Mad Sweeney (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
onlythebranch) wrote2018-06-13 06:52 pm
onlythebranch) wrote2018-06-13 06:52 pm
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(no subject)
The worse Mad Sweeney's luck gets, the more he thinks about Laura fucking Moon.
It's fucked up, he's very aware of it, because when he thinks about her, he's not just thinking about how badly he wants his bloody coin back. He's thinking of that moment after the second accident, when he'd stood on that highway with his blessed coin between his fingers and just stared at her and known. He's thinking about that creeping insistence inside him that he do the right thing, whatever the fuck that means, and he's thinking about how angry he'd been, how badly he'd wanted to turn and walk away and leave her rotting there on the asphalt.
He's thinking of how gently he'd placed the coin back on her chest, how her dead, skinned muscles had felt under his fingertips.
She didn't deserve the gift he'd given her, but then, he knows he had never deserved it either.
These days he's drinking more than he usually does, which is saying something. Chances are nobody really notices, he's drunk more often than not even when times are good. It's just that drinking makes the rest of it sort of blend into the background and he can forget all this shit he keeps thinking about. It starts with the coin, but it ends up at Laura, and over and over he finds himself wandering back to the idea that it's not the coin he wants to see again, but her.
And that idea can go fuck itself.
He drinks straight from the bottle, Southern Comfort minus the fucking coke, drinks enough that he's stumbling when he moves from the kitchen to the living room. There's a moment's consideration when he thinks he ought to call someone, but then he just collapses on the couch with the bottle resting against his thigh and he turns on the TV. What he gets is some reality show about body painting, which is fine, which is good enough for him. It's brainless and he doesn't have to think, he can just get lost in the alcohol and the colours and when he finds himself drifting off, he thinks he's never been so thankful for a little bit of sleep.
The last thought he has before he slips into a dreamless black is that he wishes he could see her.
It's late when he wakes again. The TV is still on, but it's a different show now, some late night bullshit that never quite makes any sense and it's made worse by the fact that he's still drunk. The lights are off, the room is dark, but all at once he's aware of some change. There's pressure against his thigh other than the bottle of whiskey, something cool and slightly damp.
The air smells like blood.
Carefully, he sits up and sets the bottle aside, then reaches for the lamp he knows is beside the couch. The room floods with warm, yellow light and he looks down into the pretty, dead eyes of Laura Moon.
She's wearing the same clothes she was the night of the accident. The one that killed her. The one he caused. She's lying on the couch beside him, her head propped up against his thigh at a perfect angle that he's staring down into her face. There's blood on her lips, dripping gently onto his jeans, leaving a dark red smear he can feel against his skin.
This isn't Laura with his coin. This is Laura quivering in her death throes on the side of a highway. This is Laura after deciding to suck Robbie's cock one last time, after Sweeney had swerved his truck into their lane on Wednesday's instructions. This is Laura before the coin, the Laura who should have been left to rot in her grave, but instead she's here. On his fucking couch.
He can't stop looking at her. He takes his phone out of his pocket and dials the first person he thinks might be able to help. It's late, he's not sure they'll answer, but when they do -- or maybe it's their voicemail, he's too drunk and too fucked up to think about it -- he just says, "I'm at home. I need help."
Then he hangs up again. Hangs up and stares at Laura staring back at him.
"Fuck," he whispers.
It's fucked up, he's very aware of it, because when he thinks about her, he's not just thinking about how badly he wants his bloody coin back. He's thinking of that moment after the second accident, when he'd stood on that highway with his blessed coin between his fingers and just stared at her and known. He's thinking about that creeping insistence inside him that he do the right thing, whatever the fuck that means, and he's thinking about how angry he'd been, how badly he'd wanted to turn and walk away and leave her rotting there on the asphalt.
He's thinking of how gently he'd placed the coin back on her chest, how her dead, skinned muscles had felt under his fingertips.
She didn't deserve the gift he'd given her, but then, he knows he had never deserved it either.
These days he's drinking more than he usually does, which is saying something. Chances are nobody really notices, he's drunk more often than not even when times are good. It's just that drinking makes the rest of it sort of blend into the background and he can forget all this shit he keeps thinking about. It starts with the coin, but it ends up at Laura, and over and over he finds himself wandering back to the idea that it's not the coin he wants to see again, but her.
And that idea can go fuck itself.
He drinks straight from the bottle, Southern Comfort minus the fucking coke, drinks enough that he's stumbling when he moves from the kitchen to the living room. There's a moment's consideration when he thinks he ought to call someone, but then he just collapses on the couch with the bottle resting against his thigh and he turns on the TV. What he gets is some reality show about body painting, which is fine, which is good enough for him. It's brainless and he doesn't have to think, he can just get lost in the alcohol and the colours and when he finds himself drifting off, he thinks he's never been so thankful for a little bit of sleep.
The last thought he has before he slips into a dreamless black is that he wishes he could see her.
It's late when he wakes again. The TV is still on, but it's a different show now, some late night bullshit that never quite makes any sense and it's made worse by the fact that he's still drunk. The lights are off, the room is dark, but all at once he's aware of some change. There's pressure against his thigh other than the bottle of whiskey, something cool and slightly damp.
The air smells like blood.
Carefully, he sits up and sets the bottle aside, then reaches for the lamp he knows is beside the couch. The room floods with warm, yellow light and he looks down into the pretty, dead eyes of Laura Moon.
She's wearing the same clothes she was the night of the accident. The one that killed her. The one he caused. She's lying on the couch beside him, her head propped up against his thigh at a perfect angle that he's staring down into her face. There's blood on her lips, dripping gently onto his jeans, leaving a dark red smear he can feel against his skin.
This isn't Laura with his coin. This is Laura quivering in her death throes on the side of a highway. This is Laura after deciding to suck Robbie's cock one last time, after Sweeney had swerved his truck into their lane on Wednesday's instructions. This is Laura before the coin, the Laura who should have been left to rot in her grave, but instead she's here. On his fucking couch.
He can't stop looking at her. He takes his phone out of his pocket and dials the first person he thinks might be able to help. It's late, he's not sure they'll answer, but when they do -- or maybe it's their voicemail, he's too drunk and too fucked up to think about it -- he just says, "I'm at home. I need help."
Then he hangs up again. Hangs up and stares at Laura staring back at him.
"Fuck," he whispers.
no subject
God forbid she venture into the Woods for any reason, but sure, grab a shovel and help dispose of this bloody corpse, why not?
“I’ll carry the shovel,” she says, half to herself, as if it’s the obvious next step. It isn’t until she’s fetched it out of the closet that it occurs to her to wonder why he has a shovel in the first place. She doubts he meant to do any gardening with it. She gives it a slightly nervous examination, as if to make sure it isn’t sporting any stray bits of viscera, before leveling a look at Sweeney.
“You own a shovel,” she deadpans. “Tell me you weren’t anticipating something like this.”
no subject
He gets the blanket and spreads it out on the floor, then stands over Laura for a moment, just looking at her. It feels indecent to touch her like this, but he must, so he drops toward the couch and scoops her up into his arms. She weighs barely anything at all, even in death, and he sets her carefully on the blanket, then begins to roll her in a way that mostly disguises it's a body.
They're still lucky it's late. This isn't the sort of thing he needs anyone to see and he's sure Greta needs it even less.
no subject
But as he starts to roll her up, Greta sets down the shovel -- on the floor, out of the way, because if his luck is that terrible, leaning it against the wall might be an invitation for it to fall over with a clatter and wake the neighbors -- and moves to crouch next to him.
"Here," she says quietly, helping to tuck the blanket around the body, secure enough that it won't unravel the moment he goes to lift her. It's not so different from swaddling a baby, at least in theory.
It's nothing like swaddling a baby in practice, of course. But her hands are sure and gentle, and she's distantly pleased to note that they're not shaking. She can shake later, when the job's done.
no subject
It's just a short jerk of his head. He still feels like shit, maybe even worse now, but it's the kind of worse he thinks he deserves. He'd done this, after all, he's the reason Laura is dead, even if she doesn't think so.
"Thanks," he says. It's not something he says very often and she'll probably not hear it from him again, but she deserves it now. None of this is within the realms of actual friendship and it's not as if he's been good to Greta lately, either as a friend or as a leprechaun, but she's still here.
no subject
She also isn't sure if it calls for a token of support, or the suggestion that he get ahold of himself. What she winds up offering is a bit of both. Her hand briefly rests on his arm, the gesture just long enough to not count as a pat, and in a deliberately dry tone, she says, "No time to get sentimental."
That's probably about all the acknowledgment either of them can bear, and she goes to retrieve the shovel. Its firm solidity is a sort of comfort, though she's keenly aware of how suspicious she'll look if anyone spots her carrying it. God, if anyone spots them at all, she has no idea what they'll do. This is a terrible idea.
"I'll check the hall," she says. "Make sure no one else is up and about." Listen to her; it's almost as if she has the slightest clue what she's doing.