#williamsockner

Broken Glass 1-

A loud crash followed by a yelp causes everyone to look up.  

“Nice going, Dee,” Mac remarks, observing broken glass on the floor.  

“With hands like that, how do you drop anything?” Dennis joins in. Mac laughs and they go back to their asinine conversation.  

When she doesn’t fight back, Charlie grows concerned, dropping whatever he’s tinkering with onto the counter and approaching her.

“Oh, shit,” he breathes. Dee’s staring at her hand, as the pool of blood forming in her palm spreads, and begins running down her arm.

She looks up at him, wide-eyed and unsure how to react. “I need a towel,” she says, unmoving.  

Charlie looks around, and grabs one laying on the shelf beneath the bar.  

“No, gross,” Dee tells him. “That’s just gonna get it infected.”

“You just said-,” Charlie argues back. He looks around again, settling on a handful of napkins. “Happy?” He asks, pressing them to the wound, causing her to flinch. It only takes seconds before the white napkins turn red.  

“Shit, I think I need to go to the hospital.”

“Quit being so dramatic, Deandra,” Frank says over his newspaper, “When I was in ‘Nam, men lost a lot more blood than that and they didn’t bitch. Whole hands chopped clean off. Acted like nothin’ even happened.”  

“You mean at your sweatshop?” Dee barks back, but Frank doesn’t seem to notice her implication that it’s his fault. Or maybe he doesn’t care.  

“C’mon, we gotta have something in the back,” Charlie instructs, grabbing a bottle of vodka.  

Dee follows and they enter the back office. Charlie starts digging around, prompting Dee to instruct him to hurry.  

He pulls out a white metal box from under a large stack of papers and notebooks, causing them to fall all over the floor. He blows the dust off. He’s not sure what it says, but the red + sign probably means it’s medical. He opens it to discover a half roll of gauze, a pair of scissors and part of a candy bar. Bingo!

Charlie approaches where Dee is sitting on the desk. She knows she looks as nervous as she feels, causing a sense of weakness and embarrassment to add to it. It’s not safe to show vulnerability around the gang. Though with Charlie, it can be okay.

She pulls the napkins away and he whistles, sounding impressed. She uses the last of the clean napkins to wipe away as much blood as possible, wincing at the pressure.  Charlie squints and leans in closer. “You got some glass in here.”

“Great,” Dee mutters. This whole situation keeps getting worse.  

Charlie grips her forearm, holding it in place. “I’m sorry, Dee, but this is gonna suck.” He opens the bottle and slowly pours some liquid onto the wound.  

“Fuck,” she hisses. He gives her this look of what could almost be considered empathy, and it feels so kind and tender that she has to look away.  

“I’m gonna get this glass out now, okay?” He speaks carefully and precisely, and while she would usually find it patronizing, it’s actually keeping her calm.  

Holding her arm in place with one hand, he brings his free hand to her palm, pinching at a piece of glass. Dee looks away, nearly gagging at the sight. He drops the fairly large piece on the desk, and leans in for another close look. “I think that’s it,” he finally determines.  

He pulls the bottle out again, pouring the vodka one more time, as they watch the red and clear liquids run together.  

Dee watches as he begins wrapping the wound. She looks up, “Thanks, Charlie.”

He shrugs, “Eh, I guess I kinda owe you anyway. Y’know, for when the McPoyles stabbed me.” She remembers the chaos of it, the sound of pulling the fork out. Trying not to gag as she helped Charlie slip his jacket off, then applying pressure and taping gauze over the wound. What’s probably from the same roll he’s using on her.  

Dee smirks, “Or when Terrell’s sister punched you for being an asshole.”

“That was just ice, Dee,” he reminds her. He sits back a moment later. Done.  

Dee inspects his work. It’s not great, but seems to be working. She doesn’t see any blood leaking through and the stinging stopped.  

He sits next to her on the desk. Dee takes a deep drink from the bottle, the burning in her throat practically nothing compared to the stinging in her hand. Though a lot of that comes years of experience. Dee passes the vodka to Charlie, who takes a long drink.  

“I guess we kind of look out for each other.”

“Yeah. I guess we do.”

(idk, I kinda like the idea of Charlie being her caretaker for a bit)

xxxxxxxxxx

Broken Glass 2-

Dee stares up into the open vent, looking doubtful.  

“It’s therapeutic,” he encourages her.  

That’s no help. Dee’s done with therapy after her last session with that bitch. Therapy is bullshit.  

“I’m trying to help you,” Charlie says, “Sharing my secret room and shit.”

Dee sighs. “Fine. But you’re going first.”  

He climbs on the chair then into the vent. Dee follows behind, suspicious and a little grossed out. She follows through the vents of Paddy’s.  

They reach their destination as they enter a dirty room. “Where are we, Charlie?” Dee asks, not hiding her annoyance.  

“It’s my Bad Room,” he replies simply. When she doesn’t seem to understand the significance, he explains “I come up here to smash bottles sometimes.”  

“Is that what that noise is?”  

He selects an empty beer bottle from the corner and slams it into the floor. Dee flinches at the crash. “Jesus Christ, Charlie!” she shouts.  

He passes her an empty bottle. Dee looks unsure, but throws it against the room, where it smashes into the wall and explodes. It’s satisfying. She stretches, rolling her body. Okay, that felt good.  

She picks up another one. She imagines the face of everyone who called her The Aluminum Monster in high school and hurls another bottle across the room. 

Dee chances a glance over to Charlie. He’s watching her, with a mixture of amusement and joy. Charlie grins at her. “Is it working?” He smashes one, too, for the hell of it.  

Dee thinks of Barbara, all the insults and outward dislike. It still stings a little, deep down, but urges out anger too. She throws the bottle that she’s holding down. Watching the glass shatter as she has so many times, enjoying being the one doing the damage this time.  

Dee thinks of her brother. Their mother’s clear favorite. Her twin who treats her like shit, but shells out just enough scraps of approval to keep her around. “Fuck you, Dennis,” she declares slamming another empty glass bottle onto the floor.  

It’s nice- not being judged for throwing and yelling. Letting everything out, without being told she’s overreacting or emotional. Not having to worry about how she’s being seen.  

Dee’s brought out of her thoughts when she hears Charlie’s shrieky-yell, and sees a bottle crash into the floor.  

They continue for a while, smashing and yelling together until the bottles are nearly gone.  

She feels a little better. More relaxed, and maybe even a little grateful for Charlie.  

He pulls out a six-pack sitting by the entrance, and takes a seat against the wall. He opens one and takes a drink, then pulls out a second, offering it to her.