she doesn’t do it anymore. really, she doesn’t. she stopped six months after the funeral. there was a string of bad nightmares (memories) revolving around bloody noses and deployed airbags that --
the point is, she stopped. cold turkey. but every year, this day is the hardest of them all. kevin would have been twenty-eight. a brilliant, cheerful twenty-eight. she would have called him or driven to wherever he lived (god, would he have stayed at home...carrying the burden of their father’s mistakes with a smile?) and teased him about getting old. he’d call her a dick. she’d agree and they’d share that special laugh between only siblings.
but she can’t call his old cell phone because paxton cancelled his service exactly ten months after the accident. she knows this because she called once a week until she couldn’t. no. she can’t call him because she killed him. this isn’t her father’s fault.
she’s been standing outside of an old methodist church building for the last twenty minutes. it’s paint is chipped and the steps are nearly falling apart, but that’s hell’s kitchen for you. inside, she knows there’s a group of people sitting in a quiet room. she’s acutely aware they’re baring their souls for chips, and that scattered applause will fill the air until they break for shitty pastries and even shittier coffee.
before she was recognizable, she’d go once a year. always to a different group with different people. she’d mourn openly with the only lot who understood what it’s like to be out of control. she’d listen to others’ stories and find solidarity in their mistakes.
things are different, now. she doesn’t trust anyone not to slip that karen page is an addict that killed her brother. despite the tight-lipped nature of anonymous meetings, her paranoia stops her from entering the building.
so instead, she takes a deep drink from the plastic bottle of coke. there’s more scotch than coke in it--yes, karen is painfully aware of how ironic it is to drink right now--but it barely burns on the way down. she started drinking after an emotionally exhausting dinner with foggy and matt.
they treated her like she was made of glass today. foggy stumbled over his words when he mentioned how dead their phones had been while matt casually commented on her quickened heart rate with concern. it was all very considerate. karen hated every second of it. she made matt promise not to follow her around this evening after they parted ways; the fragility of their relationship is probably the only reason he agreed.
‘fuck.’
she turns from the church and starts walking without much thought. she focuses on drinking so the sharp pain in her chest settles to its normal dull ache. karen shouldn’t be surprised when she’s standing across the street of a known seedy drug house. she swallows thickly, watching a haggard man shuffle inside.
she remembers how easy it was to buy the time she was looking for evans. the jargon hasn’t changed. the prices aren’t wildly different, either. she’s probably got enough in her pocket for --
karen guzzles the rest of the bottle and shoves it into her purse. she needs to leave. she turns on her heel and nearly lets out a scream. an all too familiar face is staring at her, almost accusatory.
there are no men trailing behind him. no sniper on the roof or a team in a
van parked on the corner, waiting for his signal or counting a time limit. just
phil. following a fairly thin lead (hadn’t anticipated results; nothing about it
was telltale, not a credible source in sight) quietly earmarked for later
investigation -- well, it had hardly seemed something to wake the neighbours
over.
can’t quite tell if he regrets that choice or not, staring at the squared
shoulder blades of the man they call the punisher.
“ you know -- “
phil starts slow, voice even and gun tucked at the small of his back just
for access.
“ -- i once broke a guys nose for looking at my wife in
a bar. i hear some notorious thug is tossing her name
into the wind and -- well, i’m a deeply jealous and angry
man. “
phil laughs like it’s a joke, like it’s some jonny carson sketch, like this is
the late show and damn, he’s one hell of a headliner.
( he’s opening his mouth in defense of this dark little
corner of a city he used to call home when he remembers
the bruises on his knuckles and the heavy smell of blood
in the air. okay…fair point. )
Why’d you think they called it Hell’s Kitchen?
( she can’t help the twist of her lips, or the itch
in her mind that tells her this man feels no
remorse for causing the rather gory scene laid
out around them. bullets have a tendency to do
that she’s found, though she doesn’t look too
closely at the holes piercing the body on damp
asphalt. it reminds her of someone else, and
that’s too close to home. )
I doubt this is what they had in mind when
naming it.
“ Awful nice of you to haul me out of that burning building like you did. And they say you’re not a hero. . .”
Just sass the pain away Misty. Nothing soothes second degree burns more. Except maybe alcohol, but she doubts he’ll share given her risk of dehydration. He’d only get grumpy if he went to all the trouble of saving her life just for her to die forty-five minutes after the fact.
{ when she picked up her phone her intention was to call
frank and politely ask to catch a ride home. she repeated
what she was going to say three times to charlee but when
she hears a gruff greeting ‘eat ass, suck a dick, do drugs’
comes out instead. she hears charlee’s laughter and she starts
to giggle, pressing her head onto the sticky bar as she
gets her shit together. }
No Francis Bacon. I am not drunk I am trying to give you a business plan.
❝ Anyone who’s seen my dick and met my parents needs to die. ❞
Beautiful Mulaney Starters: accepting still
…
{ her gaze turns away from the big dipper and over to frank, an unimpressed expression written across her face. she’s not even sure where this came from. karen shoves her hands into the pockets into her jacket–frank’s jacket–and smirks. }
Well I’ve already met your parents and I don’t have a death wish so I guess we know what this means.
