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After: Hang Ups


Ashley

I got hung up halfway through the window of Nick's garage, my body folded like a taco over the ledge, neither far enough in to pull, nor far enough out to push. I hung there, struggling against the house, my feet kicking against the outside wall of Nick's house, my airways being cut off as the window's frame cut into my rib cage. I scratched at the inside wall with my finger tips, fueled by the mental images of Nick laying somewhere in the house in need of my help. Then I caught grasp of a shovel, which promptly slipped between my fingers, and fell to the floor with a crash.

And the house alarm went off.

It was that sort of alarm that you feel vibrating your brain more than you really hear it. I squinted and covered my ears and let myself dangle there, half-in/half-out, picturing Nick somewhere in the house now feebly reaching out, unable to stop the alarm.

And then the alarm stopped.

I felt excitement rush through me and I looked up as the garage door opened, revealing a stainless steel kitchen and a stream of light that cast its glow through the empty garage. There in the doorway stood Chris, one of Nick's stoogey friends who I loathed mainly because he only seemed to show up when Nick was drinking or getting high.

Chris stared at me from the steps. He was unshaven and wearing sweatpants that looked dirty. "What in the fuck--" he started, but I interrupted him.

"Will you help me down?" I demaned.

Chris lumbered down the steps and over to me, reached out, and pulled me into the garage, copping a feel as he did so. I tumbled to my feet awkwardly and staggered into him before I could regain my balance and Chris grinned and winked at me. I stepped back, dusting myself off, slightly repulsed and reminding myself to shower later.

"What the hell were you doing?" Chris asked.

"Where is Nick?" I demanded at precisely the same time. My face was flushing though, even as I tried to play it cool, because it occurred to me suddenly just how stupid I looked, all worried and overreacting. I suddenly had a vision of Nick and Chris sitting in the basement, chugging Red Bull and smoking weed, filming videos of them setting Chris' hair on fire like the old days. I pictured Nick with his horrible drunk laugh that sounded like a barking seal.

Chris shrugged, "I dunno, he called and asked me to watch the dogs," he answered.

"When?" I demanded. And just as quickly as the image of Nick's seal laugh had come, it vanished and it was replaced by feebly-reaching Nick once more. "Where'd he go?"

"I dunno," Chris replied.

I felt like hitting him. Ass that he was, he probably was spending all his time smoking in Nick's basement and chugging Red Bull alone. His vacant expression only added to my suspicion.

Then it occurred to me. Nick was somewhere unknown, completely alone, and calling me saying cryptic stuff that doesn't even make sense. I had to figure out where the hell he was. I shoved by Chris as the panic rose up in my throat, muttering, "You're fucking useless," as I went. He followed me like a shadow up the stairs to Nick's studio-office and watched with a dopey look on his face as I started pawing through the paperwork on Nick's desk. "He didn't say anything about where he was going?" I asked.

Chris shrugged.

"Have you heard from him since he left?"

Again, Chris shrugged. Then he snuffled and wiped his nose on the back of his wrist. He looked like some kind of ape, like a science experiment gone wrong, like living proof of evolution theory.

It took me a few minutes of searching through papers to admit that the desk was no help in my search for Nick. There was just nothing there: nothing telling me that I was overreacting, but also nothing telling me that I wasn't. Chris just stood there all absent minded like while I searched.

I sighed and closed my eyes, my mind racing through a hundred different scary thoughts.

But the one that made me most scared of all was this silly, simple truth: He didn't call me Dogface.

Chris suddenly spoke, breaking the silence. "Want a joint?" he asked.

I opened my eyes just enough to squint up at him as he held out his palm, cradled in which was four thick joints, laying in the crook of his nicotine stained fingers.

"You stupid prick," I replied, repulsed. I shoved past him into the hallway.

"Is that a no?" he called.

I didn't answer.




Nick

It felt like hours since I'd heard Ashley's voice. What I wouldn't give to hear it again.

I squinted against the bright, flashing light. It flashed in a rhythm. Light... and dark. Light... and dark. Light... and dark. Like the light was swaying somehow.

There was a noise to my right and I tried to turn to look but the most blinding pain wrecked through my body as I attempted to turn my head. I felt trapped, and threatened, and the sound on my right seemed louder and closer and stuff and I struggled, trying to move, but I felt like I was strapped to the chair, unable to move. I fought against my bindings, but my every move burned through me. My head felt like it was being used as a kick drum.

It was a pain like I'd never, ever, ever felt in all my life before. A burning, tearing sensation and I let out a roar of agony, unable to choke back the reaction to the pain. "Oh fuck," I sobbed, "Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck!" Tears dripped down from my eye ducts, each one burning as they ran across my face. My face felt raw. I reached my hands - my abnormally long hands - and pressed them to my face gently, each cell of contact aching so badly I clenched my teeth. When I pulled my hands away, they were covered in blood.

I panicked.

Like so bad.