Cold, that’s what stuck with him. How cold her body had been. He had found her alone, uncovered, and he had thought her asleep. He knelt, tried speaking her name. “Anabelle,” Dirt had said. “Anabelle, it’s me. Hey, I’m sorry.”
i don't want to hate you, but that's just the way things are now
[Dirt opens his mouth as if to say something, but purses it back shut again and hangs his head. His hands press over his face and rub it tiredly.] ....
“Transition, aye? As rough as it is odd. You have my sympathies, my good man.”
Teddy offers his new friend a gentle smile and an equally gentle pat on the arm. He can smell the whiskey on the other’s breath, but it doesn’t bother him. If he could spare the caps he’d have already ordered another scotch for himself.
“You’re a writer? Oh, my stars, what delightful circumstance we should swallow our poison next to one another.” At the other’s compliment he laughs again, more softly, and swallows it away with another sip of liquor. “Oh, goodness, you flatter me. But I am no Lewis Carroll. I’m not much of anything these days really… I haven’t published since Long Pigs and Wide Wallets. And that was poetry. Must faster to write than a full length novel, as you might know yourself…. Prey tell what is it you enjoy writing, Dirt?”
Poetry? And that title sounds very familiar indeed. It was him who wrote it, then, but under a pen name, because he didn't remember Theodore. He remembered...
"Kurt. Kurt Dune, is that your alias? Because I've got to say, I've read your works, and they're brilliant. Me, I only write the occasional poem, and they're more... well, they're nothing to run and have published, really. But you, Kurt--Teddy? Oh, I love your writing. Very reminiscent of Poe, it is, and..."
Dirt catches himself babbling. He laughs, feels himself near flushing from the elation of meeting one of his favorite authors. This is certainly a rare occurrence; most of the ones he looks up to are centuries dead.
"My apologies, you must get this all the time. Really, though, I did read Long Pigs and Wide Wallets; it was very good. Poetry tends to be my favorite sort. Your full-length works are fantastic, too, especially Pupa. Are you writing more? I've found myself seeking out copies, it's always hard to find anything in good condition here, but I do have an amazing print of The Underwater Vault."
Dirt hums in his happiness to have found someone, finally, a new stranger who knows the true classics. He grins, and he peers closer at Teddy, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. Pleased, definitely. It’s been too long.
“Ahhh, yes, yes, I figured as much,” Dirt purrs. He waves for the bartend to bring over his next glass of whiskey, and drinks it down like water. “You’ve got that air about you…” And he laughs, a real laugh, for what feels like the first time in a while. “I might take it upon myself to start calling them jabberwockys. It suits.”
Dirt leans in, and he offers the hand not holding his chin up to Teddy.
“You can call me Dirt, if it pleases, kind sir. And I’m sure I’d like to know what I call you, mister…?”
“That air to me?” Theodore chuckles, “What, the air of an old crone who covets the work of writers he can only dream to emulate? Sounds about right!”
This stranger, he decides rather quickly, is worth his time and more. He offers the extended hand a generous but polite shake. Then he picks his own glass back up, but with a far more conservative sip than Dirt.
“A unique name for a unique man. It’s lovely. I’m Theodore Banville, but Teddy suits me fine. What brings a man with a taste for the classics to Freeside, I wonder. Seeking the nostalgic whimsy of the Strip, perhaps?”
"Ohh, this and that. I like the area for its booze." Dirt shrugs, lifting his near-empty cup as if to accentuate his statement. "I like it for the chance to meet others like myself. Like you, Teddy."
He is certainly drunk. Not half-drunk, not tipsy, no, he's drunk. Dirt has to struggle to keep up appearences but his mind is foggy and whenever he moves it feels as though he's in slow-motion.
"I'm between careers, you see. Transitioning. It's an odd time for me," he says, tilting his face back from his hand and giving a look around the bar. His eyes settle back on Teddy and they stay there, studying him. "I've been writing more, but nothing good. You, however, I wager you're quite the genius with a pen... Better than emulating, sure."
The way Teddy speaks, it reminds him of a novel he read recently. One of the new ones, the sort of thing he'd usually turn his nose up at, but it was gothic and dark and wonderful. Yes, and if only he could remember the title of it, the author, something...
“Does me just fine. Whether or not I’ve got any is a different story, sweetheart.”
Wally snorts at Dirt’s attempt to be cheerful and flirty. He wonders if they’re going to have a chance to catch up like he was hoping. Probably not, he thinks disappointingly, fantastic timing Nico. But them’s the breaks. He throws the other a sexy blue eyed wink before heading up the staircase to the living quarters.
“Now before you come up here you just remember I wasn’t expectin’ company, and I live with two boys and a girl who builds robots all day.”
Thankfully, though, the living room isn’t too bad. Most of the mess is work related, boxes of explosive shells and bags of gun powder, but most of it is shoved near the walls. He gestures to the mattresses, the chairs, silently offering for Dirt to sit anymore while he rummages through the cabinets.
“Lady luck plays a funny game with you, don’t she?” Wally waves a half bottle of whiskey for Dirt to see before finding some glasses. “Ain’t got a fridge or nothin’ to keep it cold. But it’ll taste like a kick in the nuts so I guess that’s what matters.”
As he pouts the two glasses Wally ponders a thought he’s not sure if he should voice. But of course it comes out as he goes over to hand Dirt his glass. Him and his mouth.
“Were you two together or something like that…?”
The eyes do a wonder, if a small one, and he finds the smiling easier. At least when the sights are on him. He shifts from slouching on the counter and he follows Walter up the stairs, in a daze, Crow wobbling on his shoulder with a small squawk of protest.
Dirt looks around once they reach the top of the stairs, and he chooses the nearest chair to ease himself into. He's quiet, unusual for him, what with always going on about poems or novels or the state of the war or the Strip--no, now he's mollified. Distant. His eyes seem to be looking elsewhere, parsing through his muddled mind.
Then Walter's speaking again, bringing him booze, and Dirt's snapped from his thoughts. He accepts the whiskey gratefully, downs half of it in a fell swig. Kick to the nuts indeed.
"... Somethin' like that," Dirt sighs, rolling his shoulders and slouching back in the chair. His muscles and bones ache. He feels old, fucking old. "We were good friends. Been through some shit together. But..." He heaves a breath and downs the rest of the glass, touching at the scars on his cheek. Going distant again. "She doesn't want a single thing to do with me anymore. Won't let me get a word in. Not like I deserve that, anyhow."
Theodore enjoys his sleepy town of Novac very much, but even a recluse enjoys a drink now and again. And business with the Crimson Caravan had left him with enough caps and proximity to give the Wrangler his company.
It feels none too good to realize that soon he won’t be able to afford even this. A glass of scotch in the filthiest dive imaginable, and only a stone’s throw away from the riches savages of the Waste. Unless he starts writing again.
Thus, the novalist decides to unrealize it, and takes a generous swallow from his scotch as soon as it’s in his hand. The immediate burn is satisfying, and the warmth that spreads through his chest an appreciated distraction. Temporary, but a suitable balm. It helps him relax and enjoy the bursts of colors he observes from spontaneous yelps and drunken chatter. He can sit quietly and sneakily glance at this rather indulgent literature he found on his way over…
… And then there’s someone sitting nearby and speaking to him. Teddy rushes to hide his smutty book so fast he doesn’t immediately catch the stranger’s words. But quickly he does, as they’re as familiar as they’re incomprehensible. He removes his glasses and stares fondly at Dirt’s murmurs. A nice blood orange they are.
“Hmm, hmm, how was that now? Ah, yes, beware the Jabberwocky my son. The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird and shun the…“ He pauses, sips some more scotch, then snaps his fingers. “… The frumious Bandersnatch! I’ve still got it.”
“I rather think we missed an opportunity not calling deathclaws jabberwockys, don’t you think? But I suppose that wouldn’t be overtly brazen enough.” He grins at the stranger. "As the catepillar would ask, who are you?”
Dirt hums in his happiness to have found someone, finally, a new stranger who knows the true classics. He grins, and he peers closer at Teddy, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. Pleased, definitely. It's been too long.
"Ahhh, yes, yes, I figured as much," Dirt purrs. He waves for the bartend to bring over his next glass of whiskey, and drinks it down like water. "You've got that air about you..." And he laughs, a real laugh, for what feels like the first time in a while. "I might take it upon myself to start calling them jabberwockys. It suits."
Dirt leans in, and he offers the hand not holding his chin up to Teddy.
"You can call me Dirt, if it pleases, kind sir. And I'm sure I'd like to know what I call you, mister...?"
Cold, that's what stuck with him. How cold her body had been. He had found her alone, uncovered, and he had thought her asleep. He knelt, tried speaking her name. "Anabelle," Dirt had said. "Anabelle, it's me. Hey, I'm sorry."
She didn't stir.
Dirt felt an odd sense hit him, like vertigo; as if he had been standing at the top of a very tall building and stepped over the edge.
"Anabelle," his voice shakes. He reaches out. He feels her shoulder. It's ice to the touch, firm, unyielding to his fingertips. Dirt draws back, shocked, and now the vertigo worsens. He sees the ground rushing up to meet him. He feels her, cold, so very cold under his hand, and he hits. All air leaves his lungs, and he's siezed in panic, clambering onto her, feeling her exposed skin. She's topless, her skin a sickly grayish color, mottled where she had lay. Spotted with dots of red and purple. Dirt near vomits.
Her eyes were closed, and for years after he thanks whatever God may be for that. Instead, her purple lips haunt his nightmares, parted barely in an odd smile. Showing those pretty white teeth he had loved so much. Purple, so purple, and blue, too, and chapped. Bitten. Her hair is still soft and it shifts around her in rivulets. The locks fall over her breasts and her head falls and shakes as Dirt lifts her and jostles her.
"Anabelle, no, no, no, no, no," and the last one is a scream, breaking into a sob of panic. This deep dread and grief he felt in his chest, it was unlike anything he had felt. He stares desperately at her bruised eyelids and over the freckles, so stark against the death-gray skin.
Dead. She's dead. The dotted trackmarks on her forearms stand out, bruises spreading from the inside of her elbows. Ugly, he had always thought they were so ugly, the ugliest part of her, and he couldn't stand to look at them. Now he stares, and he has to shift away from her to cower against the wall of her shack. He vomits. It's the worst physical sensation, vomiting through his tears and snot and panic. His throat siezes up each time and he half-chokes, hoping he does choke, wanting to die instead of being like this. Instead of being alone.
And after a long while, Dirt manages to stop. He shifts away from the wall. He turns back to return his eyes onto Anabell. Over her nude torso, where her slim stomach bulges with... what? It appears bloated and stretched, but it's covered with the same discoloration as the rest of her that had been pressed to the ground, and it could be anything. Anything at all, sure, who could say. Dirt sees the Med-X vials gathered near her bed and he's stomping on them without a clear thought as to why. He's grinding them under his boots, he's crying again, feeling too heavy from misery and loss. He shakes. He takes a bottle of alchohol from the nearby shelf and he smashes it open, dumping its contents over the floor of the shack. Over Anabelle's corpse.
He repeats this. Over and over, with every bottle of booze he can find, until the place reeks of it and his boots slosh with the sound. Dirt lights a match and he tosses it on the opposite wall. As the flames lick the alcohol and begin to spread, Dirt looks down at the girl who could be sleeping.
He swears for a moment he sees her move.
Before his brain can torture him any longer, Dirt spins on a heel and he bolts out of the shack, running, running, never looking back. Not when he hears glass shatter outwards. Not when he smells the smoke on the wind behind him. Not even when he's doubled over, far enough away that he couldn't see anything but smoke if he looked behind him, vomiting stomach acid on to the hard Waste.
He knows if he looks back he will see Anabelle behind him, covered in flames, weeping. Begging him to come back. Begging him to save her, please, just come back and save her.
Or he wouldn't.
It's the nightmares that keep him awake that night. The next six nights. And when he's delusional with panic and paranoia, near catatonic with grief,he finally sleeps and it's sweet dreamless void.
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