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Title: How to Bum a CigarettePreview:
"Can I bum one?"
"Aren't you supposed to be in critical condition?"
"Is there a point to that statement?"
"You're having a laugh right?"
"Hey, I'm just tryin' to get a cigarette here."
"With the amount of meds you're on you will most likely die as soon as you inhale."
"Believe it or not that's a risk I'm willing to take."
"Well, I'm not, okay? I'm not going to jail just for giving you a cigarette and watching as you keel over in front of me."
"Well, that's sweet of you to be worried for my well being… But… that is a risk… I'm willing to take… Why are you looking at me like I'm brain damaged?"
"Because you're asking me to do something, which is actually illegal in the eyes of this… Prison. An act, which could potentially put me in an actual prison or fined money I just don't have, just so you can feed your unhealthy habit. WE'VE ONLY JUST MET EACH OTHER!"
"Oh come on, it's not like I'm asking you to show me your breasts."
"Oh for God's sake, I don't care what you say, I am not going to give you a cigarette!"
Brief silence.
"So I guess that's a no to showing me your breasts, too."
"Go to hell!"
Summary: 22 year old Dylan Harrison's boyfriend has been in a coma for a year. To keep herself from feeling guilty, she sits by his bed for 8 hours everyday, waiting, hoping that he will wake up. Until one day, Jack Mercer is wheeled into her life and she starts feeling like she's lost control of herself.
Chapter One: They Say The Average Person…They say that the average person spends 25 years sleeping. That statistic always bothered me. Any statistic that starts with the words, "They say that the average person…"pisses the hell out of me, which was weird because for the last year my life has been here about every statistic in the book. First of all, who is "they", anyway? I guess it could be the scientists, psychologists and doctors who conduct the studies could be the mysterious "they". Then again, it could be the proverbial "they". Also, what normal (average) person, who is so obviously bored with their life and is actually willing to submit themselves to this study? That alone would certainly not make them average. I mean, surely if "they" are watching this person's sleeping habits for his (or her) entire life, until the day the poor guy died, which meant that the poor bastard wouldn't even be able to find out what he'd lived his life trying to get answered, the whole entire thing would be a complete waste of a life. All for some useless information. And when they say "average"… Well, I suppose anyone could be average, I mean people in a coma could be average, but they were asleep all the time, sometimes years, and--
God, I thought to myself, leaning forward in the uncomfortable hospital chair and burying my aching head in my hands. I'm not tired, I told myself. I looked up from my palms, and leaned my head back to look out the window upside down. Could it really be dark outside already? A nurse came in and I could sense her giving me an off look. I rolled my eyes, before surfacing again. She was standing over his bed, giving him that sympathetic look all of them gave whenever they were in here."He's looking better today," she stated, whether or not the comment was directed at me, I could never tell. I sat up in my chair and looked over the metal bars of the hospital bed.
Does he? I couldn't help asking myself, internally. Does it make me an awful person if I can't tell if my own boyfriend of two years (three if you count this past one) is looking better or not? And is it possible to only just start looking better after so long, or did they just say that to make me feel better, like maybe that all this waiting had finally paid off. He certainly doesn't look dead… GODDAMN THIS FUCKING HEADACHE!
"Yeah, he does," I said, finally, trying to at least pretend that the "news" made me happy. I touched his hand and traced the outlines of his fingernails. Even after this long, I sometimes forgot what state he was in, and got offended when he didn't squeeze my hand or anything in returned. I sighed and dropped my hand back down.
The nurse looked at me sympathetically, a look that made me want to kill every time I saw it. I smiled at her, weakly. "It's six o'clock. You should go home, get some rest," she said, softly, picking up the chart at the end of the bed.
Shaking my head, I stood up, pushing the chair backward with the backs of my knees. "No, as nice as sleep sounds right now, I have to be at work at 8," responded, in a raspy voice that I used to thought sounded sexy, now it was just my normal tone because of smoking and stress, both habits which I took on before all this started, yet were becoming more of a way of life, one habit curing the other. I looked down at him again, fiddling with his idle right hand, by his side – his writing hand. "He looks so peaceful," I said to myself more than to the nurse standing by. It was a lie and a dreadful one, at that. I couldn't look at him without seeing… Nothing. It wasn't him, and as the way things were going, it would probably never be him again.
I leaned down and whispered into his ear, "Sleep well, Michael." After kissing his cheek for the second time that day, I rose from the bed and walked down the long row of empty beds and out the door.
XXXXXXXXXXX"Fuck," I swore, as I stubbed my toe on the corner of my bed. My toes had been permanently bruised ever since I moved in about a year ago when Michael first went into hospital, when I realized that my job didn't pay enough for me to carry on living there. The apartment was tiny, so tiny, in fact, there was only about foot between the wall and the bed, which meant that, every time I got the hell out of bed, the klutz in me would trip up on the tiny legs of the bed, which then causes me to curl up on my bed, my face wincing in unbelievable pain. Then I'd get back up, resisting the need to pass out, and most of the time end up catching myself on the damn thing again. Either that or I accidentally step on my cat, Sadie, which then meant I'd have to spend about a half an hour apologizing profusely until I feel that she actually has forgiven me. It is true what they say about your pets ruling your life.
I was late. Again. Despite what I had told the nurse, I did end up sleeping for two hours. Or should I say oversleeping. Being late was a ritual of mine, much to the dismay of every single employer I've ever come across. Still, I was usually only about 10 minutes late. At the latest. Although, lately it had been later because I was spending all my waking hours with my boyfriend at the hospital and then go home, take a shower, possibly take a nap for about an hour and half and then get up for work. Not that my work was anything important. I mean, I wasn't saving lives or solving crime. As much as I wished I was, I wasn't. At least they get paid more. Instead, I was working at this crappy diner across the street, working 12 hours a night for eight dollars an hour, pouring coffee for the people of Detroit who only came out at night. And let me tell you, there are a lot of angry, hungry, caffeine addicted people out there. And I've encountered too many of them. Afterwards I would go home, take another shower, a possible nap, and then head back to the hospital and spend the rest of the day there.
Detroit was cold this time of year. Snow lay on the ground thick and there were ice patches everywhere you stepped. Despite this, the "lucky" women who worked at the diner weren't allowed to wear anything more than the short, black skirts, blouses, and white apron we were supposed to wear. The fabric always did feel itchy on my skin, as though the manufacturer had tried to make it warmer, and no matter how long or how many times you washed the damn things, the feeling remained the same. I'd try desperately to pull the skirt down at least to my knees, so that the cold winter air wouldn't lick past my bare legs as I ran across the street to the diner and into the alley next to it, but I had no such luck. Those things were made of armor and steel. It was my uniform and the Sunnyside Diner had been my prison for the past 3 years. I was still trying to save up for college, which was now a lost cause. It had been since I left high school.
I arrived at work at about 8:20 PM, trying to finish my latest cigarette and repeatedly kicking myself mentally for oversleeping. I spotted a short, fat woman with short black hair and slowed my speed walk, looking at the ground. My manager. She was waiting by the backdoor.
"You're late," she said, pushing the door open for me.
After taking one last drag, I rushed through the door, manager in toe. "I know, I'm sorry, Suzie," I said, as I weaved through the hot kitchen, trying desperately not to look back into the face of doom. "I was at the hospital again today and I was trying to get a few hours sleep in and—"
She turned me around by my shoulders so I was facing her. "Just because you think you're Wonder Woman, doesn't mean you are." She spun me back around and continued to direct me to the coffee machine by my shoulders. "You need the same amount of sleep as everyone else here. And just because your boyfriend has been sleeping for a year, does not mean that you have hours of your own sleep to spare." We had stopped in front of that all too familiar coffee maker. "Now," she said. "Take a shot of espresso and get to work." I nodded, even though I knew she'd gone. I looked in the mirror that was behind the glasses and plates.
Dark circles surrounded my bloodshot grey eyes. Circles, which I had tried desperately to cover up with make up and eyeliner, unsuccessfully. My skin, which was always pale, was pastier than usual. There was a brunette mess of tangles, curls and pins on top of my head. I had tried to brush it after I slept on it while it was still wet. I sighed as a piece of hair fell in front of my eyes. After staring at it for about 3 and 48 seconds, I finally came to the conclusion that I was one of the most depressing people alive.
"Hey, sweetheart!" a voice called out from behind me, causing my train of thought to crash and burn. I turned around to reveal a middle aged fat man, one eyebrow raised expectantly, sitting at one of the tacky, red plastic booths. I resisted the urge to flip him off. Instead, I merely smiled to show that I was listening to whatever his dirty mouth had to say. "Can I get a latte over here?" It took all my strength to keep that smile plastered on my face. After a year or three of practice you get pretty good at the pretending-to-care thing.
"Yeah, no problem, sir," I shouted back to him, before turning around to the machine again and muttering, "Jackass," to myself.
Mark, Sunnyside's cook, walked past me and put a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Don't let them get to you, Dylan," he said, in his thick accent. He told me that everyday ever since I had started working here. Yet, somehow, his words never got old, and they would calm me down. Well, you know, as calm as a severely neurotic person can get. Mark was one of my only friends at the diner. I mean, if you didn't count all the blatantly retarded, sophomoric employees that worked there. But then, I was never one to get attached to anyone.
There was the waitress, Leslie, the sad divorcee, who always looked like she was about to cry, but wore so much make up that I think if she did finally break down and cry, the four horsemen of the apocalypse would be unleashed. I often wondered if her husband got her shower in the divorce as well as everything else, since she constantly had grease almost dripping from her depressed little head and the smell of body odor that followed her around almost overpowered the smell of coffee. I don't know which smell I preferred. Well, after three years, it's kind of hard to distinguish between the two.
Then there was the other waitress, Megan. She was about four years my senior and still thought she was going to get to college. So obviously lost on the way there, she was completely and utterly – blonde. She was the looker of the diner. I think that's why she was hired in the first place. She's been around longer than any of us others have, even Suzie. She kind of sucks at her job, but she still hasn't been fired yet. Not that I was complaining, she always gave Mark and I something to talk about whenever we were on cigarette breaks out back.
Next, there was David, the college dropout druggie. He was a nice guy, David, and a good-looking one at that. His hair was dyed black and stuck out at all angles. Nail polish constantly adorned his fingernails, which pissed the hell out of Suzie, even though he was just supposed to be washing dishes and was rarely seen by the customers. Except when he and Megan would get in to screaming matches about who was a better artist Eminem or Usher. Neither, in my opinion.
Then there was me. The hopelessly neurotic, hoping to get into college after her boyfriend woke up from his coma. Hoping to get married, have kids, the works, just what every girl dreamed, right? But again, I go back to hopeless.
I made the guy's latte as fast as my tired brain was letting my hands work. He scoffed when I put it down in front of him. Unfortunately, I was unable to get away before he began to speak. Don't listen to what he's saying, Dylan. Don't you fucking lis – "It took you long enough. You know," he said pointing a short, stubbed finger at me, "You kids should be able to work as fast as possible. All yous are young. God gave you this job, now you should be able to do it right, or not do it at all." I saw him take a sip and he cringed. Oh Christ.
Keep your cool. Don't give in. Just completely block out whatever the hell he's saying…
That's easy for you to say, you're just my
conscience.
Come on, Dylan, you've been confronted with worse shit than this.
Lay off me. I'm running on 2 hours of sleep here.
Oh that's right, I forgot we were feeling sorry for ourself today…
Oh, go shoot yourself.
"—You should be thankful that you're even allowed to do this job. Most of you here are just as incompetent as the hobo across the fuckin' street." Thankfully, Suzie came to my rescue. Or so one would think.
"Sir, is there a problem here?" she asked looking at me, and then the blob, tucked in the booth. I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms. Even if there was a REAL problem Suzie only goes by one rule: The customer is always right.
"You bet there's a problem," the giant-sized amoeba stated, pointing at me for the second time that night. "I asked her for a latte and you know what she gave me?" He looked around the entire restaurant, as though he expected someone to answer. "She gave me fuckin' decaf! DECAF!" Oooh, so that was why he was all mad and shit. "I am with the police force—" I snorted inwardly at that. Like that position made any difference in this fucking town. "And that kind of mistake could get someone shot!"
I rubbed the bridge of my nose with index finger and thumb. I could tell already that this was going to be a long night. My headache was still burdening me, and I had only been at work for 20 minutes. Welcome to my fucking life.
A/N: I hope you all liked the narrator. I'm not too sure about her, but you tell me. I'm ALSO not sure about the title of the fic, I have the feeling that it gives the feeling of sexual undertones… But maybe I'm just thinking that because I'm a 16 year old girl with the mentality of a child. But really who doesn't giggle to themselves when you hear them offer people "warm nuts" on an airplane? Be honest now But let me know what you think and PLEASE REVIEW!