Wednesday, November 4, 2015

NaNoWriMo 2015: Piggy & the Butcher. Chapter One.

It's that time of year again, so let's get started! Here's most of the first day 3's writing, at least the parts that compose chapter one.

Note: there's a bit of a oddity from rewriting a part completely, so this will probably get reposted (or I'll edit this most likely) when I fix it. That and I have to add more descriptions and stuff. But that's the fun of NaNo I guess.




One
Because it has to start somewhere,
might as well be now. Right?

He was naked, yet had clothing. It was the warm pajamas with the small yellow bunnies on green patches of grass, set across blue skies with white clouds. The feeling of his vulnerability was all the same. He was cold, yet was in the warmth of his bed. The blanket was of no comfort, and did not live up to it's name. It does that. Makes you cold, makes you alone. Makes you remember how it felt being born. Confused. Cold and alone. The sanctity of existence, gone in a moment. Replaced with madness. The vision blurs, the lip quivers and words fail in the thing that stood's presence.

Towering in the small apartment room, larger than his life itself without any boarder. It featured no form he recognized, yet was immediately recognizable to him despite not being allowed to look. Instinctual fear kept his eyes shut tight, and his lips curled back in horror across a whitened and tightly anxious face. It had a name, but he couldn't even fathom the sound of it. It was merely the thing that stood. And it stood over him now.

“If you did, I would kill you.
“If you tried to, I will kill you.
“It will not happen quickly. In a room, too small to stretch arm, too short to stand.
“You will beg for it to end, and the answers would be more of it. Deafness and blindness is what I will offer you.”

He tried to cry. Tried to beg. Tried so hard to make a sound, to do something. To feel something other than what the thing that stood offered and promised. Someone had to exist in the world. There was others, weren't there? Their memories faded. No, they didn't even fade. Forgotten at once to the immensity of the thing that stood.

“I will seal you in a womb. Insects will crawl and fill. Devour the flesh.” it was promising the boy, “And when that flesh seeps disease, they too will devour onto it with my command. Suffocatingly they will flap their wings, to give you air to breath. Crawl through nose to gullet to keep you fed, and carry the dew of morning to keep you from thirst. In summer those wings will buzz all the louder. You will grow to become deaf but the sound will not escape you. The breeze they give you to keep you from the heat will devour your thoughts. In winter they will huddle and mass themselves upon you. The heat of their legs and saliva to warm you. If you beg for death they will listen, but offer no answer. If you bit your tongue to end it, they will crawl to it and pince it shut to heal. They will live on flesh and tear, and there is nothing you can do.”
There was nothing he could do.

And so it left, the thing that stood, and although he knew it went, he couldn't say where. The memory was enough to keep him quiet, shaking and soaked in more than sweat in the dark. Eventually he did scream. At first his call for his mother was meant with nothing, it took time for him to realize someone was coming. It quieted him for a moment, but it wasn't his mother that opened the bedroom door, and tried to comfort him. To tell him it was all a nightmare, that he's safe. Despite begging for his mother, the elderly neighbor, Mr Pucci, had to remind him time and again that she was at the service. That she'll be back soon.
He sniffled, and whimpered as he looked down at the floor, “But dad won't...”

“I know, hun, I know,” Mr Pucci, tried to say calmly and soothly, “But she'll be back soon, you're mother. It's almost time for Hannegy's to close. She's with your dad's friends. They're going to tell stories, about your dad, did you know that? They're going to laugh about all the jokes he told, and they'll talk about how much he loved you and your mother, and they'll, they'll come by and see how your doing, and make sure you won't want for nothing, you hear me?”
* * *

Detective Deering called back into Hannegy's door as he stepped out, his voice slurred as he called back into the bar “Yeah, you fuck? Well fuck you, and fuck you're mother, you fuck!”
The elderly woman passing by quickened her steps, looking away to avert her gaze to the small puddles. A light drizzle making them shimmer. Still, as the man's weight shifted with only mild control, her own movements were slow and also unsteady. The detective, with his back turned to her as he had shouted into the establishment, sheathed in the black raincoat as he was, looked like an angry drunkard forced to leave. With times the way they've changed, the neighborhood haven taken it's turns, she didn't feel safe as it was, let alone when young men started to curse as they left the bar. Still, she was surprised when Deering cracked up laughing.

“What's that? Yeah, nah don't worry. I'll take the morning shift. Yeah I can pull double. Yeah, you too, get some rest and feel better ya fuck.” As he turned and saw the elderly woman looking at him in a mix of insecurity and fear, which turned to more confusion as his badge became prominent in the angle, he gave an unbalanced nod, “Evening ma'am.”

“Eh, evening detective? Nice- Nice weather isn't it?” was all she could say, despite the drizzle, and quickly averted her gaze once more to try to hustle past.

“It's raining ma'am.” Deering said, “Do, do you need help with your bags?”

“No, no I'm fine- really, it's just around the corner. Good bye detective, have a good night. Yes, yes.” she said trying to move faster, and although the quickness of her pace did indeed increase, strangely she moved no faster. Her strides had become shorter to allow her to move her feet quicker. It was sadly comical.
Deering just nodded, and took a few steps towards where the woman had come from, easily passing her by and giving another nod she either did not, or pretended not to notice. The bar took up two thirds of the block, easily, and he could see in the window his fellow detectives raising glasses, sipping from glasses or looking for where they last placed their glasses. As he reached the edge of the building, from the darkness of alley between Hannegy's and the closed clothing store next door, his partner Detective Lorenza poddled out, as she reached and checked every pocket she had looking for a lighter.

“Connie!” Deering called out, “There you-” his statement cut off as he rebounded off the very visible trashcan, and proceeded to curse at it, using various variations of the one curse word he seemed to know when drunk.

“Ugh,” Connie said lifting the found lighter to the cigarette in her lips, “How many have you had Xero?”
“More than enough, but that's still not enough.” he said with good spirits, “Oh, you got something on your chin.”

Detective Lorenza wiped at her chin with the back of her hand, before inspecting the spill, then wiped her hand to the hip of her black and gray jeans.
Deering rolled his eyes realizing what it was, “So who was it this time?”
Connie snorted, “Jealous?”
“Always.” he commented in a bored slur.

“Yeah?” Connie answered, as she placed the lighter back into a pocket that she would only later not be able to find it in, “Well if you get really lonely I can give you his number.”

“Funny.” Deering retorted leaning against the bar's brickened wall, but his face took on a somber cast, the unshaven blue of his chin scrunching up as he spoke “You think we'll find him? The Bastard? The one who took out Borga?”

“We'll find him.” Connie nodded, taking a drag, “He ain't getting away.” Her own face darkened, “You don't -that- to a cop, you know? You just don't do that and get away with it.”

“Was a nice service.” Deering mused, “He'd have liked that. I think?”
Connie gave a shrug, “I wouldn't know.”

Deering leaned forward a bit, giving that superior's look, “You should've come. To the service I mean, the whole thing. Not just the bar.”

Connie's sigh should've been enough of an answer. They've had this conversation multiple times, about numerous occasions and situations. When she saw he wasn't leaving it, she shook her head, “I'm not welcome there. Do we have to do this? You know that, so just drop it.”

“You'd've been welcomed. Sheryl wouldn't have cared. No one would've - who would not welcome you? It's a funeral. Funerals are for everybody, you know? You could be an estranged long lost bastard, and it's a funeral, so they just like, you know. Let you in, and grieve and morn and all that. Fuck, it's the one place you can go if you owe money even. You could Sheryl some change and she'd have let you come.”
“Yeah Sheryl, sure.” Connie snapped, “But, god you're an idiot, you know that Xero?”

“Oh, it's one of those things, huh?” Deering said stumbling away from the alleyway's walls, “That spurned lover thing, right. Gotchya. You know I've known-”

“Yeah, I know Xero,” Connie interrupted, “But I'm the one who cost him his promotion. I'm the one that made it so their kid had to go to the public school. Can't you get it, Xero?”

As she attempted to storm away, Deering took her shoulder in his hand, “Listen, for what it's worth, you did what? Reported him for what was it again? Right, bribes. Bribes. So he lost a bit, he should've gotten fired for it. Hell, fired, arrested and kicked in the boot.”

“In the boot?” Connie said folding her arms.
“I don't know, maybe I meant with a boot?”
“You're an ass.” Connie said shaking her head with a smirk.

“Yeah. I'm an ass.” Deering answered with a shuffling step that nearly saw him walk into his car.
“You're a drunk ass. Give me you're keys. I'll drive you home. Again.”
“Detective Xero Deering,” Deering said rubbing his badge with his thumb, as if to shine it, “Doesn't get drunk.”

“You're off duty, Xero.” Connie said as she lifted her hand and gestured to hand the keys over, “You're technically not a cop now.”

“Hey,” Deering laughed, “Once you bleed blue you always do.”

“Yeah, well,” Connie said shortly, “If you don't give me the keys, we'll put that theory to a test, and see exactly what colour you do bleed. Got it?”

“Okay, okay, fine.” Deering chuckled as he produced his keys and handed them over, “But do me a favor? Lemme pick the radio station this time, I mean it is my car. Right?”

“No, cause what you listen to isn't music. It's shit.”

“I'll have you know,” Deering retorted with a snort, “I listen to great music. I have established and fine, elegant even, cultural tastes.”

“Is that why you called Tets a, what was it? A fucking fuck? So refined. Elegant even.”

Deering looked over to his partner as she drove. She never wore anything fancy, or feminine, but she was still pretty, with her long mostly straight black hair framing her warm olive skin with it's simple darker make up tones. The brown canvas coat, a size or two too large, with small tears and scrapes across it's surface.
“Do me a favor, if I get killed. Not if I die, just if I get killed.” Deering asked quietly.

“Wait, what?” Connie said double taking a glance towards him as they approached the street light of Hayes and Lindberg.

“Just, if I get killed. Like Borga. I want you to do me a favor.”
Connie sighed, “You're not- ugh, fine. What do you want?”
Borga smiled, “Dress up for my funeral. Oh, in a dress. All that.”
Connie gave him a look with a raised thin eyebrow, her lips curled without amusement.
“Hey,” Deering laughed, “It's not like I'm asking you something hard. Just, you know, dress up.”
“I dress up.”
“Not tonight. Not ever.” Deering quickly retorted.

An uncomfortable silence followed 2 more streets, as the rain started to become heavier. The drops becoming pops and thuds against the windshild, becoming heavier but not necessarily heavier. Connie's air held off Deering's words, but it wouldn't hold.

“What's wrong?” he had to ask.
Her words were a whisper, “Do you think it's my fault?”
Deering shook his head, “What?”
“Borga. Do you think I got Borga killed.”

Deering gave a confused look, his hand moving as he spoke trying to figure that out, “I don't follow. How, you didn't kill Borga. Some asshole did. You didn't cut him. You didn't do that.”

“I got him demoted, Xero. He'd never have been there. If he was still a detective…”

“Connie, I'm gonna say this once, okay?” he said calmly, though his voice still slurred, “Fuck. That. Noise.”

She gave a laugh, a heh, and Deering shook his head “Turn left up ahead, will ya.”

“Why? You don't live on Klein.”

“No, but I wanna see if Sheryl got home. Probably should've taken her keys, ya know?”

Connie rolled her eyes, but smirked, as she put the blinker on, “You know, you can just ask her out now.”
Deering bawked, “Ask Sheryl out? Her husband just died!”

“No-” Connie shook her head, looking annoyed, “Her sister. The one you kept trying to dance with at the police man's ball, what's her name?”

Deering “Heh, I'm going to take love advice from you?”

“Why not me?” Connie said giving a glare, “No, you know what, I'm not letting you change the topic. Why not ask out whatever her name is? You had the perfect opportunity.”

“A funeral is -not- a perfect opportunity Connie!”
“Sure it is. It's sad, and she's probably a little vulnerable.” and giving a look to her partner and a teasing tone, “You could totally use that as an in.”
“An in?” Deering laughed.
“Yeah, an in.” Connie said braking a bit, “Is this it?”
“Nah,” Deering said shaking his head, “They're a few houses down.”

* * *

Mr Pucci yawned, quickly hissing and putting a hand to his mouth, or more particularly his cheek. That molar, again. Bad enough he could taste it, but now the infection had become intolerable to yawning. Grumbling he reached into his vest for the Anbesol to numb his gums.

The boy, Lanny Borga, had just finally fallen back asleep, or at the very least had become quiet enough to ignore again. He did feel for the family, but still, he didn't really care. He never had, really. It wasn't in him. Sure, people thought he was kind and nice, but he knew better. He knew he lied, he worked well to do so. Put on the show.

The boy's mother though, Sheryl, there was something about her he cared about. He hadn't felt lively in quite some time, but for her. Replacing the small bottle back into his vest's pocket, he fidgeted thinking about the woman, Sheryl Borga. Her curly hair with the rusty hue. The small dimples of her cheeks, set amongst the freckles. Those thing plastic framed glasses that only seemed to make her eyes look even more magnified, the blue in them softer. More inviting.

Dammit, he though as he shifted in the chair by the radio, don't think about it. No her. Not it. She's not an it, don't call her that. Don't think of her like that. But, he couldn't help but remember, she could be. It wouldn't be hard to have her. Own her. Even at his age. Sure, it's been a decade or two, but he was sure he still had it in him, could still do it, like all those years ago.

He remembered their faces, the ones from before he, as he called it, retired. The beautiful ones, before that last one that nearly ruined it all. That called for help loud enough to be heard. Why couldn't he quiet that one in time? Was he getting too old by that point? Was he too old now?

Pucci stood, with an audible crinkling of his joints, one hand placed behind his back near the hip as he did so. Taking a deep breath to settle his thoughts, he moved around the small living area of the Borga apartment, where photos stood in frames on shelves, tables and the sort. He passed uncaringly by those depicting Lanny, and the now deceased Borga. He had no thoughts for them in his head, given his mindset at the moment, that is until he reached the photo of the Borga couple, Sheryl standing by her husband on some anniversary.

Pucci's hand moved slowly to the framed photo, his face showing distaste as he covered the Officer Borga with his thumb and it's joint, the palm pressing against the frame tightly. As he focused on Sheryl, picturing her alone as that part of his hand obscured her husband, he gripped tightly until he was forced to release. When the frame's hinge, digging into his palm, pinched him he released and withdrew his hand with a forceful hiss, breaking the glass of the frame as it rebounded to the floor in a tumble.

He couldn't help but smile at that, as the crack seemed to create a divider between Sheryl and Officer Borga. It wasn't that he was infatuated with her, Sheryl, or that he even found her that attractive. Yes, she was pretty, though a bit older than his usual type. But it wasn't her body or personality that had aroused these old feelings in old Pucci, no. Borga's death, a death so close to home, the death of a woman next door, a woman he had watched from his window and spoken too, a woman who had helped him bring in the groceries as he walked slowly up the stairs, a woman who was kind to him… It was that closeness that had woken up the younger Pucci he remembered once being.

Yes, she was pretty, but he wasn't thinking of Sheryl as a 'her' anymore. It was pretty, but it, could be made prettier. As he picked up the picture frame, no longer needing to cover Officer Borga up for he had blocked him out, he saw It. He saw the images in his head, the fantasies of what he could do to her. No, It. What he could do to It. How It would scream but wouldn't be able. Wouldn't be allowed. How he could shove her – no, It down. Hold It down. He was sure his hands were still strong enough. It had a delicate neck, soft lines and features. Surely the act wouldn't take too much pressure. Would it? No, of course not.

Then, when It's eyes no longer fidgeted and stood still, when the jaw hung limply open and the fighting and gasping had ended, It would be beautiful. It would be gorgeous. A shiver dances across Pucci's own neck, a tightness in his legs and a shift in his abdomen. He felt young again.

The door opened bringing him a sudden fear, a paranoia that he might have been found out. He blundered shoving the frame back to the shelf, which he did manage to do but in the act caused several more to tip over. In his frantic attempt to pick those up too, thinking perhaps he can go unnoticed, he feared being discovered.

Luckily for him Sheryl was no mind reader. Fortunately as well, Sheryl had just come in from the rain, so he had time to arrange the framed photos as she removed her boots and hung up her coat. She even managed to shake her hair out with her hands, before Pucci finished and came towards the door to greet her entrance. Or, as he thought, It's entrance…

* * *

“Oh good,” Deering said with a yawn and a bit of a stretch, at least as much as he could stretch in the passenger seat, “Sheryl's home.”

Connie nodded, “Good.”

Deering giving a mock salute with his finger, “Sleep well Sheryl, have a ganite.”

The car with the two detectives continued on, driving past Sheryl's parked car in the street, and past the Borga's residence, with it's lights out.


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