note: I apologize for the shortness of these chapters. I really hate writing the beginning of a story, and this is my third beginning in a row! In theory, as things pick up, the chapters will get back to normal length (I aim for 3,000 words). In the meantime... bear with me. :) And enjoy. And tell me what you think about the whole three-narrator deal. Yea? Nay? &c.
three: Racetrack – return
It was dark, so I focused on the one source of light that I could find. The moon was full and reflecting off the water below, illuminating the buildings at the rivers' edge and the trash that floated in its depths. The bridge on which I stood was small, but sturdy. I leaned heavily against the rail, staring down into the water, my feet spread wide to support my unsteady self.
This was not the first time I'd regretted returning, but it was certainly the drunkest. With effort, I moved the small tin flask to my lips and considered taking another sip. It was midnight, or later, I was in the middle of the Dark, and I was lit up like a Christmas tree. Why I hadn't yet been attacked was beyond me. I was asking for trouble, leaving myself so vulnerable like this. But that's the thing… I would have welcomed a fight, an enemy, even injury. It would have given me something to do, something that was easy to figure out, simple to carry into action. If I had purpose for even five minutes, it would be more than anything else I'd done since I'd returned. Besides, I'd had the vague feeling that I was being followed, and I figured that if this didn't draw him out and into the open, then nothing would.
I tipped the flask back and swallowed the last few drops hungrily, wishing I had a bigger container. The whiskey didn't burn anymore. I put the flask away in my vest and attempted to stand up straight. This failed miserably, and left me just facing the other way. I blinked a few times, the darkness swimming before my eyes, and then slid to the ground so I was sitting against the solid rail. I let my head fall back and my legs go out straight. I must have cut a pretty pathetic figure.
I'd been back for a few days and had got absolutely nothing accomplished. When I'd crossed over, I'd been exhausted, and sick, and had let myself rest, figuring that I wouldn't get anything done if I was in such rough shape. I recovered quickly enough, but soon realized how little planning I'd done. I wanted to find Boots, to save him from whatever we'd sentenced him to, but I had absolutely no idea how or where to start.
Oh, I'd returned to the place, the address that we'd gone to originally. But there was nothing there, at least, nothing like what we'd seen when we went with Boots. They were gone, cleared out, whoever 'they' were, and they'd left no trace behind. I'd had one lead to go by, and it was a complete dead end. That didn't really justify getting drunk on a bridge in the middle of nowhere, but at this point I was past excuses.
"Oh, this is real cute," a voice said from the darkness. I thought about jumping to my feet, ready to defend myself, but the thought apparently got lost somewhere between my brain and my legs. I settled for grunting instead. Footsteps brought the source of the voice much, much closer to me, and despite what should have been liquid courage, I started to feel quite nervous.
"Tonight," I said loudly to no one in particular, "I am invincible."
"No," the voice corrected with disdain, "tonight you are an imbecile."
Suddenly I realized that the voice was very familiar, as were the footsteps, and the shape and size of the figure that was crouching next to me.
"Oh," I said pleasantly. "Good afternoon, Swifty."
"Good aftern-- you've got to be kidding me. Race, what the fuck are you doing out here?"
I didn't really have an answer, so after a pause, I tried, "It's a nice night?"
That was met with stony silence. Swifty latched an iron grip on my upper arm and pulled me up with a jerk. I put a hand to my head in an attempt to stop the entire world from tilting and spinning wildly. "Shit," I grumbled.
"I have no sympathy for you," Swifty said. "None at all. Now, no whining. We have to get you inside. You're lucky I was looking for you anyway, or else you would've been a goner long ago."
So that's why no one had attacked me. Well. Says he. Swifty likes to take credit for things like that.
"Hello, this isn't the way to your house," I after a few minutes of being dragged around. It was too dark to see all that much, but I still had a general idea of where we were headed, and it was not familiar.
"I don't have a house," Swifty said coldly, stepping up his pace. "It was razed."
I struggled to recall the last time I'd been at the house. Ah, yes. Something had been thrown through the window, a mob of unruly minions had surrounded the place, and we'd fled quite quickly. I guess it all made sense, then. But burned to the ground? That seemed a little extreme.
"I'm sorry," I said about five minutes later. He didn't say anything.
We stopped soon after, and he dumped me unceremoniously to the street. I crumpled into a heap with an "oomph," but didn't feel much of anything, thanks to the whiskey. Apparently the cobblestones took credit, and I would pay for it in the morning. Swifty tapped the door softly. It opened wide.
"Jeezum crow," said a voice that I was pretty sure should be familiar as well. "Found 'em, didja?"
"Yup," Swifty said, grabbing my collar and hoisting me up. "Let's get him flat."
The other voice whooped and I soon found myself herded inside a warm place, dropped onto something resembling a bed. Then, thankfully, I was left the hell alone. Here we go again, I thought before passing out into a deep and dreamless sleep.
I woke to bright lights and loud noises and realized that I was going to die. Lord, I thought desperately, please make it fast. And painless. But mainly fast. I attempted to roll onto my stomach to block out my senses, but only succeeded in falling off the cot I was laying on and landing with a very painful thud. It was then that all my bruises from the previous night awakened with me, and I realized that this was not going to be a good day.
Slowly, I got to my feet, wincing the whole way up. I supported myself with one hand on the cot and raised the other to my pounding head. Water, I thought. Water, and… a blindfold. No, just water, and a lot of it. I closed my eyes and started to look around for some energy.
"You know," Swifty began dryly. I opened my eyes. He leaned against the doorsill, holding a large mug in both hands. "I hear that the best way to cure a hangover is to have another drink."
"You'd know, wouldn't you?" I muttered darkly, closing my eyes again. Then I remembered that Swifty had probably saved my life the night before, and I immediately regretted my bitter words. "Sorry," I said, "I just-" but as I opened my eyes, I saw that he was gone. Yeah, I was off to a great start.
Somehow, I managed to make it out the door. On the other side was a small kitchen. Another mug – steaming – sat on the counter closest to the doorway. Swifty was facing the stove, his back to me. Something was sizzling. The room was warm, and smelled delicious. None of this helped my guilt. But, if I played nice now, I thought with an inward sigh, he would only be suspicious.
"What's all this?" I asked, taking the mug in hand and gratefully breathing in the rich smell of a dark roasted coffee. "And where am I? No, hell, why were you following me last night?" Another thought struck me. "Where's Sofia? Is she here, too? Was she following me?" I paused, took a sip of the coffee, burned my tongue. "Ith sthea okay?" Ow.
"I'm only answering two questions, so choose them wisely," Swifty said without turning. I put my coffee down and hoisted myself up on the counter. I could vaguely remember hearing One Lung Pete's voice the night before, so we were probably at his house. If not, well, I'd find out where we were soon enough. 'What's all this,' was obvious enough, it was coffee and breakfast, though why Swifty was making it was still a mystery.
"Why were you following me last night?" I asked finally. "And where's Sofia?"
"One at a time, tiger," he said, turning off the gas and facing me, mug still in hand. Idly, I wondered how much whiskey was in that innocent looking mug. Swifty may have been Chinese, but that didn't mean he couldn't drink Irish coffees with the best of them. No, wait. Swifty drank tea. What would one put in tea?
"Are you even paying attention?" Swifty snapped, shooting me a look that was something between concerned and murderous.
"Of course."
"I was following you because even after all this time, you haven't figured out how to look out for yourself." He paused, took a sip of his whiskey/coffee/tea. "Sofia is with Conlon."
I gave him a moment to continue, he didn't. "Well," I said, irritated, "that sums it up quite neatly." He shrugged, took another sip, and returned to the stove. I slipped off the counter, but Swifty's voice stopped me from trying the other door across the room.
"I wouldn't go out there if I were you," he said quickly. "Petey is doing some work, and we all know how that can turn out." I thought about One Lung Pete's scarred face and missing fingers and decided that I was indeed better off in the kitchen, no matter what kind of mood Swifty was in.
"Really, though," I said after a couple minutes of silence. "Why were you so conveniently around last night? And how big of a jackass was I?"
"Didn't you already ask your two questions?"
"Um, I guess, I m-"
"And didn't I answer them?"
"Well… yeah." I gave up. I wouldn't push it, at least not for another hour or so.
"A huge jackass," he said then, leaving the stove with a plate in each hand. "Eggs?"
end note: I tried asking Swifty "since when did you guys become comic relief?" but he refused to answer, or even acknowledge that I'd asked, because apparently I'd reached my word limit for the day. It was, like, 10:30am.