Mad World

2008-02-26T07:15:31Z

(Note: Unlocked so certain people can read)

All around me are familiar faces
Worn out places, worn out faces
Bright and early for their daily races
Going nowhere, going nowhere
Their tears are filling up their glasses
No expression, no expression
Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow
No tomorrow, no tomorrow

There were three cigarettes and half a bottle of scotch left when she walked in.

“Walked” wasn’t quite the right word—women never walked anywhere in their lives—sauntered, would have been a better one, had he not been too deeply buried in the dregs of a half-regretted past to notice. She could have been anyone, wreathed in the haze of nicotine smoke. But not just anyone pulled up a chair like she owned the place, folded up their perfect hands and stared at you as if you were the one gaily strolling over to their little patch of calendar induced-angst, and invited yourself to sit in. And not just anyone turned the heads of hard-nosed soldiers in a dive bar like this. There were even a couple paused in the midst of their pool game, cigars half dangling out of their mouths at the very thought that someone lacking male genitalia would dare even peek their head into the beer-sodden sanctum of those bearing testosterone.

He wasn’t going to ask what she was doing here. He’d seen her here and there around hospital tents. Far as he knew, far as any of their conversations had told him, she was a nurse—a damn fine one—one of their CMO’s personal staff. One of the guys probably sent her in, having seen his sorry state. He’d punch the bastard tomorrow. Or next week.

“Thought that was the old truck I saw out there,” she said, leaning in to pluck the glass out of his hands. “Hard to miss those dents.”

He only grunted, not bothering to look up from his diligent study of the bottle’s label. Aside from her face, which he’d really rather not take up contemplation of, it was the most interesting thing in the entire bar, save the smattering of old peanut shells on the table.

“You’re priceless, really,” she informed him, draining the last of the scotch from the glass. “How can you drink… whatever the blue fuck this shit is?”

“It’s good scotch,” he managed, trying to defend his purchase. But they both knew it could have been straight out of a backyard still. He’d never been one for name brands. One night on assignment down south had proved that much. “The hell’re you doing out here? Ass-end of nowhere.”

She snorted, flicking dark hair out of her eyes. “Docs are in high demand, what with units like yours getting the shit shot out of them on a daily basis.” The bottle left the table, liquid splashing into the glass. Her eyes were only on the drink, never truly meeting his, though the sly grin didn’t leave her face. “Brass got a call the enemy was moving out here. And you know…”

“Where they go, squads get blown to bits,” he finished, waving the butt of his latest cigarette vaguely in the air. It was supposed to illustrate a point, but for the life of him, he couldn’t quite recall what that point was. Instead, he let himself look at her, a lingering glance running across hands, joints, miraculously unmarred flesh. It was good to see, for a change, instead of war-mangled bodies clinging barely to life.

“How’s the back?” he asked, lamely, fishing around for something coherent to say to her. If only she’d give the glass back. He’d paid for the booze, he was damn well going to drink it.

She shrugged, ladylike, and the motion set her dark, utilitarian clothing to rustling. Odd that he could hear it over the din of the bar. He cocked an eyebrow at the bottle, suddenly suspicious of just what exactly he’d been downing for the past few hours. The glass scraped on the table, interrupting him and meeting his seeking fingers, already filled. “Fine,” she was saying. “Never better. Looks like shit though.” One perfect brow arched, mimicking his expression. “Kind of like you.”

“Whatever.” The cigarette was gone. He lit up another, drawing in deep the calming breath of heady smoke. Already, his hands had steadied, even with the booze flowing through his system, a pleasant, buoying numbness.

Again, she was talking, again he wasn’t paying attention. When he blinked, blearily, hard, at her, she sighed, then said, “How’re the ribs?”

It took him a minute to realize she had been talking about his. She was distracting him, leaning her head on her hand like that, like they were alone, talking in private, not here, not in this bar. And damn it if her knee weren’t bumping his. “Oh,” he muttered. Before answering, he flicked ash across the table, watching it skip and dance on a peanut shell, until it disappeared over the edge. “Same. Sore as always. Pop like a fucking BB-gun. You know the CMO. Won’t do a damn thing about it, just has me pop a pill so I’m not bitching at him…”

If he said anything else, it was lost to the fog. For one brief, lucid moment, he had a flash of pity for his bunkmate. Half a bottle went to his head faster than he’d thought, not to mention the painkillers in his system…

She had, apparently, reached the same conclusion. None too gently, the glass was removed from his tanned, calloused hand, disappearing into her smooth, pale one. “I’ll tell him to go easy on you,” she muttered, half to herself. “Not that you don’t deserve getting shit, acting like you are.”

In mute defense of himself, he pointed at the half-empty bottle on the table, glaring down the length of his finger at it.

“God, I don’t know what to do with you sometimes,” she said, sitting back in her chair with a sigh. He didn’t need to look up. The frustration was in her voice, and almost tangible around her. “So you lost a couple today, tough shit. No reason to run off and get yourself shitfaced when there’s more incoming tomorrow.”

“It ain’t the that,” he managed, after being on the receiving end of her dirty look. Better than one of the guns he was sure she had on her. No one sat that cockeyed without packing something in their belt. “It’s the day.”

“The hell are you on about…?”

He kept his eyes on the table. Already, he’d seen the dingy calendar, strung up behind the bar like some pin-up prisoner. It was a miracle it was even the right year, let alone month. One look had been enough. His day was already in the gutter, thanks to a new load of casualties. But the leering, bikini-clad blonde had drawn his attention long enough to notice the date, and send the day straight from the gutter to the trash heap, unsalvageable and stinking.

A curse. A decidedly unladylike one at that. He looked up, wondering who had dared to intrude on their little table, and her hand clasped his wrist. It was warmer than he’d expected. Then again, he’d honestly expected everyone and anything to feel like stone-cold clay today. “I forgot,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. Between his lips, the cigarette flared up, pulling in deep draughts of smoke. It was like a sigh, the inevitable exhalation that followed. “Nothing doin’,” he answered. “’Cept to drown our collective sorrow. All hail the amber gal of oblivion.”

“That’s an absinthe toast, you idiot.”

“Whatever.”

Another silence followed, heavy with liquor and cigarettes and thoughts best left unsaid to the dingy air. The bar activities continued unabated, life going by without notice of the little island of self-pity caught up in the middle. Televisions blared the latest news of the war, of the death tolls, of which cities were under siege, of who would no longer be going back home for holidays. Hardly anyone was paying attention. They were too wrapped up in their pool games, in their own ladies of oblivion. Maybe it was for the best.

“Her parents blame me, y’know,” he said suddenly. “Blame me for making her run off. Like I’m the one that made her go. Wasn’t me. Y’know? She never wanted me to fight. Wanted me to be a doctor. Couldn’t afford that, damn it. I had to join.”

He stopped, briefly, gathering scattered thoughts and passing a hand across his face, calluses catching on three days’ worth of dark stubble. She’d heard this story before—he thought she had. Even so, she made no move to interrupt him. Strange that saying all that didn’t hurt. It had to be the alcohol. He steadied his hands around the glass. Hard to tell if they were shaking from intoxication, or from memory.

“All she leaves is a fucking note. A note. Doesn’t call, doesn’t tell me shit. Told me she warned me about the war. How she’d still be there, ‘cept that I was off playing little tin soldier and blowing up poor innocent enemy units. All my fucking fault…”

There wasn’t anything else he had left. It had all come out, mixing on the table with the ash and the peanut shells. The bottle was empty, and he was numbed. Her face was blank, drawn inward, thinking. People were leaving. Men drifted out in pairs, trios, but no one alone. The sound of slamming car doors echoed from outside, replaced quickly by the growl and whine of engines. They were alone, save the bartender, before she spoke again. Her voice was low, smoky as the air, only for him.

“Who do you blame, Taylor?”

His eyes remained stuck to the empty glass. Not even when the overhead lights began to flicker off, the signal for closing, did he look up. The bartender approached, a huge presence on his peripheral vision. More words were exchanged, but he didn’t hear them. Tracing the rim of the glass was far too important to listen to trivial things like that. Her hands slipped around his shoulders, hauling him to feet that suddenly no longer seemed to be his. He let himself be marched out of the bar. Her hands, her body, pressed tight against him, a support and nothing more.

Outside, the night was no less stale, with exhaust choking the dark air. A single streetlamp painted the exterior in sick orange. It made him nauseous to look at. She was still talking—the sober grumbling at the drunk, the words washing over the pair in a familiar, comforting litany. Even their steps fell in line with the rise and fall of that voice. His eyes closed.

“It’s a very… very… mad world,” he mumbled, throwing his head back to the silent sky.

[Pre-Angel Jack. Posted mostly because I'm really proud of those two opening paragraphs.]

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Mad World