Claudio - Memories Haunt

[thefolksbetween]

Who: Claudio Kilgannon (The Amory Wars)
What: A homesick Claudio thinking on the events that brought him there and the one year mark of his family’s deaths.
When: June, six months after arriving, one year after events started to unfold.
Where: sirenspull, Claudio, Trauma and Jinx’s apartment.
Rating: PG - Unedited.
Note: Horrible use of someone elses character (Trauma) so I bed forgiveness on that Shells…

He phased through the door of their little apartment, invisible as normal. Silent he walked, not bothering to creep around but not making a sound either. He felt sick, a bit down and in general horrible. It made work hard to deal with today.

The theatrical director was pushing them harder for a more perfect work ethic, and really that was great and all but he couldn’t handle it today. Jinx was still there so he knew she wouldn’t be home, and Trauma should be at work as well, right?

Good, because he couldn’t handle company right now. Having left work early in a fantastic disappearing act he wandered home in the night, ignoring everything and going right for home.

Hell, he wasn’t even sure what path he took to get there or how many cars, people or monsters he phased through to make it there, but he did.

His pack was dropped, coming back into reality the second he let it go, landing with a thud on the floor near the door. His feet were already prying off shoes, appearing out of thin air soon after; having forgot he had his power on still. It was draining, but he had gotten so good at not being around that he could do it with out thought now.

Being invisible was easy in a city like this.

He walked to the refrigerator and paused, looking at the faded cream colored door and the mock wooden and chrome handle. There was a drawing he did on the front, magnetically posted there on light computer paper. A super realistic image of Jinx and a cartoonish style of dog like pet microwave, licking her face.

Drawing. He needed to finish the one he started last week. For some reason that one was important and yet he just couldn’t finish it.

Shaking his head he pulled the ice box open and looked in. take out boxes that he was sure no one would ever eat from again. A six pack of wine coolers that had a few missing. He grabbed one, hauling it out and looking. Strawberry Daiquiri. Who bought this shit? Not that it wasn’t good. He planed to toss at least one back before they were all gone.

Taking a box of Chinese and pulling it out he opened it, sniffed it and flinched, closing it and tossing it in the trash can near by. He could have sworn. Did anyone ever clean this out?

That thought reminded him of a time not long ago, Trauma and him standing there looking inside at the mess the refrigerator was. It seemed like a strange bonding thing for those two. A moment of amusing peace as they stood there in the dim light of the kitchen some night and stare at the strange growth in the refrigerator.

Mom would never have let it get this bad.

The thought made him draw back, staring at the light coming from the cool box before him. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there staring in, but shaking his head he stepped back, closing the door and moving to the counter. Rummaging through a drawer he popped the cap on the wine cooler, chuckled it into a jar of collected caps and wandered off.

It was starting to get to him again, that lonely homesick feeling. This Earth wasn’t so bad really. It wasn’t too far off from where he had lived before. A bit… different sure but it wasn’t too different. He understood enough of the place.

It still wasn’t home.

It wasn’t the smell of his mother cooking, or the sound of his father laughing as he played with the twins. It wasn’t Josey and Patrick having another fight in the back yard. There was no Apollo barking at the front door to let him know Newo was coming up the steps.

Newo…

That was another thought that hit him like a ton of bricks. He’s said goodbye to her a year ago. He was sure he would be dead by that point, having written a letter to that effect. Goodbye. What kind of good buy was it though? He poured his heart out in that letter as he said goodbye.

Wandering to the living room again he mumbled to himself, mocking his own letter. It wasn’t the exact thing he write but the mood was how he felt. It was like he realized now that he didn’t put anything substantial in the letter at all. “Dear Newo Ikkin how’s Apollo been treating you?” He snorted “Has he been a good boy since the day I left? Give him my love and a sweet kiss for his head,” his hand ran through his hair, looking down as he mumbled to himself “cus I won’t be coming home when you get this. I’ll be dead.”

He let out a deep sigh and flopped back on the couch. “Dead. Heh, right.” To which half the bottle of cooler was just tipped back and chugged.

Still tipped back and staring up at the ceiling he dazed off some, mind wandering. Wondering how she was doing. If she was alright or if anything had tracked her down. Did she put her in danger too or was she safe? That was a question he was never able to answer nor was he sure of. Maybe she was the dead one and he made it out fine. Fine and living in the future on Silent Earth Three and not being bothered at all by strange Priests or the Prise or anything at all.

Nothing but slavers…

He closed his eyes, thinking back on the pretty blonde and how she even ended up with him. He was such a loner to begin with… now he was just trouble.

Sometimes he wondered how much trouble he was going to cause his room mates. He’d never told either of them about his past, and none of them bothered to press him on it. Some how he spent the last six months in Siren’s Port with out a single person pushing or prying. Maybe he pulled off the ‘disconnected, don’t bother me’ look well enough. Maybe no one cared. Either way it was… alright with him.

It was bad enough that he even thought it over.

It had been the last few weeks that things started to get a little fuzzy on him. While sleeping his dreams started to effect him, to bother him. He could see it, over and over. Running into his home, dark and smelling heavy with copper and death. Stumbling, slipping in blood and falling ot his knees. Holding his sisters body to him, dead. She had been dead, right?

Life flooded her again though, her head picking up, looking ot him with lost eyes. So much pain. So much fear. She told him night after night about Patrick and her, and coming home and then the hit. She had no idea what happened nor did he, but night after night she died again in his dreams.

Not dreams. This was too clear for a dream. It was memory. His memories replaying each night as if marking a one year aniversity. A morbid point in his life. The morbid start to the end of one era and a begin of a new one.

From there he was attacked, he ran, he left his stupid little suicidal letter for his girlfriend and he took off.

Why am I thinking on this… he wondered to himself. Why think of all of this now. It was done and over with.

Just like his parents were done and over with. He had hoped to find them again one day, not realizing what had happened to them at first. He still wasn’t even clear. Rumors really, stories people told while he was on another planet. While he was hiding on a world of trash. They were dead too… and part of the reason these nine planets floated free as they did.

As he tried to sip from his drink he found the bottle empty. When did that happen? He sat it on the table and frowned. Why couldn’t he get his mind to shut off, just for a little bit.

It took a bit longer but he got up again, went to grab another drink, swearing he’d pick up more for who ever it was, later. He wandered to his room, phasing through the door and in, seeing Apollo curled up on his couch, his bed was a couch, and he liked it damn it. Loved it.

Not really.

He slept on it because he wanted to, sure. But he also didn’t ever want to let himself be comfortable.

Perhaps that was why he was having trouble sleeping, because he wouldn’t let himself sleep. He wouldn’t allow himself to rest? No, that was silly. He liked that couch. It had… form. It was… not as ugly as one might think.

He also realized that Trauma was flopped out on his bed and asleep. Stopped there he just stared for a moment, watching the emo boy in his passed out form. Oh… no work today? Huh. So much for fucking around with things. He was glad the boy couldn’t sense him at all though, because he would have felt bad waking him up.

Silently he wandered over to his side of the room, pausing to sit on the arm of the couch. He hadn’t de powered yet at all, so even now it was like he wasn’t there. Because he wasn’t there in appearance… in his mind Trauma wasn’t there either.

Though right now nothing was there for him, his mind was wandering so badly.

Sipping at his second drink he just sat there a long while before reaching out at a covered canvas he had in the room. His last work in progress. Oil paints, something he wasn’t used to using (he was pen and ink kind of guy really). But he was trying.

The picture on the canvas had been covered and hidden for a while now. He only worked on it when he was alone, and mostly in the day when no one was around to question it. It was his most abstract and morbid looking painting to date. A large 4x6 foot sized painting with a wrap around sides. He’s gotten far with it, splendid reds, grays, blacks and whites, dirtied up with browns and tans and heather grays, French grays and other splotches of stuff.

It was almost done, but not yet. He wasn’t sure what else was needed but it wasn’t done.

“Was wondering what you were painting this time…” came a sleepy voice from behind him. He blinked, sitting up and looking back, seeing Trauma still on his bed on his side, head resting on a curled up arm. His dark eyes were half open, looking over the end of the bed to the other half of the room.

“How’d you know I was here?” Claudio asked without thought.

“You breathe.” It was a simple statement. Also… the cloth cover of the painting had been removed, but he didn’t seem to need to point this out.

“Right…” Looking back to the painting he frowned, depowering to be visible again. “Sorry to wake you. Didn’t you have work?”

There was a yawn from behind him and the darker boy stretching some in bed, but he made no sign of moving. “It’s Thursday.”

Right… he wasn’t working on Thursdays at the moment, was he? “I see…” he tipped back his drink again and moved to put on a more pleasant face once again.

There was a long moment of silence again. One just lay in bed, half awake, the other sat on the arm of his bed, looking at the morbid figures in his painting. The mumbled sound of the sleepy voice broke his thoughts again.

“Thought you went to work…”

“I did.”

There was silence again, as if the boy had nodded off again or was just waiting for the other to speak more. Either way, Claudio continued with. “I wasn’t feeling up to working tonight. They didn’t need me so I headed home.” And another pause while he tipped back more of his drink. “Felt feverish.” He explained.

“Sick?” came a yawning voice. Trauma seemed far too tired to actually do much talking, but he tried none the less.

Sick? Was he? Perhaps. Homesick some, and just worn out a bit.

One year… he thought. It was a long time.

“A bit…” he replied, his voice soft. He finished his drink and sat the bottle down, moving to take up the cloth of his painting cover once again, holding it while looking at the figures again. A figure holding another, bloody hands, a bloody head, anguished abstract features splashed with blood.

“s’nice looking…” Trauma’s words were barely there now, obviously on the edge of passing out again. “Who is it?” he said, fading more.

The cover was placed over it again. He had already decided it was time to cover it over and start again. Something that might sell. Something worth a damn and not this morbid recreation of his past.

He tossed the cover over and said nothing, moving to pick up Apollo and hold him to his chest, the sleepy kitten snuggling down and going back to sleep swiftly.

He didn’t reply at first. Not for a while. Not till he was sure the boy wouldn’t catch it, or if he did he wouldn’t remember. But he was honest. He lay there a while longer and mumbled softly. “My sister…” staring up at the ceiling. It was pointless to paint things like that. To get them out of his mind and on paper. He still saw it. Always saw it.

It was pointless but he still tried. Always trying. If he could get it onto paper would it go away?

Not if it was a memory.

One year was a long time, but it was also no time at all. Just one year ago he had started his run… and look where he was now.

It was another twenty minutes before he too was asleep, passed out soundly, preparing his mind to replay the nights one year before.