The Weapon of Young Gods #3: Immobilized At Dawn

I woke up outside the window of my first floor dorm room feeling like a salted slug, at the center of all  the pain in the universe. My mouth was a sewer and my skull throbbed mercilessly. Couldn’t keep my  eyelids open at first, cause they were crusted with blood and dirt and sweat, but when I finally wrenched  them apart the first thing I saw was my right hand, a mash of red, swollen flesh.

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UPDATE: Edited a bit per helpful suggestions…

My legs weren’t very enthusiastic about the idea of locomotion. The terrible exertion of sitting upright was filed under “no fucking way,” but I felt the cool touch of morning marine-layer fog rolling across my face and that helped some, so I was soon sitting up painfully against the wall. My head spun from the effort, but I tried to fake myself into equilibrium. When that worked I slowly gazed beyond the shrubs and sandy volleyball court in front of me toward the curtained windows of the next wing across the way.

I figured the blackout was severe as soon as I scratched an itch on my left cheek and my fingers clung to something that smelled like vomit (once I unstuck them and tried to wipe my nose). Disgust and embarassment barely registered by now, but it was probably still worth knowing what happened. Well, maybe not- why find out who I fought with and yarfed on this time? Once the sun started peeking into the slits of my eyes, I began unfolding upright, but the lizard brain was taking a little too long to evolve and I had to take three or four shots at it before I managed to get vertical.

My head was still somewhere else, but I stood only a few windows and a door away from the salvation of Inside. Luck made an appearance, cause the front door not only wasn’t locked, it was held open a crack by a dirty leather jacket- my dirty leather jacket- crumpled on the ground. I dug for keys in my right jeans pocket, then the left, and was about to panic when I felt them inside a pocket of the jacket.

Walking came easier now, but I still felt pretty wretched, so I got to my room soon enough and opened the door to simply dump my jacket, snag a towel, and check if Peter was in there, and alone. Both counts affirmative, so if my roommate knew what went down last night I’d have to wait. Maybe kill some time with a nice long shower.

The hot water felt good on my freezing, aching body. Soap stung a little on cuts and bruises, but the trade-off was worth it. I sat obliviously against the tile wall, and almost fell asleep again, but Peter’s voice in the bathroom kept unconsciousness away.

“Roy? Is that you in there?” He sounded wide awake, the bastard.

“Yeah,” I slurred. “Hey Pete.”

“Wondered if you’d make it back here in time today.” He sounded nearer.

“What?”

“Yeah” he said, walking away, “you left a note that you’d be away, but then right back by today, so…” His voice trailed off. I heard a toilet stall close and began to rinse.

I tenderly toweled down and slouched over to the big main mirror. A pale, brown-haired person stared blankly back at me with hazel eyes, one drooping. His posture sucked and his body was unevenly padded from dorm food and alcohol. It was also blotched with purplish-red bruising and scabby nicks, some still bleeding. I leaned on the sink counter and surveyed the wreckage until Peter emerged from his stall.

“Damn, dude,” he said upon seeing me. “What the hell happened to you?”

I blushed with shame. It was one thing to perpetrate awful things when you knew what you were doing, but I’d had too many recent blackouts to find their consequences funny anymore. “I dunno,” I admitted. “I can’t remember anything for… the past day, I guess. Writing you a note, for one.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Um, has it, uh, happened this badly before?” Peter no longer harassed me for not holding my liquor like he could.

“Never forgot a whole day.” I  grimaced at my hideous reflection and turned to leave for our room.

As Peter followed me back I turned around. “Do you still have that note? I’d love to start, like, putting pieces together, you know?”

“Sure, it’s in the room. I think you wrote something about a midterm today, too.”

“Ah shit,” I blurted, and tried to remember which class my test was for and then realized I had no idea what day it was. I asked Peter.

“Friday,” he said. “October 27th. Want a spot on the year, too?” His eyebrow arched.

“Fuck you,” I spat weakly, and he laughed, giving me a thump on the back that hurt more than it should have.

“I’m gonna go get some breakfast before hoops at the RecCen,” he said. “Wanna meet me at Ortega before your test?”

“Yeah, okay, but I’m moving really slow this morning, dude.”

“No worries. Note’s on my desk.”

He took off. I dragged myself into to our room, hung my towel, and stepped into wrinkly briefs. Looked at his desk, saw the note on a folded Post-It, and picked it up.

“Hi asshole,” it read. “I’m bailing to OC tonight with Derek. Back for a Spanish test tomorrow. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, unless you name it after me.”

At least the Spanish-speaking skeletons were rational on some level, I thought, as I dove into a sweatshirt, pulled on dirty jeans, and slowly filled my backpack for class. The exam was at one, but it was only ten to seven now, so I decided to cram til lunch before flailing through the test. Since all sources except one happened to be in high school, I’d have to wait a little longer for any sordid details about last night.

The day was overcast by the time I stood outside the dining hall, yawning but fixated on a TV set placed above the entryway. I’d expected to see more lame analysis of the three-week-old O.J. verdict, but instead I was snagged by footage captioned “Costly SoCal Firestorm Rages!” I’d recognized the buildings in the shot: huge, unfinished white-elephants that stood high on a hill above Aliso Canyon, about five minutes across town from my stepdad’s house. A tiny line of firefighters stood between the blaze and the valuable real estate, protecting still-empty homes from infernal disaster.

I looked away to check in with the attendant swiping cards, got some cereal, and found Peter at a table in the far corner, underneath a second television. “Seen this shit?” he asked, without taking his eyes off the breaking news. “Your hometown, right?”

“Sort of,” I said through a spoonful of flakes, “but yeah, it’s pretty much where I grew up after we moved from back east.”

Peter finally looked at me expectantly. “Um…. and?”

“And what, dude?” I shot back. “The fire’s still far from burning down my stepdad’s place.”

“So?” he sputtered. “That’s someone’s house right there on TV too. You’re being like, really callous, man.”

“You didn’t hear what I said, Pete.” I replied. The headache was coming back. “Those monstrosities aren’t even finished yet. Excuse me if I don’t give a fuck when some developer loses money on his shitty so-called ‘luxury homes’.”

Peter smirked but did not reply. He was from San Bernardino, and got himself out of there as soon as he could, so he didn’t yet know the pleasure of living next to acres of graded dirt and burgeoning suburbs. He never got my joke about raw exposed earth being the symbol of Orange County.

We sat in silence for another fifteen minutes, watching the footage roll in. The fire had been burning for about six hours, and had behaved strangely- blowing inland, up the canyon and away from most of the McMansions and other homes in the area. It was still a tense situation, though, because if the wind shifted either Laguna Beach to the immediate west or Laguna Niguel to the east would go up like a torch.

“You want callous?” I asked suddenly. “Should I hope for the fire to burn the city of rich liberal gay artistes, or should I wish that they’re spared for the sake of destroying the hometown of eminently fuckable and totally spoiled daddy’s girl Republican princesses?” I gave the table a quick ba-dump with my spoon, but my roommate still looked wooden, and for a second I thought I offended him.

“You prick.” He ignored my thoughtless jab. “Growing up around all those selfish rich kids has stunted your soul. Why don’t you just hope the fire gets put out before either happens?”

“Fine,” I shrugged, before cursing my sore body and half-dead brain again as we got up to leave.