mischief {managed} :: dempsey bros.;flashback

[Deleted]

[bg=2c2f24][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,500,true][atrb=style,width: 500px; -moz-border-radius-bottomleft: 10px; border-radius-bottomleft: 10px; -moz-border-radius-bottomright: 10px; border-radius-bottomright: 10px; opacity: 1;] holy ghost, when do you come out to play? 'cause if the lord is gonna find me, he'd better start looking today so i can rise with the river, we all float before we sink so pray for satellites, pray for courtesy and pray that it can climb mountains to me Ambrose has been pacing for so long that I'm surprised he hasn't worn a groove in the floor yet. The clock on the mantle tick-tick-ticks in time with the rhythmic creak-creak-creak of my big brother's footsteps across the old wooden floorboards, turning our shoddy living room into a livewire metronome of worried anticipation as the time edges further and further into the dead of night. A secondhand guitar that was a birthday present years ago is occupying my lap as I sprawl out across the sunken couch, fingers flitting lazily over the worn strings to create an improvised melody layered over the percussion of Ambrose's feet. "Stop pacing," I finally say, voice muted and soft, only a suggestion, because Ripred help the poor bastard who presumes to give Ambrose Dempsey an order, especially if the aforementioned poor bastard is one of his little brothers. The house is almost eerily quiet at this time of night, the lack of bustling life within making it much easier to hear the complaining groans of the sagging roof and old walls. Mom went to bed hours ago, leaving the two of us up to make sure that all was gathered safely into the fold before we turned in as well. A pause, a brief respite of silence, and then the pacing starts again. Creak-creak-creak, a break every few seconds as he turns to look at the immobile front door. My eyes roll skyward, an irritated strum of a B-minor chord blossoming under my fingers as I sit up. "Ambrose. Seriously. He'll be home soon enough, and you're sending my blood pressure through the roof with your worrying." Neither of us has seen hide nor hair of Damien since school let out this afternoon, but that's not really an odd occurrence. He runs around with those stupid friends of his, raising hell from dusk to dawn and generally running unchecked, all reckless abandon and petulant attitude. Our little brother's got rebellion in his bones, and while it used to be almost endearing, it's grown to the point that it really wouldn't surprise me if we end up with a letter from the Capitol one day explaining why Damien's been shipped off to get his tongue ripped out. He calls those punks friends, protests that they're just hanging out, but Ambrose and I have known better for a while. It's a gang. And it's only a matter of time before someone gets hurt or worse. This is almost routine, these late nights spent in the dimly-lit hovel of a living room, waiting to hear the door open. For the past few evenings, it hasn't. I know the unwritten rule that Ambrose has (he tries to compensate for the father who didn't care enough about us to stay, but in the end he usually only makes things harder), know that once the clock hits 2AM I'll be the one that gets chucked out on the street to hunt Damien down and haul him back home. It's not bad in the summer, but it's been getting cooler out, and I'd honestly rather have been in bed two hours ago than have to be making plans for a recon mission, a futile attempt to save my baby brother from his own stupidity. The clock chimes an off-key herald to the passing hours, two resonant little gongs, and I sigh to myself, grumbling irritably as I set my guitar down on the couch and get to my feet, searching around for my jacket. "See, this is because you try to follow the parenting books, Ambrose. You're two years older than him; it's not like you can ground him or whatever and he'll take you seriously. Now I don't know about you, brother, but I'm gettin' real tired doing this every night. When I find him, I'm kicking his ass. End of." Just as I'm shrugging my jacket on, the front door flies inward with an unceremonious bang, a flurry of spindly limbs and dark hair shooting in from the street outside. My eyes dart over to Ambrose, and the darkest sort of smirk settles across my face. "Found him." In a second's time I'm across the room, fisting the front of Damien's hand-me-down shirt in one hand and shoving him against the wall with a muffled thump. There's a noxious cologne of booze and cigarettes and a little bit of weed wafting off him, but I save that sort of stuff for Ambrose's disappointed dad act and carry on with my own agenda, glaring down across the inches of height I've got on him - my status as the middle child never stopped me from being taller and brawnier than the other two. Dempseys as a rule are skinny, poster children for poverty and malnourishment, and I'm not really exception, but for a brief moment I'm actually thankful for my six-foot-four height and the broader set of my shoulders that makes keeping Damien's scrawny frame pinned to the wall as easy as breathing. 'Bout time someone scared him straight. "Listen, you little shit. I'm approximately five hundred percent done with going out and playing cat-and-mouse with you every night. Starting now, I'm giving you a choice. You ready to listen to it?" I don't know if my methods will have any more effect than Ambrose's constant disappointed glares or long-winded lectures, but it sure feels good to finally get a little of the pent-up frustration at my little brother out in the open air. Am I pissed about the inconvenience and lack of sleep he's been causing me for weeks? You bet. But I'd never admit that underneath all of that, there's an icy sort of fear that a night may come where he doesn't come home at all. "You got two options, Damien. From now on, either you're in this house by midnight, every night, or I swear to Ripred I will come hunt you down. And when I find you, I'll shove my foot so far up your skinny ass that you'll have to get it surgically removed, do I make myself clear?" i say goodbye to the canyon, i will set sail to the streets where i don't care to be forgiven i want to be forgotten i don't care to be forgiven when lord, i only want to be forgotten

[charade]

[bg=302646][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,500,true][atrb=style,width: 500px; -moz-border-radius-bottomleft: 10px; border-radius-bottomleft: 10px; -moz-border-radius-bottomright: 10px; border-radius-bottomright: 10px; opacity: 1;] All the rowboats in the paintings, they keep trying to row away And the captain's worried faces stay contorted and staring at the waves They'll keep hanging in their gold frames for forever, forever and a day All the rowboats in the oil paintings, they keep trying to row away It was a dance of sorts. The way that his shoes tapped on the floorboards of the Dempsey household in evenly measured steps. The only problem is that it was a dance that was danced far too often for Ambrose's liking. It had been that way ever since their father had decided that there were things more important than family and stopped coming home. At least, that's what he told himself. It was easier to shift the blame to that occurrence than to admit that his youngest brother had always been a troublemaker. Yet again, Damien had failed to come home at the appointed curfew time, and Ambrose could hardly stop himself from worrying. If his brother kept it up like this, one day they were going to get a letter explaining why Damien had had his tongue removed. Or even worse, he was going to get expelled. And the latter would stain his permanent record forever. Stretched across the dingy couch in their dingier living room, Todd fussed with his blasted guitar; the notes finding their way to Ambrose's eardrums and scratching them in a way that was anything but soothing. An almost silent plea winged its way out of his brother's mouth and he stopped momentarily to give him a raised eyebrow before continuing on his path. With their father gone and their mother asleep, it fell to him to make sure that the house did not fall into shambles overnight. As the eldest he felt it was his de facto position to make sure things kept running as smoothly as they could. Todd spoke again, and Ambrose gave him a thin smile."The only thing that's going to send your blood pressure through the roof is your deplorable smoking habit. And I'm well aware that worrying won't do a lick of good, but neither will doing nothing." Deny it all he wanted to, the truth of the matter was that the youngest Dempsey brother was up to no good. The group of people he had chosen to spend a majority of his time with were uncouth delinquents that clogged the gutters with their trash. Street rats of every shape and size. When I have kids; if I ever have kids, I'm just going to have one, because dealing with two is a nightmare in of itself. On some level it struck at his heart, the way that his brother's insisted upon carrying themselves. They should have been pulling closer together, for all they really had was each other. The rest of the district cared little for anyone that they were not directly connected to, other than to gossip, and talk they did about the Dempsey boys. Ambrose's eyes wandered over to the clock, noting that it would soon strike two in the morning. Todd would have to find Damien after that, while Ambrose would stay behind to ensure that in the event that their mother woke and decided to actually stir herself out of her apathy, he'd be able to placate her until the other two returned. When the clock finally chimed, Todd started to rant about what he was going to do as he searched for his coat, griping the same way he had been doing for the past several days."Yes, well, be sure to let me know how that all goes when you're trying it out on your kids. If your kids turn out anything like you you're going to have your hands full. Maybe then you'll understand." Before anything else could be said, the door flew open, heralding the late arrival of their erstwhile sibling. With Damien's entrance came a chill breeze and the stench of a seedy bar. Todd was on him like eyeliner on a capitolite in less than a moment. Ambrose simply shook his head and moved closer to the struggling pair."A draft is just what we needed. Thank you both for neglecting the door again."he muttered under his breath as he shut the outside away before standing idly by them with his paint speckled hands clasped behind his back."While I disagree with Todd's more barbaric methods, he has a point. Where the frick have you been? You could have been lying face down in an alleyway with a stomach full of poison or a slit throat for all we knew. Contrary to popular belief, you are not indestructible and the district is not a safe place to be at this hour. You're lucky there aren't any serial killers about."Ambrose's nostrils flared in indignation as he ranted, ignoring the patronizing look that Todd was giving him and glaring at Damien. "Honestly, it's like you're trying to give me grey hairs." First there's lights out, then there's lock up Masterpieces serving maximum sentences It's their own fault for being timeless There's a price to pay, and a consequence

[Ally is tentatively back]

[bg=FAFFD7][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,520,true][atrb=style,width: 520px;] DAMIEN TYSON DEMPSEY // 16

[bg=FAFFD7][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,520,true][atrb=style,width: 520px; padding: 10px; border:10px solid #EF5D02;] And in the halls, There's people looking through, The window and the door. They know exactly what we're here for. Don't look up just let them think, There's no place else you'd rather be. I stumble out the back door of the bar with a breezy laugh, leaning over the shoulder of I don't even know which of the buddies I stumbled in with. "That," I slur with a loud, free laugh, one of those that I haven't managed since all this shit started, "Was a fucking brilliant idea, Luke." And I just giggle a bit, then, because I was already sloshed and now I'm stoned like a biblical whore. And it's good, y'know, because as much as I'm an 'unabashed hellion with no mind for the consequences of my actions' (Thanks, Ambrose, I've coined that phrase now.) I'm... well, more than a little anxious about this whole thing. (Every time a friend gets his face kicked in or a knife wound leaving him leaking like a fucking punctured water balloon, I realize that, hey, it's only a matter of time before it's me, and they won't hold back.) But now... I'm feeling damn good. I don't even feel hungry, and hunger's been an annoying companion for so long I don't even understand what the absence of it is. But no, I'm floating above any mortal concerns, now. Mark, that's who I was leaning on, shifts my arms more around his shoulders, laughs. "Dempsey you fucking lightweight, Move your ass." "I'm not a lightweight, jerkoff." I grumble, narrowing my eyes. (I had about a half a bottle of the good stuff and I was still walking straight, but pot kicks my ass every damn time, so hey.) "And you just want an opportunity to stare at my extremely attractive backside." Charlie, the only sober person within three yards of me, chuckles. "Caught you red handed, man. Don't deny it, We've all seen you looking." And I'm still giggling, because shit, this isn't me having to be a goddamn gang leader, this isn't me in a fight and having to keep my wits about me so I get home okay, this is just me hanging out with my friends and pretending I don't care about any of the multitude of problems with us, (Luke's little sister's sick as hell, Mark's been in love with me since the third grade, Charlie's mom hits him and cuts his face up with her rings, my oldest brother's the closest thing I've got to a father.) nope, just me and the few of my friends that are actually good friends, been with me since grade school, just us against the entire fucking world like it's always been, and I'm just so damn happy. So of course, it all goes to shit. I don't even recognize the asshats that lunge around the corner with their weapons drawn, but I know before I even know that they're enemies and my fight-or-flight response kicks into overdrive and I suddenly feel a hell of a lot more sober than I did twelve seconds ago. I've just punched some guy in the face hard enough to knock him most of the way out when I hear "Damien, watch out!" and I don't think just spin and shitshitshit my arm is fucking burning and I look at it and there's blood running down into my hand and just fuck, basically because this guy's gonna stab me somewhere else, now, and I can't move and it's not just gonna be my arm- -except Mark's tackling the guy, fuck, getting him away from me and onto the ground and I can breathe now, move now, and everybody on their side appears to be down for the count, but then I notice that Mark's got blood fucking soaking the shoulder of his jacket already, and just, basically, I knew this night couldn't stay good. Like we're of one mind, me and Charlie and Luke are fucking rushing at Mark and we get there just as one of my oldest friends has his legs give right out from under him and Charlie's saying we gotta get him to a hospital and I'm just nodding along and helping get him up so we can get moving, but then there's a cool hand on my shoulder and "Damien, you're hurt." I just give Luke the most incredulous look I can manage. "Are you fucking kidding me? I'm fine, asshole, let's just go." Because I'm not that badly off and I've got a fucking passed out friend here because the idiot was protecting me, everyone's always protecting me, and ripred's sakes my head's pounding and I can't deal. "You're no good if you pass out, Damien, go fix your arm and sleep for like an hour and then meet us at the hospital." And fuck Luke, fuck his logic and his wide, earnest eyes, because this is all my damn fault... But I'm dizzy, all of a sudden, so maybe he's onto something. I fix both of them with a glare, say "Two hours and then I'm there." and then I'm off, speeding towards home and probably leaving a trail made out of blood instead of breadcrumbs but I don't care and I'm tired and done. So of fucking course, the icing on the shitty cake tonight's been, Todd smashes me into the fucking wall. I can barely hear their respective rants over the buzzing in my ears but I hear enough to make me pissed the hell off. I glance between my brothers with an exaggerated sigh, and maybe it's the anger and maybe it's the alcohol and maybe it's the not-just-contact buzz and maybe it's that one of my best friends is in the hospital because I'm an idiot, but all I can do is give my second-oldest brother a sloppy smile and say "What, gonna beat me up, Toddy?" I spread my arms wide. "Take a fucking shot, brother mine. You wanna kick my ass so bad, go ahead." I wait a few seconds, and then say, "Yeah, that's what I thought. I can't deal with this shit tonight, rip me a new one tomorrow, but tonight's already been shitty enough, thanks." And oh, no, I can feel the gash on my arm dripping, feel a drop of blood roll off my fingertip, and I wince just the tiniest bit, try and twist out of Todd's grip. "Just not fucking tonight." I reiterate, tired and guilty and just generally done and Please let go I can't do this right now don't make me. Because I thought this was gonna be a good thing when it got started, thought it was necessary, and more importantly, fun, but I'm gradually realizing I'm in over my fucking head, and this is still something I want, need, to do, but I'm not losing friends to this. And Todd still won't let go of my fucking shirt. Yeah yeah you're askin' for it. With every breath that you breathe in, Just breathe it in. Yeah yeah well you're just a mess. You do all this big talking. So now let's see you walking.

[Deleted]

[bg=2c2f24][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,500,true][atrb=style,width: 500px; -moz-border-radius-bottomleft: 10px; border-radius-bottomleft: 10px; -moz-border-radius-bottomright: 10px; border-radius-bottomright: 10px; opacity: 1;] holy ghost, when do you come out to play? 'cause if the lord is gonna find me, he'd better start looking today so i can rise with the river, we all float before we sink so pray for satellites, pray for courtesy and pray that it can climb mountains to me Damien squirms ineffectually against my grip as Ambrose clucks about like the mother hen he is, and for the briefest moment I am so fed up with everything in this stupid world that I wish I could shut it all off. It must be easy to be Mom, seeing everything through glazed eyes and a carefully-dosed sense of apathy. It's what everyone expects for us, anyway, for us three fatherless boys with no direction and no future. The only thing stopping me from becoming a statistic is my stubborn belief that we're all better than that. For now, at least, we're better than that. "What, gonna beat me up, Toddy? Take a fucking shot, brother mine. You wanna kick my ass so bad, go ahead." My eyes narrow dangerously, the grip on Damien's shirt tightening until my knuckles go white. I could do it. He's closer to my height than Ambrose is, but he's spindly, all lanky limbs and narrow structure. I've been in enough street fights to know that the sturdier build gets the physical advantage every time. I could snap my baby brother like a twig if I had half a mind to, but the trouble is that I don't. Being able to kick someone's ass and taking pleasure in doing it are two entirely different things, and despite my hair-trigger temper I've never really had all that much of a violent disposition. I learned early on how to throw a punch and how to knock someone on their ass if they were giving me trouble, but when you grow up on these streets that's practically the same as learning to walk. Dad smacked the three of us and Mom around enough before he walked out, and that was what made me decide, made me by-damn-Ripred-swear that if and when I have kids I'll never lay a finger on them in anger. Damien's being a little shit right now, but that's practically a non-issue simply because he's been a little shit ever since he came out of the womb. Yeah, I could pop him in the mouth, but it wouldn't make him shut up, certainly wouldn't take away the angry-sad something that flares up behind his eyes in the guttering light over our front door. "Yeah, that's what I thought. I can't deal with this shit tonight, rip me a new one tomorrow, but tonight's already been shitty enough, thanks. Just not fucking tonight." "Then when?" I scoff, an exasperated huff of air exploding between clenched teeth as I let go of his shirt and shove at him noncommittally, no real force behind the action. All the force is smearing underneath my skin, roaring in my bones and yeah, okay, maybe I do want to beat all the stupid out of him. Just once. I've heard that suppressed anger issues are a real bitch, but I think I'm managing just fine. Damien's always been the snarky one, just like how Ambrose has always been the unfailingly proper one. Me? I guess my title is the only one who doesn't have his head up his ass. Maybe I'm a little blunt, maybe I'm brutally honest, but no one can ever say that I don't know what I'm talking about any time I deem it necessary to open my mouth. There are days when I wish I could be something other than myself, though, wish I could have Damien's snappy comebacks or Ambrose's cool composure or maybe something else altogether. (For some stupid reason, I think of Kendra. She's everything all rolled up into one package of blue eyes and pretty hands, witty and gorgeous and funny and feisty and talented and about ten thousand miles out of my league. The Friend Zone blows hard, but it's a better gig than nonexistence.) "When, Damien? You want us to wait until next week? How about a month from now? Oh, wait, or how about when you get sent home in a fucking body bag?" I seethe, flexing my fingers over and over so they don't ball into fists. All the noise would have woken Mom if she were sober, so my best guess is that she's upstairs passed out. Great. My duties tonight besides making sure my little brother doesn't get shanked in an alley now include checking on my mother to ensure that she doesn't drown in her own puke. That's how we work. Ambrose calls the shots. I actually do the things to keep our lives afloat. Damien… well, Damien's got a knack for trouble. Trouble is his business. That's beyond clear enough. "Those friends of yours? They're punks. No real friends would get you into that kind of shit, man. You see me or Ambrose hanging out with people like that?" Okay, so I've been known to hang out with Rocciano from time to time, and it's a universally accepted fact that he'll be in jail for drug-running before he hits thirty, but we're not bosom buddies by any means. In all reality, I'm too damn busy for a social group. The extent of my network of friends is… Kendra. Not sure if that's perfect or just really, really sad. Damien's not like that, though. He's got that signature brand of cocky charisma that draws all the wrong people to him like a magnet, one flippant smirk enough to pull in the type of shady assholes that will drag him out at all hours of the night, get him hurt - "Holy hell, what'd you do?" In the dim light and my fading rage, it takes a moment for me to notice the state of his arm, ragged and red with blood pooling in the limp cradle of his palm. Despite the gruff sort of carry-on attitude that I've carefully ingrained into myself over the years, a white-hot spike of worry rockets down my spine. "Dammit, Damien, this is what I'm talking about. Ambrose, go raid the medicine cabinet. Gauze, peroxide, band-aids, whatever we got." I feel about a million years old as I drag him over to the couch, getting a better look at the wound from the old lamp on the end table. This is the order of things, has been ever since Dad left. Ambrose takes care of me when things get to be too much, and it's all the both of us can do to grab onto Damien's coattails and hang on for dear life, trying to keep him from hurtling over a cliff. Used to be I'd patch him up after he fell off his bike. Now I'm dressing knife wounds and wondering vaguely when everything went to hell in a hand basket. "Meh, it's not deep. You'll live." But for how much longer? Damien's been heading for the brink since the day he was born, and more and more lately the chilling question has become not can we save him? but rather how much longer can we hold him back? i say goodbye to the canyon, i will set sail to the streets where i don't care to be forgiven i want to be forgotten i don't care to be forgiven when lord, i only want to be forgotten

[charade]

[bg=302646][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,500,true][atrb=style,width: 500px; -moz-border-radius-bottomleft: 10px; border-radius-bottomleft: 10px; -moz-border-radius-bottomright: 10px; border-radius-bottomright: 10px; opacity: 1;] All the rowboats in the paintings, they keep trying to row away And the captain's worried faces stay contorted and staring at the waves They'll keep hanging in their gold frames for forever, forever and a day All the rowboats in the oil paintings, they keep trying to row away "Todd is correct. Those delinquents you conspire with are the excrement stain of the proverbial underwear of society. are you trying to wind up in the detention center? Or in a coffin?" The dark liquid that splashed on the ground made Ambrose's eyes bulge, but Todd continued on his rant, which while making a lot of sense was a little ill-timed considering the blood that was coming out of Damien. "Er, Todd I think..."Todd continued to berate their little brother while Ambrose tried to lift a finger to shush him an d draw attention to the wound, letting out little grunts of dismay as Todd wasn't listening. Eventually, he did notice and asked for bandages. Muttering under his breath that that was what he had been trying to call Todd's attention to, he nodded and hurried towards the bathroom after Todd requested help. This is how it has been for the three of them since Ambrose had had to step into their absent father's shoes. He ruled the roost but Todd was his right hand man. Damien on the other hand was more likely to set fire to the house than to try and quell the flames. And Ambrose loved them both for it. None of them were perfect but they tried, oh how they tried to find their way into the world without letting it eat them up and spit them out. Ambrose always figured that that was what the world had done to his parents, leaving no trace of one and leaving the other a mockery. He told himself that he would never let that happen to him, or his brothers; that the three of them were going to grow up together and start families, alternating between houses for dinner and setting up playdates with each others kids. That's all the three of them really needed right? A nice sweet girl to keep them on course and some kids to teach them responsibility. Why, he could almost picture it. He'd have a boy and a girl for certain and name them Mordecai and Cora and they'd love games of skill and books. Todd would probably have a son that was the spitting image of him, and the two of them would play catch while Ambrose himself would be mixing a pitcher of lemonade, the lemons for it having been given from Damien's little girl; just like her father, the origin of the lemons might be questionable, but of course it as best not to ask. He caught sight of his face in the bathroom mirror as he grabbed the last of the gauze. So much worry had given his face a harrowed look. Could his brother's ever really understand what went on in his head? Ambrose hurried back to the couch with his items and imediately bent at Damien's side. "Landsakes, we are the only family we have left Damien. You can't go running off half-cocked all the time."Soaking the gauze in peroxide, he dabbed at the wounds gingerly whilst shaking his head. "Isn't enough that mother is nothing but a shell of her former self? That we are already struggling to makes ends meet from my meager paycheck?" Cutting some tape with his teeth, he used the adhesive to hold the gauze in place before grabbing some more. "It doesn't appear to be all that deep, but it covers a good portion of your arm. Who did this?"Ambrose raised an eyebrow and searched his younger brother's face. "If you keep this up, one day I won't be able to put a bandage on it Damien. I won't be able to fix it and I... I don't want to bury anyone in my family, especially one that hasn't had a chance to live a full life." First there's lights out, then there's lock up Masterpieces serving maximum sentences It's their own fault for being timeless There's a price to pay, and a consequence

[Ally is tentatively back]

[bg=FAFFD7][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,520,true][atrb=style,width: 520px;] DAMIEN TYSON DEMPSEY // 16

[bg=FAFFD7][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,520,true][atrb=style,width: 520px; padding: 10px; border:10px solid #EF5D02;] One more, more or less then we're done. Can't be sure if we had fun. Sweet sixteen been and gone. Eighteen next year then we're done. My blood's practically fucking boiling, the urge to honestly punch something singing through my veins (Well, my useless punk friends actually pay enough attention to know that I'm not being lead anywhere, so already one-upped everyone I share genes with.) when Ambrose notices the blood dripping on the floor, and I can't help a wince, so much for taking care of myself, because this has always been how we work, my brothers worry over me and I try and get out from under where they're hovering with their good intentions. (I don't think they realize that that concern's not so much a warm blanket at the end of a bad day, more a pillow shoved over my face and no matter how much I try to get away, they just press it tighter until I'm suffocating.) The transition on Todd's face from anger to worry takes about a third of a second, and I wince again, because I'd kind of rather everyone be pissed off at me- I don't feel like an asshole for shouting back. "I'm fine, honestly..." I grumble, stumbling over my own feet as I'm steered to the couch. I sit down heavily, trying to pretend like I'm not wiped out, but honestly I want absolutely nothing more than to take a nap and then head down to the hospital. Todd calms down a little, seeing that I'm not in immediate danger of amputation. (Which I could have told him, but nobody believes a word out of my mouth.) I can't help but remark, "Yeah, I know, I was going to handle it myself, but I got a little sidetracked." And then Ambrose bustles in, making me feel about three inches tall with his mini-rant, the constant repetitive speech about how I'm going to get myself killed and "Don't we all have enough to deal with?"

[/i] (He doesn't even have to say any of it out loud anymore it's all in my head on loop but I can't stop because if I do life's gonna eat me alive.) and I just want to scream because they don't get it, and don't even try. And then he asks exactly the question I don't want to answer.

"I don't know who the guy was, to be honest." I mumble, closing my eyes and pinching the bridge of my nose. (I'm ignoring his comment about not being able to patch me up someday, because what could I say? "Yes, it's a generally approved inevitability that I'm not going to see twenty-five"? I've never been anything but terminal, but my brothers never got that memo.) "I could probably find out- he might still be there, given as his face had a rather unpleasant encounter with some bricks. We didn't bother to check, priorities and all that."

Speaking of. I pull my arm away from Ambrose, straightening. "I should head out, I need to make sure..." I swallow hard around the sudden lump in my throat. "Need to check with the hospital." I decide on finally, ignoring the little voice in the back of my head, Need to make sure he's okay? Still alive? Need to make sure you didn't cause a death tonight? And I don't want to think about that, don't want to even consider the possibility.

(The fact of the matter is that there're only five people in the world I actually trust and give a damn about, and one unfortunate truth I've realized about myself is that when I care about someone I have this bad habit of letting them become this thread woven all through the fabric of my life and I can't get them out without the whole thing crumpling like tissue paper.)

(It's just that I don't think that what I have to do to stay sane should be allowed to have consequences that'll drive me off the edge.)

"Yeah, one of my punk friends -y'know, the ones who don't give two shits about me?- got himself hurt because I wasn't watching my own back. Probably just guilt for dragging me into this- oh, wait, it was the other way around." And, yeah, I'm being uncharitable, but it's either be pissed off or hide in my room and try to ignore how much I hate people getting hurt on my account. I'm not fucking worth it. I swallow again, take a deep breath. "I just... I need to check, okay?" I shake my head, and, not waiting for an answer, I get up and start heading towards the door.[/color]

Yeah they say, these days are the best we got.
What a tragic thought.
And I try, and I try, not to waste this time.
But it just flies by, the more I try.

[/size][/td][/tr][/table]


[/center]