Author's Note: My bad attempt at trying to do something that wasn't violent
and was somewhat 'happy.' (I'm really bad at happy.) It's only two parts.
-gasp- Neopets is not copyright me, and the name Rose for the Uni that
accompanies Dr. Death was created by karma_leafbarer.
The alarm was more of a fog horn as it blasted into Charon Thanatos' consciousness, grasping his arm roughly and yanking him without mercy from a restless sleep into a relatively groggy awakening. The two weights that he called eyelids refused to open for a moment even as he put all of his energy into the task-finally, after what seemed like hours, a crack of light streamed into his eyes. Immediately, he jammed them shut once again, wasting the time that it had taken him to get them open in the first place. He was used to his efforts being futile, and as he threw his arm over his eyes to try and slip back into a peaceful sleep, hoping to forget that he would be missing work for the third day straight, he allowed himself to slip back into a subconscious state, although his alarm still buzzed loudly in the background, just becoming part of the city din he could hear outside.
However, through the persistent buzzing that became more like a constant metronome of setting him to sleep, there came another noise: shriller, and significantly more annoying. He immediately recognized what it was, though he was in disbelief that he was actually hearing it. Sitting up in bed, the weights suddenly seemed to detach themselves from his eyelids, he stared forwards at the table across from his raggedy bed, the table with a small light on it, a package of cigarettes, a lighter and one other object that now seemed horribly foreign to him. He couldn't believe that the small device was actually making that horrid noise; he couldn't remember the last time it did. In a way, it was the beginning to the things to come, yet an end to the normality of his life, or rather what could be considered normality.
The phone that never rang was ringing.
It felt strange, getting up from his bed of an hour before 12:00 PM. Although he hadn't done it for more than a week, it already seemed to have become his routine. He would wake up at sometime around three o' clock in the afternoon, fluff his hair into place, re-hydrate his yellow skin with a splash of water. Still in his boxers, he would proceed to eat a meal and then would go outside and sit on the fire escape, looking vacantly out at the city while enjoying a package of cigarettes, still in his boxers. After the pack was finished, he would have one more meal and then stumble back into bed, falling into a deep sleep without hesitation.
It wasn't much of a routine, but he was already falling into the rut of it, just as he had done with everything else. He certainly enjoyed it more than his previous melancholy encounter with the world: formerly, he would awaken bright and early at 5:00 AM, shower and get dressed, getting ready for a world that did not want him. After perhaps fiddling around on violin that he did not know how to play for a few minutes, he would go out to work without breakfast, only a cup of coffee and a handful of cigarettes in his system. Work had been pure, unfiltered Hell; he would sit behind a filthy counter and accept the rejections of Neopets from owners that did not know how to properly take care of pets. He did it with an apathetic mask, inhaling deep breaths of nicotine and tobacco, all the while receiving glares from his ever-present partner, Rose the Uni, beautiful and so terribly out of his league. He needed that mask, though; he could not show the world he cared. If they thought he cared, they would have something to use against him.
After work had finished, he would go home and have a quick dinner, shower again and then smoke another package of cigarettes on the fire escape, his lab coat discarded on a chair in the dining room. But these fire escape escapes would not be done in an emotionless state as he had been doing for the past few days-no, quite the opposite. He would sit on the edge of the fire escape and let the tears of aggravation from the day slide down his face as he uttered not a whimper, staring with hatred down at the mindless people congregating below him.
As his hand curved around the phone's receiver, it felt as if he were touching the body of a foreign woman. It was so smooth, so pure, so untouched, the only thing left untainted in his house. He brought the cool plastic to his cheek, wondering what to say. He hadn't spoken on the phone in the longest time. It was peculiar, now, to have it against his face. He pondered what he should say. "Go away," was the first thing that came to his mind, and he uttered these words darkly into the receiver, feeling a temptation to slam it down. Yet he was still curious to whom would dare calling the phone that never rang-and so he let the person on the other end speak.
A small peep came from the other end, like someone trying to say something and then being choked before any words could come out. There was silence on the other end for a moment, and then the definite sound of someone placing a receiver back into the cradle. His phone crackled a bit, and then returned to a steady dial tone in his ear, reverberating like his still-buzzing alarm clock.
Slowly, he removed the receiver from his ear. He placed it on his table instead of the cradle, making sure that it made little noise as he put it down, ensuring that the phone that did not ring would not ring again. Turning back around, he almost literally fell back into his bed, slapping off the alarm. Now that he tried to sleep, however, he found it next to impossible. His body seemed to get up itself and turn back to the phone that did not ring, picking up the receiver. The familiar recorded voice of a lady spoke into his ear, and he placed the receiver back into the cradle temporarily, picking it up after a moment. Gingerly, he picked it up again and dialed star-6-9.
"The last number that called you was: 555-7849. Press one if you would like to dial this number now."
Charon pulled the phone away from his face again and dialed one, bringing it back to his ear. He could hear the tinny sounds of a computer dialing the number, and then the sound of a ringing phone on the other end. He waited as the phone rang once, than again, reaching up to three rings. A sound of someone picking up could be heard on the other end, and then a sweet, familiar voice, sounding slightly afraid. "Hello?"
Charon knew that voice. He heard it all the time at work, every day with the exception of the past two days. His eyes widened as he heard it, for he was sure that someone like her would have no business calling someone like himself. He was positive that she must've had the wrong number and must have realized it at the last second; that would explain why she had hung up. Rose the Uni certainly hadn't called him before; she was one of those pretty types, the ones he wished he could have but couldn't. Women like that never called him, and never would, and such things did not change in the world that Charon lived in. Before he could say anything, he slammed the phone back down into the cradle, his heart thundering in his chest. Immediately he regretted the decision, but it had been made-he pulled the phone off the hook and put it to the side, ensuring that it would not ring.
He stared at the phone, his eyes wide, his blood coursing through his body in a way that it had not done so since a desperate Lupe had almost taken off his arm trying to escape from the prison called the Adoption Center. The phone seemed to pulse with its own life, wanting to ring again, wanting to be picked up and used, to call back that number that was now burned in his mind: 555-7849. His fingers twitched, but instead of reaching for the phone, his hands dove for the cigarettes and lighter to suppress the urge with another addiction.
Opening the package, he pulled out a cigarette with his teeth and placed the remainder of the package on the table. Although he normally didn't smoke inside of his apartment (that was what he used the fire escape for), today he would make an exception. Bringing the lighter up to the tip of the cigarette, he lit it up, his hands shaking, making it harder to light. Throwing the lighter aside, he inhaled the burning tobacco deeply, feeling his muscles relax. Sighing, he fell back into the bed, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth and exhaling.
"Idiot," he muttered, closing his eyes, putting the cigarette back in his mouth and biting down hard on the filter in aggravation. The smoke from the cigarette drifted upwards towards the ceiling in curling patterns, reaching with clawed fingers and then sinking back down. He opened his eyes into slits, staring blankly at the ceiling. Within the smoke, he could see graceful images of a smiling Uni. A smile flickered briefly on his lips amidst his blank look, but then vanished immediately, transforming into a grumpy scowl. Sitting up, he leaned over and put his elbows on his knees, shaking his head, his silver-brown hair floating in front of his eyes.
Trying to turn his mind to other, less controversial subjects, he got off of the bed and headed towards the kitchen, giving in to the urge to eat.
Tears streaked through Rose's normally perfect complexion, a lump rising quickly in her long throat. A clump of tissues was stationed next to her, all of them used and sopping with tears or mucus from numerous nose- blows. Two empty boxes of tissues lay on the ground, and a third was stationed in her lap, her hooves wringing another to death as she sobbed. The phone lay next to her, the phone she dare not touch, dare not use to call his number. For she could still see the handsome blue Uni's face as he dumped her so harshly, and she could not trust herself to not call him and start screaming her lungs out between fits of weeping.
"I hate you Trevor!" she shrieked loudly and quite spontaneously, and chucked the tissue box, still full of tissues, across the room. It ricocheted off of a small clock on a table across from the room, a clock shaped like a heart that the blue Uni named Trevor, her ex-boyfriend, had purchased for her for their sixth month anniversary. A sense of accomplishment waved over her briefly as she saw it get knocked to the ground and shatter, but it was certainly not enough to make her feel all better. The pain was still fresh, only hours old, and it stung as if someone had thrown salt into a deep cut.
She needed comfort more than anything else, not the hatred that boiled inside of her, contributing to her inner pains. The phone in front of her was soon in her lap, replacing the box of tissues. Wiping her nose with her hoof, trying to make sure that she could at least be audible between her tears, she absentmindedly dialed the first number that came to her mind, assuming that it would be that of a friend. As she heard the phone ring on the other end, she waited for a cheerful voice to greet her, one filled with estrogen and sympathy.
Unfortunately, that was not quite what she was given.
The voice on the other end was low and most definitely male, scratchy as if it was behind static. A New York faint accent tinted the edges of his words, although not significantly enough to drastically effect his speech. The voice was shockingly familiar, one that she had not heard in the past days, bittersweet hearing it once again. "Go away," the voice grumbled miserably, his tone low. She was able to put a name to a voice after a moment: her co-worker, Dr. Death. Or rather, Dr. Thanatos-of course, everybody preferred to call the Techo by the more sinister name.
A little choking noise came from the back of her mouth. Hesitating slightly, she slammed the receiver back into the cradle, her whole body suddenly slick with sweat. She had completely forgotten about Dr. Death's absence from the workplace, and now felt incredibly guilty for not having called him and checked on his health. She slapped herself internally for not making the excuse of merely checking up on him. Still, now that she had called him once, she found it redundant to call him again-he would probably just complain about leaving him alone. He was probably sick anyway; the whole time she had worked with him, which totaled five years, he had never taken any vacations, nor sick days. It was unusual, then for him to spontaneously disappear for two days in a row, and now, presumably, a third, for she had taken this day off to mope.
There was one more jarring thing that struck her, however-out of all the phone numbers that she had memorized, out of all of the other friends that could have lent a comfortable shoulder for her to lean on, why had she selected the phone number of a Techo as horribly nasty as Dr. Death?
Her phone rang suddenly, nearly making her jump in surprise. The vibrations of the phone rang throughout her body, and she was nearly frightened to death of the prospect of picking it up. She knew instinctively who it would be on the other end-although Dr. Death may not have caller ID, anybody who hadn't been living underneath a rock surely knew about star-sixty-nine. It was unlike her, however, to not answer the phone; the last time she had allowed her answering machine to pick up a phone call when she had been home had been in ages. Swallowing, she picked up the phone, trying to even out her voice.
"Hello?"
The other side of the line was silent, just the sound of heavy breathing on the other end. It was not a threatening brand of breathing, however; it was that of a nervous person, one in fear. Seconds later, the other line was cut off by a loud slam. A rush of relief ran over Rose like an incoming tide, and as she hung up the phone she allowed herself a moment of relaxation. The tide was not high for long, however; soon it went back to low tide, and she was shivering. Her thoughts turned to Dr. Death-well, Charon, really, as she knew was his first name, but she rarely ever called him by it. She found the name Charon slightly eerie-the ferry-runner on the River Styx. It only added to the mystery of him; as she thought about it, she realized she knew little about him, expect that he had worked in the Adoption Center three years prior to him and lived in a lower-class section of Neopian Central, consisting of a crappy apartment complex. In fact, as she recalled, she knew the location and number of his apartment as well.
She did need something to do to get her mind off of Trevor; just dwelling on him would do nothing but sink her into a depression that she did not desire to be in. Shoving the pile of tissues to the ground, she stood up confidently, trying to plaster a smile onto her face. Yes, she remembered where he lived-and heck if she was going to just let herself rot because she had been dumped. If she could not find someone else to comfort her, perhaps she would find solace in comforting another.
Rose checked the crumpled piece of paper at least five times before determining that the apartment door she stood in front of was the right one. The paper she had found in which she had one day written down the address of Dr. Death's apartment had definitely taken its share of wear and tear, the ink smudged and difficult to read, but she was betting that the number at the end was a seven, not a demented nine that she had written hastily.
Still, she was hesitant to answer the door. Just getting to this side of down had frightened her-she had been forced to pass through many dark alleyways, even though it was the middle of the day. Delinquent, ownerless Neopets roamed throughout these places, those that belonged in the Adoption Center, and snarled at her, turning cold shoulders towards her and huddling closer in their small bands. Her heart had pounded in her chest as she took the safest path available to getting to the area, which, admittedly, did not seem very safe, as it consisted of passing through territory of rather hostile stray Neopets, many that Rose felt obliged to flee from. Everything was darker around the area; some houses in the alleyways were composed of little more than cardboard boxes. Even in the apartment, doors swung off hinges, the apartment obviously not looked after very well. It was rough around the edges, snarling in the faces of those softer, those not accustomed to its environment-much like the doctor himself.
It did not prevent her from wishing that he could've lived in a small suburban home in a friendly neighborhood that she could easily walk through without fearing attack.
The knocker on the door was broken, dangling from its side, and even the yellowing letters were beginning to sag. She, for a moment, wondered how she would knock. At the last moment, however, she noticed the rusty metallic panel on the side with a small button and a place for speech. She pressed the button tentatively, and waited. When she did not get a response, she wondered if it were broken or that he went out-in any case, she pressed it a few more times quickly, not wanting to stay much longer in the hallway, for a Bruce three doors down was staring at her in a disturbing manner.
"Sweet Jesus, once is enough, sweetheart." The door suddenly swung open with this phrase, the doctor in the doorway, his hand pressed against his forehead, face invisible as it pointed downwards. His other arm, a cigarette between the fingers of that arm, leaned against the frame of the doorway, his legs crossed somewhat casually.
Rose was absolutely speechless at his appearance. It was undoubtedly Dr. Death-she could not mistake the color and texture of his hair, which was rare in Techos in the first place. She had never, however, seen him in such disarray, nor with only boxers as his only clothing. His body sagged in an exhausted fashion, his posture absolutely atrocious, his boxers seeming to keep his torso attached to his legs, red plaid as they were. He was as thin as a rail, and if she had taken the time, she would've been able to count every one of his ribs without difficulty, his tail swaying behind him lazily. The usual somewhat messy silver-streaked hair was a mere mass atop his head, so full of tangles and knots that she wouldn't have been surprised if a songbird Pteri decided to make a nest of his hair while he was sleeping. His skin was what concerned her the most: its usual vibrant yellow hue had subsided to a greenish-yellow color, dry and chapped for a Techo. Scattered about his arms, legs and torso were scars varying in lengths, so many long fingernails crawling on up his skin. As he looked up, she could see his jaded eyes, a faded grayish-blue in color, seeming to have gained wrinkles at the sides over the past days he had been absent from work.
"Oh. It's you," he said apathetically, and shifted his weight to both legs, placing the cigarette back into his mouth. He allowed his shoulder to lean against the door. "How nice of you to drop by."
"Can I--?" she suggested, motioning towards the inside. Behind him, she could glimpse fragments of the room behind him. Like himself, it was in an absolute clutter, dirty clothes scattered on the floor, thrown across a beaten couch and on top of a cracked television. If the place had been cleaned up, however, she doubted it would be any less bleak-the room was devoid of most things she considered essentials, and those that were there seemed broken or forgotten, buried under dust and clothes and conveniently shoved into corners. However, Dr. Death immediately placed himself in front of the gap that he had created with his body as best he could, though with his thin frame, it was an effort done in vain.
"No. Nobody comes into my apartment," he commented icily. Rose swallowed, uncomfortable. "Just a second-let me get some pants on, maybe a shirt.you came over for a reason, I presume?" Rose hardly heard him, staring in disgusted awe at the many scars accumulated on the Techo, wondering where they had come from. She had heard that he had previously had an abusive owner before becoming independent, but she found it difficult to believe that anyone could achieve such a level of sadism. Quickly, she realized she was staring and stuttered a response.
"Uh, well. . .yeah, I did. I was wondering. . .where you were the last few days." Dr. Death gave her an irritated look, as it was quite obvious that she had been distracted by the marks on his body.
"Cutting," he replied, his voice as flat as a plateau. The two stood in silence for a moment, a mortified look on Rose's face, before a rare smile broke out across the doctor's face, a mocking one that laughed at her and humiliated her. "God, you're gullible," he grumbled, turning back inside to go get changed.
"H-hey, that's not--!" Rose did not get the common courtesy of being able to finish her sentence, as the door slammed right in her face. She gritted her teeth, considering leaving, but stayed, despite the Bruce's eyes staring into her back. She had a temptation to turn around and slap him in the face, but decided against it, as soon the doctor was coming out of the door, pulling on his familiar laboratory coat, although it was obvious he did not plan on returning to work.
"I'm supposing you dislike this neighborhood," he began, locking the door behind him.
"Well. . .I'm certainly not used to it. . ."
"Heh. A fish out of water," he said, shoving his keys into his pocket. For a moment he turned his attention away from Rose and to the Bruce that had been irritating Rose immensely. He dug into his trouser pockets and tossed a couple of coins at his feet. The Bruce looked up in his general direction and smiled vacantly. It then became clear to Rose why the Bruce had been staring at her; he hadn't been staring at all. As she looked closer, she could see a film of milky white over his eyes. A pang of guilt struck through her body.
The two walked in silence down the hall, the doctor not bothering to put out his cigarette although he was well aware of how thoroughly Rose disapproved of his chain-smoking. The question was inevitable, and she figured she may as well get it out of the way.
"Why do you have so many scars?"
The doctor did not answer immediately. He took a long drag on his cigarette, the white part nearly down to the filter. He pinched the end absentmindedly and threw it to the ground, reaching into his pocket and pulling out an opened package of cigarettes and a lighter. Taking in a fresh cigarette, he still did not reply, looking upwards at the broken lights in the hallway. Rose opened her mouth to excuse herself for asking such a question, but he stopped her. "Don't excuse yourself-it just takes time for a Neopet to properly sugar-coat a response for those too naïve to understand."
Rose's eyes widened in offense. "Wh-what? Are you suggesting that I cannot handle a simple story of abuse?"
"That's exactly it. To you, they're all related events-you see the Neopets coming in with scars, you see their drooping faces. You pass them by like just another, treat them with the same kindness, but it's all falsified. They are not related incidents-they are all independent. There is not one single machine that pumps out abused Neopets-it is hundreds, each producing only one, but each effecting others deeply enough. No story of abuse is 'simple,' Rose. It is fattened and fluffed preps like you that say such things are simple. You know nothing of pain," he answered coldly, his eyes not daring to look towards her.
"Fattened?!"
"Metaphorically, Rose," said Dr. Death with a roll of his eyes. Rose wrinkled her nose angrily.
"How dare you say such a thing! I.I should slap you!"
"Go ahead. I've learned to ignore pain. Zen Buddhism and all that good stuff," said Dr. Death sarcastically. "Besides, that's all people like you can do. . .hurt others." Rose clenched her teeth together, suddenly regretting that she had ever come to his apartment building. Hot tears sprang to her eyes as her anger got the better of her; combined with the breakup with Trevor, this was just not turning out to be her day. "Don't cry, sweetheart-you might ruin your makeup."
"It's no mystery why you don't have any friends! You push everyone away, hiding everything behind this tough-guy exterior. You think you're so sophisticated, Doctor Charon Thanatos, hiding behind your MD and your job. You're really just scared of people, scared of what they can do to you just because you had some crappy experience in life. You LET people hate you because you don't know how to interact with them otherwise, to let people like you. You're an idiot! I hate guys like you! You're so concerned with not being hurt that you lose sight of the big picture!"
"What crawled up your behind and died?" With that comment, Rose hit her breaking point that she had been rising slowly to for the past five years. A fuse blew in her head, a wild glare breaking into her tear-glossed eyes. Rose yanked the cigarette out of his mouth and ground the ash end into his forehead furiously, the tears in her eyes breaking the dam and falling down her face.
"There! There's another scar for you, you. . .you. . .FREAK! I hate you!" She thundered off down the hallway in a flurry of superficial tears, sobbing, her body wracking furiously. She didn't know why she bothered to waste her precious time with him, why she bothered to waste tears on someone as heartless as Dr. Death. Still, as she ran down the hallway, she could not find it in herself to storm down the stairway and leave him behind. She faltered in her step, nearly tripping on her hooves, stopping dead in the hallway. She clenched her teeth, trying to gather herself, trying to stop crying, although it was in vain. With a snap of her head, she turned around briskly, looking at Dr. Death with daggers, her speech even and yet carrying a bite that she had never before used in her voice.
"Do you want to know why I called you, Charon? Do you? It's simple, really, just like everything else in this world. A whole collection of simple events. Today, my boyfriend Trevor broke up with me. I thought we had something, something I had never experienced before-I thought we might be going somewhere. I was stupid, and dreamed of having children, having a perfect little life. But it all stopped with those words: I don't want to be with you anymore. Simple words, basic words. I was trying to call someone who might give a care-but for some reason I dialed your number.
"Maybe I thought it was fate-that calling you MEANT something, a new beginning, a turning point. I'll be honest with you-for the first few years I was with you, I thought that maybe you could be decent; maybe you just needed someone to open you up, to change you. Women love challenges-and I was no different. But I was ignorant like the rest of them, thinking I could change something that was long before solidified to stone. Yes, I LIKED you, Charon-maybe even LOVED you. But I was stupid. I was so, so stupid. All I am to you is another prissy primp to avoid in life. Well, if you want me to leave you alone, wish granted: I'm leaving. I'm leaving the job at the Adoption Center, and I'm leaving Neopian Central all together. I always wanted to live somewhere exotic anyway. Getting away from you will just be an added bonus."
Rose was able to break away then, her speech used more to convince herself than to scold the doctor. The choice to leave had been spontaneous and random, but as she thought about it, walking down the stairs, she realized that it was not a horrible idea. Getting away from the shackles that tied her down to this town would be good for a change-besides, she had enough money in the bank, collecting interest, to at least go on a long vacation.
She could not truly feel happy, however, even as hard as she tried, making her departure from the apartment, not daring to look back at Dr. Death. Despite what she told herself, the lies that she fed to her soul were rejecting everything that an outer voice told her. What had Trevor meant to her? He now seemed like a fading memory, really, just another thing to escape from. Had she really wanted him as a husband, as a devoted significant other? Perhaps. But he was fading quicker to a newer reality, the depression from the incident of their breakup giving way to the events of only moments ago. The tears that she thought had stopped suddenly found their way back to her eyes, dripping down her face silently.
For a moment, at the end of the suitcase, she paused, looking back up the many stairs. She almost expected him to be at the top of the staircase, looking down at her and shouting apologies down, begging her to forgive him, admitting that he was a jerk and that she was right. But no. That was not the reality she lived in, and that was not the Techo that she knew. There was only a vacant space where his body should have been in another reality, crying down his sorrow, his sympathy for her breakup. It mirrored the vacancy inside of her heart.
The alarm was more of a fog horn as it blasted into Charon Thanatos' consciousness, grasping his arm roughly and yanking him without mercy from a restless sleep into a relatively groggy awakening. The two weights that he called eyelids refused to open for a moment even as he put all of his energy into the task-finally, after what seemed like hours, a crack of light streamed into his eyes. Immediately, he jammed them shut once again, wasting the time that it had taken him to get them open in the first place. He was used to his efforts being futile, and as he threw his arm over his eyes to try and slip back into a peaceful sleep, hoping to forget that he would be missing work for the third day straight, he allowed himself to slip back into a subconscious state, although his alarm still buzzed loudly in the background, just becoming part of the city din he could hear outside.
However, through the persistent buzzing that became more like a constant metronome of setting him to sleep, there came another noise: shriller, and significantly more annoying. He immediately recognized what it was, though he was in disbelief that he was actually hearing it. Sitting up in bed, the weights suddenly seemed to detach themselves from his eyelids, he stared forwards at the table across from his raggedy bed, the table with a small light on it, a package of cigarettes, a lighter and one other object that now seemed horribly foreign to him. He couldn't believe that the small device was actually making that horrid noise; he couldn't remember the last time it did. In a way, it was the beginning to the things to come, yet an end to the normality of his life, or rather what could be considered normality.
The phone that never rang was ringing.
It felt strange, getting up from his bed of an hour before 12:00 PM. Although he hadn't done it for more than a week, it already seemed to have become his routine. He would wake up at sometime around three o' clock in the afternoon, fluff his hair into place, re-hydrate his yellow skin with a splash of water. Still in his boxers, he would proceed to eat a meal and then would go outside and sit on the fire escape, looking vacantly out at the city while enjoying a package of cigarettes, still in his boxers. After the pack was finished, he would have one more meal and then stumble back into bed, falling into a deep sleep without hesitation.
It wasn't much of a routine, but he was already falling into the rut of it, just as he had done with everything else. He certainly enjoyed it more than his previous melancholy encounter with the world: formerly, he would awaken bright and early at 5:00 AM, shower and get dressed, getting ready for a world that did not want him. After perhaps fiddling around on violin that he did not know how to play for a few minutes, he would go out to work without breakfast, only a cup of coffee and a handful of cigarettes in his system. Work had been pure, unfiltered Hell; he would sit behind a filthy counter and accept the rejections of Neopets from owners that did not know how to properly take care of pets. He did it with an apathetic mask, inhaling deep breaths of nicotine and tobacco, all the while receiving glares from his ever-present partner, Rose the Uni, beautiful and so terribly out of his league. He needed that mask, though; he could not show the world he cared. If they thought he cared, they would have something to use against him.
After work had finished, he would go home and have a quick dinner, shower again and then smoke another package of cigarettes on the fire escape, his lab coat discarded on a chair in the dining room. But these fire escape escapes would not be done in an emotionless state as he had been doing for the past few days-no, quite the opposite. He would sit on the edge of the fire escape and let the tears of aggravation from the day slide down his face as he uttered not a whimper, staring with hatred down at the mindless people congregating below him.
As his hand curved around the phone's receiver, it felt as if he were touching the body of a foreign woman. It was so smooth, so pure, so untouched, the only thing left untainted in his house. He brought the cool plastic to his cheek, wondering what to say. He hadn't spoken on the phone in the longest time. It was peculiar, now, to have it against his face. He pondered what he should say. "Go away," was the first thing that came to his mind, and he uttered these words darkly into the receiver, feeling a temptation to slam it down. Yet he was still curious to whom would dare calling the phone that never rang-and so he let the person on the other end speak.
A small peep came from the other end, like someone trying to say something and then being choked before any words could come out. There was silence on the other end for a moment, and then the definite sound of someone placing a receiver back into the cradle. His phone crackled a bit, and then returned to a steady dial tone in his ear, reverberating like his still-buzzing alarm clock.
Slowly, he removed the receiver from his ear. He placed it on his table instead of the cradle, making sure that it made little noise as he put it down, ensuring that the phone that did not ring would not ring again. Turning back around, he almost literally fell back into his bed, slapping off the alarm. Now that he tried to sleep, however, he found it next to impossible. His body seemed to get up itself and turn back to the phone that did not ring, picking up the receiver. The familiar recorded voice of a lady spoke into his ear, and he placed the receiver back into the cradle temporarily, picking it up after a moment. Gingerly, he picked it up again and dialed star-6-9.
"The last number that called you was: 555-7849. Press one if you would like to dial this number now."
Charon pulled the phone away from his face again and dialed one, bringing it back to his ear. He could hear the tinny sounds of a computer dialing the number, and then the sound of a ringing phone on the other end. He waited as the phone rang once, than again, reaching up to three rings. A sound of someone picking up could be heard on the other end, and then a sweet, familiar voice, sounding slightly afraid. "Hello?"
Charon knew that voice. He heard it all the time at work, every day with the exception of the past two days. His eyes widened as he heard it, for he was sure that someone like her would have no business calling someone like himself. He was positive that she must've had the wrong number and must have realized it at the last second; that would explain why she had hung up. Rose the Uni certainly hadn't called him before; she was one of those pretty types, the ones he wished he could have but couldn't. Women like that never called him, and never would, and such things did not change in the world that Charon lived in. Before he could say anything, he slammed the phone back down into the cradle, his heart thundering in his chest. Immediately he regretted the decision, but it had been made-he pulled the phone off the hook and put it to the side, ensuring that it would not ring.
He stared at the phone, his eyes wide, his blood coursing through his body in a way that it had not done so since a desperate Lupe had almost taken off his arm trying to escape from the prison called the Adoption Center. The phone seemed to pulse with its own life, wanting to ring again, wanting to be picked up and used, to call back that number that was now burned in his mind: 555-7849. His fingers twitched, but instead of reaching for the phone, his hands dove for the cigarettes and lighter to suppress the urge with another addiction.
Opening the package, he pulled out a cigarette with his teeth and placed the remainder of the package on the table. Although he normally didn't smoke inside of his apartment (that was what he used the fire escape for), today he would make an exception. Bringing the lighter up to the tip of the cigarette, he lit it up, his hands shaking, making it harder to light. Throwing the lighter aside, he inhaled the burning tobacco deeply, feeling his muscles relax. Sighing, he fell back into the bed, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth and exhaling.
"Idiot," he muttered, closing his eyes, putting the cigarette back in his mouth and biting down hard on the filter in aggravation. The smoke from the cigarette drifted upwards towards the ceiling in curling patterns, reaching with clawed fingers and then sinking back down. He opened his eyes into slits, staring blankly at the ceiling. Within the smoke, he could see graceful images of a smiling Uni. A smile flickered briefly on his lips amidst his blank look, but then vanished immediately, transforming into a grumpy scowl. Sitting up, he leaned over and put his elbows on his knees, shaking his head, his silver-brown hair floating in front of his eyes.
Trying to turn his mind to other, less controversial subjects, he got off of the bed and headed towards the kitchen, giving in to the urge to eat.
Tears streaked through Rose's normally perfect complexion, a lump rising quickly in her long throat. A clump of tissues was stationed next to her, all of them used and sopping with tears or mucus from numerous nose- blows. Two empty boxes of tissues lay on the ground, and a third was stationed in her lap, her hooves wringing another to death as she sobbed. The phone lay next to her, the phone she dare not touch, dare not use to call his number. For she could still see the handsome blue Uni's face as he dumped her so harshly, and she could not trust herself to not call him and start screaming her lungs out between fits of weeping.
"I hate you Trevor!" she shrieked loudly and quite spontaneously, and chucked the tissue box, still full of tissues, across the room. It ricocheted off of a small clock on a table across from the room, a clock shaped like a heart that the blue Uni named Trevor, her ex-boyfriend, had purchased for her for their sixth month anniversary. A sense of accomplishment waved over her briefly as she saw it get knocked to the ground and shatter, but it was certainly not enough to make her feel all better. The pain was still fresh, only hours old, and it stung as if someone had thrown salt into a deep cut.
She needed comfort more than anything else, not the hatred that boiled inside of her, contributing to her inner pains. The phone in front of her was soon in her lap, replacing the box of tissues. Wiping her nose with her hoof, trying to make sure that she could at least be audible between her tears, she absentmindedly dialed the first number that came to her mind, assuming that it would be that of a friend. As she heard the phone ring on the other end, she waited for a cheerful voice to greet her, one filled with estrogen and sympathy.
Unfortunately, that was not quite what she was given.
The voice on the other end was low and most definitely male, scratchy as if it was behind static. A New York faint accent tinted the edges of his words, although not significantly enough to drastically effect his speech. The voice was shockingly familiar, one that she had not heard in the past days, bittersweet hearing it once again. "Go away," the voice grumbled miserably, his tone low. She was able to put a name to a voice after a moment: her co-worker, Dr. Death. Or rather, Dr. Thanatos-of course, everybody preferred to call the Techo by the more sinister name.
A little choking noise came from the back of her mouth. Hesitating slightly, she slammed the receiver back into the cradle, her whole body suddenly slick with sweat. She had completely forgotten about Dr. Death's absence from the workplace, and now felt incredibly guilty for not having called him and checked on his health. She slapped herself internally for not making the excuse of merely checking up on him. Still, now that she had called him once, she found it redundant to call him again-he would probably just complain about leaving him alone. He was probably sick anyway; the whole time she had worked with him, which totaled five years, he had never taken any vacations, nor sick days. It was unusual, then for him to spontaneously disappear for two days in a row, and now, presumably, a third, for she had taken this day off to mope.
There was one more jarring thing that struck her, however-out of all the phone numbers that she had memorized, out of all of the other friends that could have lent a comfortable shoulder for her to lean on, why had she selected the phone number of a Techo as horribly nasty as Dr. Death?
Her phone rang suddenly, nearly making her jump in surprise. The vibrations of the phone rang throughout her body, and she was nearly frightened to death of the prospect of picking it up. She knew instinctively who it would be on the other end-although Dr. Death may not have caller ID, anybody who hadn't been living underneath a rock surely knew about star-sixty-nine. It was unlike her, however, to not answer the phone; the last time she had allowed her answering machine to pick up a phone call when she had been home had been in ages. Swallowing, she picked up the phone, trying to even out her voice.
"Hello?"
The other side of the line was silent, just the sound of heavy breathing on the other end. It was not a threatening brand of breathing, however; it was that of a nervous person, one in fear. Seconds later, the other line was cut off by a loud slam. A rush of relief ran over Rose like an incoming tide, and as she hung up the phone she allowed herself a moment of relaxation. The tide was not high for long, however; soon it went back to low tide, and she was shivering. Her thoughts turned to Dr. Death-well, Charon, really, as she knew was his first name, but she rarely ever called him by it. She found the name Charon slightly eerie-the ferry-runner on the River Styx. It only added to the mystery of him; as she thought about it, she realized she knew little about him, expect that he had worked in the Adoption Center three years prior to him and lived in a lower-class section of Neopian Central, consisting of a crappy apartment complex. In fact, as she recalled, she knew the location and number of his apartment as well.
She did need something to do to get her mind off of Trevor; just dwelling on him would do nothing but sink her into a depression that she did not desire to be in. Shoving the pile of tissues to the ground, she stood up confidently, trying to plaster a smile onto her face. Yes, she remembered where he lived-and heck if she was going to just let herself rot because she had been dumped. If she could not find someone else to comfort her, perhaps she would find solace in comforting another.
Rose checked the crumpled piece of paper at least five times before determining that the apartment door she stood in front of was the right one. The paper she had found in which she had one day written down the address of Dr. Death's apartment had definitely taken its share of wear and tear, the ink smudged and difficult to read, but she was betting that the number at the end was a seven, not a demented nine that she had written hastily.
Still, she was hesitant to answer the door. Just getting to this side of down had frightened her-she had been forced to pass through many dark alleyways, even though it was the middle of the day. Delinquent, ownerless Neopets roamed throughout these places, those that belonged in the Adoption Center, and snarled at her, turning cold shoulders towards her and huddling closer in their small bands. Her heart had pounded in her chest as she took the safest path available to getting to the area, which, admittedly, did not seem very safe, as it consisted of passing through territory of rather hostile stray Neopets, many that Rose felt obliged to flee from. Everything was darker around the area; some houses in the alleyways were composed of little more than cardboard boxes. Even in the apartment, doors swung off hinges, the apartment obviously not looked after very well. It was rough around the edges, snarling in the faces of those softer, those not accustomed to its environment-much like the doctor himself.
It did not prevent her from wishing that he could've lived in a small suburban home in a friendly neighborhood that she could easily walk through without fearing attack.
The knocker on the door was broken, dangling from its side, and even the yellowing letters were beginning to sag. She, for a moment, wondered how she would knock. At the last moment, however, she noticed the rusty metallic panel on the side with a small button and a place for speech. She pressed the button tentatively, and waited. When she did not get a response, she wondered if it were broken or that he went out-in any case, she pressed it a few more times quickly, not wanting to stay much longer in the hallway, for a Bruce three doors down was staring at her in a disturbing manner.
"Sweet Jesus, once is enough, sweetheart." The door suddenly swung open with this phrase, the doctor in the doorway, his hand pressed against his forehead, face invisible as it pointed downwards. His other arm, a cigarette between the fingers of that arm, leaned against the frame of the doorway, his legs crossed somewhat casually.
Rose was absolutely speechless at his appearance. It was undoubtedly Dr. Death-she could not mistake the color and texture of his hair, which was rare in Techos in the first place. She had never, however, seen him in such disarray, nor with only boxers as his only clothing. His body sagged in an exhausted fashion, his posture absolutely atrocious, his boxers seeming to keep his torso attached to his legs, red plaid as they were. He was as thin as a rail, and if she had taken the time, she would've been able to count every one of his ribs without difficulty, his tail swaying behind him lazily. The usual somewhat messy silver-streaked hair was a mere mass atop his head, so full of tangles and knots that she wouldn't have been surprised if a songbird Pteri decided to make a nest of his hair while he was sleeping. His skin was what concerned her the most: its usual vibrant yellow hue had subsided to a greenish-yellow color, dry and chapped for a Techo. Scattered about his arms, legs and torso were scars varying in lengths, so many long fingernails crawling on up his skin. As he looked up, she could see his jaded eyes, a faded grayish-blue in color, seeming to have gained wrinkles at the sides over the past days he had been absent from work.
"Oh. It's you," he said apathetically, and shifted his weight to both legs, placing the cigarette back into his mouth. He allowed his shoulder to lean against the door. "How nice of you to drop by."
"Can I--?" she suggested, motioning towards the inside. Behind him, she could glimpse fragments of the room behind him. Like himself, it was in an absolute clutter, dirty clothes scattered on the floor, thrown across a beaten couch and on top of a cracked television. If the place had been cleaned up, however, she doubted it would be any less bleak-the room was devoid of most things she considered essentials, and those that were there seemed broken or forgotten, buried under dust and clothes and conveniently shoved into corners. However, Dr. Death immediately placed himself in front of the gap that he had created with his body as best he could, though with his thin frame, it was an effort done in vain.
"No. Nobody comes into my apartment," he commented icily. Rose swallowed, uncomfortable. "Just a second-let me get some pants on, maybe a shirt.you came over for a reason, I presume?" Rose hardly heard him, staring in disgusted awe at the many scars accumulated on the Techo, wondering where they had come from. She had heard that he had previously had an abusive owner before becoming independent, but she found it difficult to believe that anyone could achieve such a level of sadism. Quickly, she realized she was staring and stuttered a response.
"Uh, well. . .yeah, I did. I was wondering. . .where you were the last few days." Dr. Death gave her an irritated look, as it was quite obvious that she had been distracted by the marks on his body.
"Cutting," he replied, his voice as flat as a plateau. The two stood in silence for a moment, a mortified look on Rose's face, before a rare smile broke out across the doctor's face, a mocking one that laughed at her and humiliated her. "God, you're gullible," he grumbled, turning back inside to go get changed.
"H-hey, that's not--!" Rose did not get the common courtesy of being able to finish her sentence, as the door slammed right in her face. She gritted her teeth, considering leaving, but stayed, despite the Bruce's eyes staring into her back. She had a temptation to turn around and slap him in the face, but decided against it, as soon the doctor was coming out of the door, pulling on his familiar laboratory coat, although it was obvious he did not plan on returning to work.
"I'm supposing you dislike this neighborhood," he began, locking the door behind him.
"Well. . .I'm certainly not used to it. . ."
"Heh. A fish out of water," he said, shoving his keys into his pocket. For a moment he turned his attention away from Rose and to the Bruce that had been irritating Rose immensely. He dug into his trouser pockets and tossed a couple of coins at his feet. The Bruce looked up in his general direction and smiled vacantly. It then became clear to Rose why the Bruce had been staring at her; he hadn't been staring at all. As she looked closer, she could see a film of milky white over his eyes. A pang of guilt struck through her body.
The two walked in silence down the hall, the doctor not bothering to put out his cigarette although he was well aware of how thoroughly Rose disapproved of his chain-smoking. The question was inevitable, and she figured she may as well get it out of the way.
"Why do you have so many scars?"
The doctor did not answer immediately. He took a long drag on his cigarette, the white part nearly down to the filter. He pinched the end absentmindedly and threw it to the ground, reaching into his pocket and pulling out an opened package of cigarettes and a lighter. Taking in a fresh cigarette, he still did not reply, looking upwards at the broken lights in the hallway. Rose opened her mouth to excuse herself for asking such a question, but he stopped her. "Don't excuse yourself-it just takes time for a Neopet to properly sugar-coat a response for those too naïve to understand."
Rose's eyes widened in offense. "Wh-what? Are you suggesting that I cannot handle a simple story of abuse?"
"That's exactly it. To you, they're all related events-you see the Neopets coming in with scars, you see their drooping faces. You pass them by like just another, treat them with the same kindness, but it's all falsified. They are not related incidents-they are all independent. There is not one single machine that pumps out abused Neopets-it is hundreds, each producing only one, but each effecting others deeply enough. No story of abuse is 'simple,' Rose. It is fattened and fluffed preps like you that say such things are simple. You know nothing of pain," he answered coldly, his eyes not daring to look towards her.
"Fattened?!"
"Metaphorically, Rose," said Dr. Death with a roll of his eyes. Rose wrinkled her nose angrily.
"How dare you say such a thing! I.I should slap you!"
"Go ahead. I've learned to ignore pain. Zen Buddhism and all that good stuff," said Dr. Death sarcastically. "Besides, that's all people like you can do. . .hurt others." Rose clenched her teeth together, suddenly regretting that she had ever come to his apartment building. Hot tears sprang to her eyes as her anger got the better of her; combined with the breakup with Trevor, this was just not turning out to be her day. "Don't cry, sweetheart-you might ruin your makeup."
"It's no mystery why you don't have any friends! You push everyone away, hiding everything behind this tough-guy exterior. You think you're so sophisticated, Doctor Charon Thanatos, hiding behind your MD and your job. You're really just scared of people, scared of what they can do to you just because you had some crappy experience in life. You LET people hate you because you don't know how to interact with them otherwise, to let people like you. You're an idiot! I hate guys like you! You're so concerned with not being hurt that you lose sight of the big picture!"
"What crawled up your behind and died?" With that comment, Rose hit her breaking point that she had been rising slowly to for the past five years. A fuse blew in her head, a wild glare breaking into her tear-glossed eyes. Rose yanked the cigarette out of his mouth and ground the ash end into his forehead furiously, the tears in her eyes breaking the dam and falling down her face.
"There! There's another scar for you, you. . .you. . .FREAK! I hate you!" She thundered off down the hallway in a flurry of superficial tears, sobbing, her body wracking furiously. She didn't know why she bothered to waste her precious time with him, why she bothered to waste tears on someone as heartless as Dr. Death. Still, as she ran down the hallway, she could not find it in herself to storm down the stairway and leave him behind. She faltered in her step, nearly tripping on her hooves, stopping dead in the hallway. She clenched her teeth, trying to gather herself, trying to stop crying, although it was in vain. With a snap of her head, she turned around briskly, looking at Dr. Death with daggers, her speech even and yet carrying a bite that she had never before used in her voice.
"Do you want to know why I called you, Charon? Do you? It's simple, really, just like everything else in this world. A whole collection of simple events. Today, my boyfriend Trevor broke up with me. I thought we had something, something I had never experienced before-I thought we might be going somewhere. I was stupid, and dreamed of having children, having a perfect little life. But it all stopped with those words: I don't want to be with you anymore. Simple words, basic words. I was trying to call someone who might give a care-but for some reason I dialed your number.
"Maybe I thought it was fate-that calling you MEANT something, a new beginning, a turning point. I'll be honest with you-for the first few years I was with you, I thought that maybe you could be decent; maybe you just needed someone to open you up, to change you. Women love challenges-and I was no different. But I was ignorant like the rest of them, thinking I could change something that was long before solidified to stone. Yes, I LIKED you, Charon-maybe even LOVED you. But I was stupid. I was so, so stupid. All I am to you is another prissy primp to avoid in life. Well, if you want me to leave you alone, wish granted: I'm leaving. I'm leaving the job at the Adoption Center, and I'm leaving Neopian Central all together. I always wanted to live somewhere exotic anyway. Getting away from you will just be an added bonus."
Rose was able to break away then, her speech used more to convince herself than to scold the doctor. The choice to leave had been spontaneous and random, but as she thought about it, walking down the stairs, she realized that it was not a horrible idea. Getting away from the shackles that tied her down to this town would be good for a change-besides, she had enough money in the bank, collecting interest, to at least go on a long vacation.
She could not truly feel happy, however, even as hard as she tried, making her departure from the apartment, not daring to look back at Dr. Death. Despite what she told herself, the lies that she fed to her soul were rejecting everything that an outer voice told her. What had Trevor meant to her? He now seemed like a fading memory, really, just another thing to escape from. Had she really wanted him as a husband, as a devoted significant other? Perhaps. But he was fading quicker to a newer reality, the depression from the incident of their breakup giving way to the events of only moments ago. The tears that she thought had stopped suddenly found their way back to her eyes, dripping down her face silently.
For a moment, at the end of the suitcase, she paused, looking back up the many stairs. She almost expected him to be at the top of the staircase, looking down at her and shouting apologies down, begging her to forgive him, admitting that he was a jerk and that she was right. But no. That was not the reality she lived in, and that was not the Techo that she knew. There was only a vacant space where his body should have been in another reality, crying down his sorrow, his sympathy for her breakup. It mirrored the vacancy inside of her heart.