Tweak Rat

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
A tweaker, her boyfriend, a witness, a search for closure... or something to that effect.

Submitted: February 09, 2012

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Submitted: February 09, 2012



I've been thinking about the night Samantha and her boyfriend broke in.


At around 7pm he fell through the window trying to get it open. He never seemed very much at home in his own body. He probably pulled so hard on the locked window frame that his hands slipped up and hit him in the face. He was on an extension ladder 2 stories up so he must have panicked when he nearly fell backward and threw himself forward to compensate. At any rate, the house is old and the glass is all single pane so he probably could have given it a gentle push but instead he fell through it, like a jackass. He's lucky he didn't get cut. Seriously, not a scratch on him anywhere. Lucky.


Sam yelled up at him, “Yer makin' too much noise, dipshit!”


“Hey! Shut the fuck up, huh?” He retorted cleverly from the floor.


Her greedy, grinning, junkie tweaker face was visible not 2 minutes after. With the moon reflecting her extreme paleness, she looked a little like a Cheshire cat, or at least one that had been living on the streets for a few months and may or may not have had some form of back-alley dentistry in its life. And that dentist may or may not have been an improvisational street performer that hadn't had the good sense to break character when things got real... and that may be a different story entirely.


She licked her upper lip as she maneuvered from the ladder to the window to the floor of the upstairs study. She always licked her upper lip when she was trying to concentrate. It was something that she did completely unconsciously as was so revealed in 10th grade Algebra when someone asked her about it. She went around covering her mouth most of the day for about a month until she forgot about it. Everyone felt too awkward to bring it up again... ever. She was somewhere around 24 now and all that was a hard 7 years behind her.


She pulled her faded concert t-shirt back down to cover her stomach, pulled on the legs of her uneven homemade cut-off jeans, and adjusted her breasts for some reason. After a quick once over scratching every odd place she could reach from an extremely awkward standing position, she finally rested her right hand, with its eternally twitching fingers on her right hip and settled. Then she picked out a wedgie. Then she chewed on a nail. Then she twirled her hair.


Meth is an ugly hobby. Interesting from an anthropological point of view, but ugly.


Her boyfriend, in this time, had gotten up and not at all bothered to re-situate his ripped denim ensemble or the Ratt shirt beneath it. Glass from his accident still stuck to him even as he searched absent-mindedly around the room for whatever he might have thought he was looking for. Neither of them appeared to have any kind of flashlight and made no attempt to find a light switch but, instead, opted to fumble around well outside of the moonlight projected into the room from the window. It was light enough to see but not very well. What would they have done if the moon hadn't been full? Had they planned this in accordance with the moon? It didn't seem like planning had been involved at all. Regardless, there was a great deal of fumbling around in drawers and on shelves which resulted in the indiscriminate tossing about of their contents. This continued for at least fifteen minutes until one of them had struck gold, or something.


“Sam, I found it!” her boyfriend had whispered loudly. She fell over toward him from across the room in a leaping flail fail, scream-whispering some indiscernible garbled tweak-talk. Without stopping the momentum of the fall in an almost drunken kung-fu ballet of exaggerated movement she righted herself and grabbed the item from his hands. Satiated, she could concern herself no more with trivial things like self preservation and chose not to form any kind of landing strategy for her grabbing dive resulting in a face plant that, if Sam had been affected by it, she didn't show. Instead, throughout the entire avant-garde performance incident she uttered only a Gollum-esque quasi-shriek of, “Give!” until landing, face down, in awe of the coveted object.


There once was a little girl who lost her favorite doll, her stuffed horse, Bobby. She searched for hours until all she could do was lay on her bedroom floor and cry in overwhelming despair. Where could he have gone? Why would someone have taken him? He was lost and alone and scared and cold with no one to hold him ever again, forever. It was in the midst of that deepest hopeless longing that she spotted Bobby from her new vantage point on the floor. He had fallen between her bed and the wall and had been waiting there patiently for her the whole time. That little girl had given angels their wings with her smile when she saw him there, and filled the room with a joy so vibrant it could be seen on the air by the naked eye. And as Samantha stared at the slim, square figure she so fervently nicked from her beau gleaming in the moonlight, for a fraction of a fleeting moment, she was that little girl all over again.


She giggled like Caesar Romero's Joker and flew out the window as only a spider made of bags of bones that had been poorly taped together could. Her boyfriend, satisfied at his success but clearly confused, followed slowly behind her, catching his foot on the ladder on his way out. His body cracked against the house once before hitting the ground loud and dull.


It would forever remain a mystery how a copy of “Sports” by Huey Lewis and The News had gotten into the house, or why Sam had wanted it. No one ever remembered owning one or knowing anyone that did, at least on CD, nor had they recalled it ever being a topic of conversation with or without her in the room. As I stood there practically inches away and in plain sight, glass of milk in hand, I couldn't help but admire the opera in that final, innocent moment. Incidentally, that would be the last anyone would ever see of either of those two. The differing theories would be discussed for years afterward to no real satisfactory conclusion. Perhaps it had been part of some deranged scavenger hunt on their way out of town. Or perhaps they had brought it with them and had only just discovered it as they were going through our things.


Some mysteries are best left forever unsolved.

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