Up and Over

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Part two of 'King of the Carrot Flowers'

Submitted: March 12, 2008

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Submitted: March 12, 2008



“You’re so life-like now, honey.”

I say this, because she’s just about comatose. She looks pale, empty, even ghostly, and her eyes are glazed, even as she turns, ever so slowly to look at me. She still manages to glare though, even in this state, and tries hard to put together a proper sentence.

“You know... Jay, uh... Jamie......” she begins.

“Mark.” I say, helpfully.

“Mark...You can... b....uh... Yeah, you know that?”

I’m pretty sure she meant to call me an asshole, so I just leave it.

She really does look dead though. Not like, swollen or anything, just a kind of listlessness to her, her whole body limp and physically dejected or something. She’s on Valium and Lithium, like she has been since we came to L.A., like everyone here seems to be.

Before we came here, our friend, who owns this house, warned us not to; “L.A. will suck the life out of you.” He said.

Looking over at Lucy, I can see what he meant. The sun’s great though, can’t get enough of those wonderful rays, right?

I watch her as she dozes, tranquilised, half expecting flies to land on her, but it’s too hot for flies anyway, and I think about going for a swim. I stand and look out at the pool, but it’s so hot out there, and the water is dirty because the pool boy hasn’t been for over a week. I wonder if he’s been murdered or something.

Bored, I sit on the bed next to Lucy and flip through a Playboy. The centrefold is nice, and she’s posing tastefully, and has this really nice pubic hair and even though I only read it for the articles I get hard, and beat off for a bit, but I get bored long before I get close to coming, and I pull up my pants and go to the kitchen and get a Corona.

I catch a glimpse of myself in a floor to ceiling mirror in the hall, and stop and admire my abs, posing in just my baggy pants. I pick my Ray-Bans off the side and put them on, even though it’s kind of dark in the hall, and I flex my pecs and then I remember the time I caught Lucy’s dad doing the same, and I walk off, disgusted with myself.

The fridge is empty but for a couple of beers, and I don’t think we have any money left, either. I’ll probably have to get a job soon, but that might be a problem ‘cause my Green Card expired about a month ago. I down the Corona unhappily, and go back to check on Lucy. She’s unconscious, I think, but she’s crying, which I don’t get, and I wipe the tears away, bend and kiss her cheek, and her eyelids flutter and she wakes, flashing a brief smile with her eyes as well as her mouth.

Even with the sun out here, she’s so pale, and her blonde hair lies about her shoulders tiredly, but she’s still so beautiful, and I want to fuck her, so whilst she’s awake I think I might as well, and I pull up her skirt as I part her legs, but she’s bleeding again.

I’m worried about these heavy periods she keeps having, really irregular too, but she says it’s nothing I need to concern myself with, and she won’t see a doctor.

I make a mental note to crumble an iron supplement pill on her food tonight, as I carry her to the bathroom, passed out again and sit her carefully in the shower, turning it on cold, and leaving her.

I play Xbox for a while, having nothing else to do, and a couple of hours later, Lucy emerges; cleaned and dressed and sober. Her eyes look brighter than I’ve seen them in a long time, but then she shields them and they must be really sensitive or something because she puts on my Ray Bans before she comes and sits next to me, resting her head on my shoulder.

I switch off the console and turn and kiss her on the top of her head, putting my arms around her.

“You need to stop taking those drugs, honey.” I say, and she ignores me, and picks up the remote and turns on the TV and there’s a fashion show on, and she sighs heavily and looks at me and sings, “The art of occult will prevail, in Vanity. Not God. Not Love.”

“What’s that from?” I ask, but she just turns away, so I say, “It’s kind of deep right? Really fitting.”

I turn the TV off again and for a while we sit in silence, just like we often do, but it never seems uncomfortable, even though we’re usually pissed off at each other. Lucy breaks the silence.

“I don’t like girls.” She says, and I look at her in surprise as she continues.

“I don’t like babies. I don’t like bitchiness. I don’t like breasts. I don’t like long hair. I don’t like curves. I don’t like fragility. I don’t like periods and PMS. I don’t like high pitched voices. I don’t like vaginas.”

She begins to cry, and I honestly don’t know what to say to such an outburst. I hug her tighter, and she cries harder.

“I hate women.” She cries, between sobs, and then “And men.”

Gradually she calms, and I say,

“You like yourself though, right, Lucy?” I know the answer, and she doesn’t dignify it with a response, but after a while, she turns to me and says,

“Mark?” She remembered my name. “You know I love you, right?”

Her dad’s legacy stains her wrists, and that’s the first time she’s ever said it to me, and I look at her, completely serious, totally straight faced, and I take her hand in mine. “I love you too, honey.” I say, and the strange thing is, I mean it.

© Copyright 2018 Sam Halfpenny. All rights reserved.

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