Paraphernalia and memorabilia
Apr. 2nd, 2013 09:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
talonkarrdeThe Mercedes waits outside, idling quietly as the man enters the apartment complex.
He heads for the stairs, taking them two at a time. The apartment he's looking for is three flights up, and by the time he gets to the top, his suit jacket is slightly dirty from an errant encounter with the dusty bannister, but he doesn't seem to care, singlemindedly focused on his goal.
When he gets to the doorway, though, he hesitates for the first time since leaving his car. Dull letters tell him that this is apartment 305. He looks around and takes a deep breath, remmebering when the paint wasn't faded and cracked, when there used to be a fisher-price trike in the corner over there, when the door was almost always open and visitors always welcome.
He closes his eyes for a moment and almost smells the scent of dinner cooking, almost hears loud voices calling the kids in, almost sees his mama poking her head out the doorway, beckoning towards him.
A dull clang comes from downstairs, breaking his reverie, and his eyes snap open, hand automatically going into his suit for the bulge that rests comfortably under his arm.
Nothing else sounds, though, and he dismisses it after a moment, stepping forward into the apartment itself.
It's seen better days, clearly, and the disrepair that was evident outside is also present here. The main difference is that there's more inside, furniture and pictures and evidence that people once lived here and called it their home — and then, of course, left.
His eyes sweep over the living room, looking over the overstuffed couch that is now missing several cushions and has a thick layer of dust on it. He sees the cut in the fabric on one of the arms, and remembers the argument it came from, the knife that was flicked out and slammed down.
There used to be a TV, too, but it's long gone, stolen by looters probably as soon as they moved out, he figures. The old VCR is still there, apparently worthless even to the thieves, and he squats down in front of the TV stand, hand reaching out past the VCR. Were there still the tapes, he wonders, and indeed finds them, shoved against the wall. He takes them out one at a time, flipping them over and reading the names again, half by memory and half by sight.
First Bike Ride
Twelfth Birthday
High School Graduation
His thumb rubs over the labels slowly, clearing the dust from them, and then he sets them back down, rising to his feet and hearing his knees crack. He steps through the living room, and glances into the kitchen where cabinets gape, most missing their doors, and a shattered glass pipe lies on the counter. Someone tried to piece it back together, it seems, and even managed to find most of the pieces.
He remembers the fight, the words and blows and most of all, momma throwing that pipe across the room, a clean arc as it spins and glitters in the light and then smashes against the kitchen wall.
He remembers the first puff he ever took from it, his girlfriend presenting it to him with a flourish and a smile. His fingers brush over the glass shards one more time before he shakes his head and moves on, towards the bedroom.
This is the reason that he's come, and his body tenses even though he knows that there's no one there. There can't be. But the memories are strong, and even before he rounds the corner, he already smells the smoke, hears the voices of his friends, feels the euphoria.
And then he steps through the doorway.
The spray of blood against the wall is still present, now a very dull brown, but unmistakably still a product of violence. The window has been broken and the floor in front of it is mouldy, but the room has been otherwise untouched, the blood acting as a ward against any vagrants or pickpockets.
He hears the floorboards creak as he takes a step into the room, as he flashes back to that night, Jackson backing up, the wild look in his eyes, the muzzle flare, the shock, the puppet with its strings cut.
And the spray of blood, a splash of crimson against a white canvas.
He takes another step, to the dresser, and slowly slides it open, finding the picture of the four of them at their graduation, jaunty caps and hi-tops and the poses that they imitated from the movies. Fake gang signs, like they owned the world. And they did, for a while, until it all crashed down around them.
Until he gave them up for the world.
He rubs the picture off with his sleeve, looking at the four of them and wondering what the fuck happened.
And then he hears a footstep, and his gun is out and pointed at the doorway, his finger on the trigger, ready to fire — only to falter as he sees who it is, as he sees another barrel pointed squarely at him.
"Hi, Christian," the other man calls out, without smiling. "Wond'rin when you were gonna come back and visit, now you're so high and mighty."
"John," he whispers, looking back down at the photo, and then back up. The resemblance is obvious, even with ten years of jail weathering the face in front of him.
"Come back to gloat? To celebrate stabbing us in the back, turning us in?" John asks, shifting slightly.
"No," he says. "I came back to find a picture of us, to see how it all went through. I'm through with it, everything, and I just wanted to come back to where it started."
"This aint where it started, Christian. This is where it ended. Where you ended it." John says angrily.
"I'm sorry," Christian says, and he means every word, though he knows it won't make a difference. "I'm sorry, but I had no choice, and I—"
Christian pauses, and then he lowers his gun, slowly. "I'm here to make it right."
"Only one way to do that." John smiles, finally, and slides the hammer back with a click.
---
A/N: Despite being a neutral word, Paraphernalia is in my experience almost always associated with drugs. Mix in some memories, and that's essentially the soul of this piece. I thought about doing it in first person, but it ended up feeling like third-person was more appropriate for this: it's meant to be a tv-series like finale episode of sorts, where the protagonist heads back to his roots and reflects on what has changed. I wanted to not expose his internal monologue/thoughts and instead only rely on what he does and what he sees to convey the atmosphere. Strongest influence is probably from the Wire (which I sadly haven't seen, yet, and so really it's more like what I know of the Wire), and L&O:SVU: the protagonist, in my mind, is in Ice-T's image.
He heads for the stairs, taking them two at a time. The apartment he's looking for is three flights up, and by the time he gets to the top, his suit jacket is slightly dirty from an errant encounter with the dusty bannister, but he doesn't seem to care, singlemindedly focused on his goal.
When he gets to the doorway, though, he hesitates for the first time since leaving his car. Dull letters tell him that this is apartment 305. He looks around and takes a deep breath, remmebering when the paint wasn't faded and cracked, when there used to be a fisher-price trike in the corner over there, when the door was almost always open and visitors always welcome.
He closes his eyes for a moment and almost smells the scent of dinner cooking, almost hears loud voices calling the kids in, almost sees his mama poking her head out the doorway, beckoning towards him.
A dull clang comes from downstairs, breaking his reverie, and his eyes snap open, hand automatically going into his suit for the bulge that rests comfortably under his arm.
Nothing else sounds, though, and he dismisses it after a moment, stepping forward into the apartment itself.
It's seen better days, clearly, and the disrepair that was evident outside is also present here. The main difference is that there's more inside, furniture and pictures and evidence that people once lived here and called it their home — and then, of course, left.
His eyes sweep over the living room, looking over the overstuffed couch that is now missing several cushions and has a thick layer of dust on it. He sees the cut in the fabric on one of the arms, and remembers the argument it came from, the knife that was flicked out and slammed down.
There used to be a TV, too, but it's long gone, stolen by looters probably as soon as they moved out, he figures. The old VCR is still there, apparently worthless even to the thieves, and he squats down in front of the TV stand, hand reaching out past the VCR. Were there still the tapes, he wonders, and indeed finds them, shoved against the wall. He takes them out one at a time, flipping them over and reading the names again, half by memory and half by sight.
First Bike Ride
Twelfth Birthday
High School Graduation
His thumb rubs over the labels slowly, clearing the dust from them, and then he sets them back down, rising to his feet and hearing his knees crack. He steps through the living room, and glances into the kitchen where cabinets gape, most missing their doors, and a shattered glass pipe lies on the counter. Someone tried to piece it back together, it seems, and even managed to find most of the pieces.
He remembers the fight, the words and blows and most of all, momma throwing that pipe across the room, a clean arc as it spins and glitters in the light and then smashes against the kitchen wall.
He remembers the first puff he ever took from it, his girlfriend presenting it to him with a flourish and a smile. His fingers brush over the glass shards one more time before he shakes his head and moves on, towards the bedroom.
This is the reason that he's come, and his body tenses even though he knows that there's no one there. There can't be. But the memories are strong, and even before he rounds the corner, he already smells the smoke, hears the voices of his friends, feels the euphoria.
And then he steps through the doorway.
The spray of blood against the wall is still present, now a very dull brown, but unmistakably still a product of violence. The window has been broken and the floor in front of it is mouldy, but the room has been otherwise untouched, the blood acting as a ward against any vagrants or pickpockets.
He hears the floorboards creak as he takes a step into the room, as he flashes back to that night, Jackson backing up, the wild look in his eyes, the muzzle flare, the shock, the puppet with its strings cut.
And the spray of blood, a splash of crimson against a white canvas.
He takes another step, to the dresser, and slowly slides it open, finding the picture of the four of them at their graduation, jaunty caps and hi-tops and the poses that they imitated from the movies. Fake gang signs, like they owned the world. And they did, for a while, until it all crashed down around them.
Until he gave them up for the world.
He rubs the picture off with his sleeve, looking at the four of them and wondering what the fuck happened.
And then he hears a footstep, and his gun is out and pointed at the doorway, his finger on the trigger, ready to fire — only to falter as he sees who it is, as he sees another barrel pointed squarely at him.
"Hi, Christian," the other man calls out, without smiling. "Wond'rin when you were gonna come back and visit, now you're so high and mighty."
"John," he whispers, looking back down at the photo, and then back up. The resemblance is obvious, even with ten years of jail weathering the face in front of him.
"Come back to gloat? To celebrate stabbing us in the back, turning us in?" John asks, shifting slightly.
"No," he says. "I came back to find a picture of us, to see how it all went through. I'm through with it, everything, and I just wanted to come back to where it started."
"This aint where it started, Christian. This is where it ended. Where you ended it." John says angrily.
"I'm sorry," Christian says, and he means every word, though he knows it won't make a difference. "I'm sorry, but I had no choice, and I—"
Christian pauses, and then he lowers his gun, slowly. "I'm here to make it right."
"Only one way to do that." John smiles, finally, and slides the hammer back with a click.
---
A/N: Despite being a neutral word, Paraphernalia is in my experience almost always associated with drugs. Mix in some memories, and that's essentially the soul of this piece. I thought about doing it in first person, but it ended up feeling like third-person was more appropriate for this: it's meant to be a tv-series like finale episode of sorts, where the protagonist heads back to his roots and reflects on what has changed. I wanted to not expose his internal monologue/thoughts and instead only rely on what he does and what he sees to convey the atmosphere. Strongest influence is probably from the Wire (which I sadly haven't seen, yet, and so really it's more like what I know of the Wire), and L&O:SVU: the protagonist, in my mind, is in Ice-T's image.
