In all of the Junky Corners, there is no one quite like Carissa. When she's "on" she's like the Discovery Channel and a new book rolled into one, entertaining and much anticipated. In the weeks I've lived in the buiilding we've spent most of our free time together and it would be more if she didn't have to work nights. Standard practise so far involves her coming home between 7 and 8 in the morning to wake and bake me for some themed Netflix watching before she crashes out at around 14:30.
We haven't touched each other yet - intimately in any case. Sure, there are playful nudges when the TV says something funny and she held me close once without knowing why when I started missing Non-non really bad on her birthday but that's it. Okay, fine, we tried to once but there was hesitation on her part and I balked. And it's not that I didn't want to, far from it in fact. Carissa ranks as the coolest chick I know and dishing out some just desserts on her would be bliss but there's a darkness in her that will rear up sometimes and threaten to blot her out completely.
I saw it rise during a recent screening of "Legends of the Fall" during a Frontier Day themed session and watched her settle into a black tar funk that would sink a mastodon. It scared me so I ran and left my remaining testicle behind. She's cool but that darkness isn't for me - not when I'm just starting to see the light at the end of the Chunnel. It still doesn't mean that I don't want her. Every knock on my door is her until I open it.
Maybe I should stop answering.
It's noon on a Friday five days after running scared when a soft tap tap gets me off my bed and out of an Umbrella Academy novel. I'm hoping it's her even while knowing it's not her knock. And no, it's not my fallen angel but Twitchy the Homosexual Junky scratching his tracks outside my door."Got an extra smoke, man?" He asks through chattering teeth and sweat.
"Sure, just a sec." I turn my back to fetch my pack and he follows right behind without asking.
"I'll smoke it with you," he says, making himself comfortable at the foot of my bed and batting his eyelashes like a strength enhanced major league hitter. "Now that you and Missa Carissa broke up we can spend more time together."
That notion is about as appealing as flaying my foreskin with a Brillo pad and I say as much. "And don't ask me what a Brillo pad is," I say in response to the blank stare he gives back, "just trust that it wouldn't be pleasant. Now, take your smoke and get out."
He's never been ejected so soon and doesn't know how to react but there's a race going on behind his eyes that he knows he can't win with me. "Could you spare a pack til payday?"
Twitchy doesn't work a job unless felating the occasional octogenarian counts as that kind of job. Nope, Twitchy's an artist insofar as he draws a mental disability pension check every month minus his rent and he's about as reliable as a Lybian alarm clock. "You already owe me a pack, man," I tell him fishing a fat clip out of a clean ashtray. "What happened last payday?"
"Aw, you know how it is, I needed to fill a few prescriptions." He's parked himself in the best seat in the house. "Can I have this pillow."
"No, here." He takes the clip and doesn't comment, just pats his hips for a lighter except that he's not wearing pants, just boxers. "And get out." It's the first time I've ever ordered him out and he's not sure how to process. "Get on your feet," I tell him and wait until he does. "Now put one in front of the other until your over my threshold and close the door behind you."
He does what he's told with the clip dangling off his lip and I'm satisfied to be shut of him."Have you talked to Carissa lately?"
There's an extra mincey tone in his voice he knows pisses me off - the one he uses when he asks if he caj see why they call me One Nut."She hasn't been by, no," I tell him flatly. Twitchy really is not the person I want to be having this conversation with.
"She hasn't left her room in days. You were the last one in or out," he says just before shutting the door behind him.Fucker. I've been trying not to think of her sitting in the black tar funk doing nothing but blank staring at a bad DVDs top menu and this junky sperm burper (not that there's anything wrong with that) brings it all back into focus. There's a part of me wants to leave her be and forget she ever knocked on my door but I can feel my better angel getting ready to kick some ass if I don't gird up the old loins and check on her.
If the door's locked I'm fucked.
It's not and opens onto a scene that might as well be straight off my childhood horror reel. I know this layout all too well; the neglected disarray of scattered magazines and a toppled vase, the smell of an unflushed toilet coupled with sun ripened garbage complete with a hovering veil of red eyed fruit flies. The vase bothers me and I stand it back up where it belongs. Carissa's on the couch where I left her, pretty much exactly as I left her except for the new stains which smash the unflushed toilet theory to smithereens. Sitting in her own piss and shit she's still staring at the television only her hair's been chopped down to stubble and it's scorched in places. I'm also prepared to bet from the remains of her hair that she used the paring knife pressed against her wrist to do the deed.How far gone is she? And I shout, "Carissa!" to check her reaction. Not so much as a twitch.
"Shmiggle-dee piggle-dee alakazoo!" Her eyes narrow in what experience has taught me is annoyance - paydirt. "Nice to see that I'm not dealing with full on catatonia," I say on my way to the bathroom with her eyes following me the whole time.
"Leave me alone," she croaks.
"Nawp," I tell her without hesitation. "Call me crazy but I'm of the opinion that you might be in a bad way." There's a clean glass next to the sink and the water comes cold right out of the tap. But when I bring it back to her she purses her lips in refusal so I just put the glass down on her handmade coffee table. "You'll drink it when you're ready."
Without a word she sends the glass flying with a kick I'd never have expected from anyone in her condition. It shatters against the wall to bring a pounding from Twitchy in the next room. There are plastic cups and straws left over from a hen party months ago and I repeat the process. "You need to drink something, Carissa."
"Leave me alone," she croaks again.
"Again, nawp." I'm seriously considering physically restraining her and really don't want to - she played soccer through high-school and she's still a solid athlete. Probably why she isn't dead yet. "Do you honestly expect me to leave you sitting here like this? Now drink something."
She wants to tell me off but she's too dry and her voice won't come. Instead, she mouths something colorful at me and I laugh. "Take some water and then at least you could tell me off."
She nearly spills the glass in her haste to get the straw into her mouth, takes two long swallows and tries again. "What the fuck do you care?"
"I like you too much and have invested too much time in getting to know you to let you sink out of sight. Happy?" She's already shaking her head but I'm not done. "Carissa, I have no idea why you're so sad but I'm not going anywhere until I know you're floating again...and not in your own mess."
She's not buying it so I do the only other thing I can think of and sit down on the couch close enough to put my arm around her. She tries pulling away from my arm but her time without food or water has left her weak as a drowned kitten and I hold her against my chest. When she starts crying and clutching me back I hold her tighter. I can imagine the picture we'd make right now, clinging to each other like little kids in a pile of fecal matter and ammonia. I'm just too relieved that she's releasing to care.
I don't think I've ever told you faithful readers about my sisters but I have five and they're all younger than me. When they were little and upset I used to cuddle them and sing silly songs to make them laugh. There's something about sitting here with fecal stink in my nose and tears soaking through my shirt that takes me back to those days. Before I know it, I'm singing "You are My Sunshine" to the top of Carissa'a head and planting tiny kisses there after every chorus. Time stops to matter as her tears continue and I think she's finally fallen asleep like the kids used to do when she stops. No such luck.
"Do you know 'The Eensy Weensy Spider'?" she asks into my chest.
I don't bother answering except to start singing the song. And my voice hasn't been any good since I stopped singing to what passed as god but she doesn't complain as I make three quick rounds through - she even joins me on the last one.
The last "again" has barely faded from the room when she pushes herself away from me, tries to take her feet and sits right back down on the mess. A whole new scent experience is released by the movement which is enough to make me stand up to and offer my hand. "You need a shower worse than anyone I've ever met."
"I can't get up," she admits and her eyes start filling with tears again.
"So take my hand and let me help you," I tell her and she does. Once I have her off of the couch it's only a few steps to the bathroom and I can feel her trembling against me. "Lean into me," I tell her and she does so I can support more of her weight. We make it to the bathroom without incident and she stays leaning against me while I get the water running. "Do you need help undressing?"
She shoots me a 'what the fuck are you on' look out of what's probably habit and then nods. I starts with her pants because they need coming off and i try to ignore the tearing sound as the poop pasted fabric separates from her skin. There's the start of a nasty case of diaper rash forming on the general area and I make a note to fetch some talc and antiseptic spray. Shirt and bra come off next and I must be some kind of serious perv to note that she's got pretty much the best pair of breasts I've ever seen live.
"Okay, in you go...be with you in a second." I ignore the next questioning look, being too busy stripping myself to notice, and climb into the stall with her. She's got the usual female complement of lotions, soaps and gels in her shower but there's a bar of Ivory and a washcloth and that's all I need. Washing her's about as much fun as bathing a corpse but the soap and water do the trick. I consider washing what's left of her hair but she shakes her head and I don't wanna push my luck. Clean towels on the rack outside the stall dry us and I have her laid down in bed clean and naked within twenty minutes of undressing.
Eyes closed, lips parted, I can't help running my fingers over her scalp and sighing. "Carissa," I tell her, "you don't tear down curtains of hair, you take down curtains of hair."
She opens her eyes, finds mine and answers, "It all depends on how bad you want to see out the window."
What can I say to that? Sometimes you just need to look out the window.
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