to entertain him and keep watch over things. In other words, make sure he wasn’t trying to come up with a death device to off himself or damage any of the luxuriously designed room.

           I read through the first two chapters easily, laughing out loud at Sherman Alexie’s hilariously morbid language. The protagonist was a Native American kid who was born with just about every bad hand a person could be dealt. Ugly glasses. Awkward body. Poor. Minority. Scattered with different cartoons drawn by this protagonist, who uses humor and cartoons to cope with his less than fortune life, the writing was as dark as it was funny. I choked back flashes of anger as I read the second chapter, about the protagonist begging his parents to take their dog named Oscar to the vet. But it would cost thousands of dollars, and his dad ends up taking out a rifle and shooting the dog himself. It was horrible. It was every kind of honest, the kind that made you uncomfortable and you felt like you shouldn’t be reading, but the kind of honest that felt necessary to become a better more empathetic person.

           Just then, as I was starting to enjoy my afternoon, I heard a noise to my right and felt something on my head. I put the book down and reached up to my hair. My fingers touched something wet, cold, and smooth. I looked back down at my pointer finger and saw brown mush. I looked up at Bert, who still wasn’t looking in my direction, but frowned. Possibly more angst looking than before. I looked at his food tray next to his bed.

           Walking over to his side of his bed, I stepped toward him slowly. It felt like trying not to wake up a dragon. When I reached his food tray, I saw the opened cup of chocolate pudding. And next to it, a spoon with pudding residue on it. Bert’s arms were crossed; he didn’t even try to look the least bit innocent. I rolled my eyes and walked back to my spot.

           “Good try, Bert.”

           I returned back to my book. Picking up with chapter 3. As I read further, I felt like I was reading something I knew for certain had to have been slipped in by mistake. Or, even better, was intentionally put there to piss off the Senior Solutions staff to give these old dudes some good literature. I commended that person, if it was the case.

           Only thirty seconds later, I felt something hit me square in the back of the head. I whipped my head back around to look at Bert, who was staring just past me now out the window. His mouth was open and he frowned. I looked down on the ground, where the dirty spoon now lay. I felt the back of my head, feeling the spot where the spoon had hit me.

           Now- I know I should have gone straight to Heather, like she’d asked. If it had been any other day, maybe I would have. But something simmered inside me then. A month of Missoula anxiety shook me up. A month of dealing with his antics, spitting on me when I got too close, throwing things at me, and never once saying a word. Done. I picked up the spoon and marched over to Bert. I held it one inch in front of his face and pointed it at the spot on the floor where some chocolate pudding was. Then, I grabbed the spoon and jabbed it inside the pudding, getting a nice sized bite. I held it in front of his lips.

           “If you are going to act like a child, I’m going to treat you like one,” I said, not caring whether I sounded like a soccer mom in that moment.

           He shook his head then quickly, with the same stern frown on his face. He didn’t make eye contact with me, and I took it as a challenge. I grabbed his chin and yanked his head down as hard as I could feel comfortable doing without feeling like I was going to break his fragile bones.

           “Trust me, the feeling is mutual. But guess what? I get paid for putting up with you,” I said. I snatched the pudding from him and I started eating his pudding myself, not bothering to think about the fact that the door was open or that I was essentially eating from something that had touched the ground and Bert’s own mouth.

           I was standing there in front of him, moaning with every bite, when Heather walked in. And it was only when I had finished the whole cup of pudding and Bert was red in the face that I saw Bert glance behind me with a smirk on his face. I turned around to see Heather shaking her head and Harrison behind her, who stood with his hands on his hips looking at his shoes.

           “Emilie, can I speak to you in the hallway?” Heather said.

           I gulped. I nodded and walked over to the window. Heather had moved over to Bert, wiping his cheek free of any pudding. I quickly closed my book shut and stuffed it behind another book on Bert’s windowsill shelf. Then, I saw Harrison, who was smiling at me, but differently than usual. His eyelids drooped and his smile wasn’t wide enough to see his double chin or dimples. Rather, he looked almost sad for me.