Help is Round the Corner Chapter 11 (Part 1)

[goblover.livejournal.com]

Title: Help is Round the Corner, Chapter 11 (Part 1)
Author: Me! Goblover
Pairing: Chip/Ryan, Jeff/Ryan, others
Rating: R
Warning: Shit starts to get dark. Well, darker.
Note: When I wrote Chapter 11, I wrote (basically) a freaking novel. Therefore, this is totally staggered posting on account of it would eat the Comm like nothing I've ever done before. So it'll take more time, but in the end, I'll seem more normal.

-The first section is Chip's, the second is Jeff's. Jeff's is present day, Chip's is not (obviously?)

-Also, I can do math. I know that...don't worry about it. Hah.

Comments are loved and put into my self esteem o' meter. It's very low. Helps?

It felt like his day of reckoning. Well, maybe it was.

 

He didn’t think something could puncture his soul, he didn’t know that was even possible. He’d never experienced the intensity of just a rush of sadness and emotion, choking him, drowning him. It was just creating its own emptiness within himself that he could never touch or defeat. It was frustrating, and debilitating, and final.

 

He was shaking. He felt like he was shaking so much that it was painful. All of that adrenaline running through his body, running his body, (making his body run away) he was amazed he could keep his foot secured on the gas pedal without smashing the car to pieces. He wouldn’t let that happen. Well, it was a nice car after all.

 

Never in all of his life had he felt so hopelessly low. It wasn’t like him, not in this way. He ran a hand over the radio, knowing he wasn’t going to turn it on. There was some music he just couldn’t bear to hear.

 

It wasn’t his life to have, it was just his to give away. He had enough time to push through what he could, try to make a difference and fail, and that was it. On to the next person.

 

It couldn’t just be one day, one bad day and on to the next. Not anymore. No, it was the one that would change his entire life. Or what was left of it.

 

He was cold and even though he could still feel that, it had stopped affecting him.

 

He had just gotten past that outburst of tears, the one he had to acknowledge. So unlike him, he thought. Not that that made him weak, he just-Crying was something else.

 

He didn’t know where he was driving to, he just knew he had to be going. He had to go oh so very far away where nothing could reach him, no person, no feeling, and no emotion. Dead inside and out.

 

Dead. He felt the remaining contents of his stomach start to rearrange and creep their way up his body. He felt the tears coming back.

 

No, no he had said his goodbyes, that had to be it. That had to be fucking it. He had to wash his hands of it all, step back, make it someone else’s problem. But oh, the guilt. It was suffocating. He couldn’t breathe.

 

Funny how he thought he had built something stable. Something with a safety net. But it was all just a heavily constructed tower of stolen sewing needles held together with icing and shimmering red ribbon. Shiny, but never strong. It was going to fall apart, he had thought it out numerous times before. Just not like this.

 

Everything was out of place and completely disjointed. He wanted to make sense of it all but no answer was forthcoming. How every single aspect of his life could just collapse. Nothing could be revived. It was too late, and he knew it this time.

 

He started to hear his own voice coming through the muffling pounding of his ears. “Oh god,” he repeated over and over. He couldn’t even find a comfort in that. It was just broken, a fucking dream. God didn’t even-

 

He closed his eyes, momentarily forgetting he was on the road and driving. A flash of someone’s brights and a droning horn got his attention back to the road. He felt his heart rate climb.

 

Exist.

 

He just-he had to see each and every side of things and he hated it. Before he could block it out. He could know what was right and (he hated to say preach, but it fit) that- but he’d seen too much to keep his blind optimism intact.

 

It didn’t even feel like he’d had it to begin with.

 

And because he saw the sides, the excuses, the reasoning- he could feel it. And it felt like all of it belonged to him, that there was no one else there but him.

 

People always said he felt too much. Like he was made with this added sensitivity, meant for helping others, feeling their pain- his mother liked to say that. He could understand points of view, he didn’t even fight being beaten up in school because he saw that point of view as well. And it made him a great actor, in other people’s words. Not his.

 

Everything was just a smattering of thoughts and sounds until he found something remarkably familiar in the unleavened dust.

 

Jeff.

 

Just his name, just the thought of him was sending shockwaves through Chip’s brain. There was too much connected with him, he fit each part of the puzzle and he shouldn’t have. It was Chip’s fault.

 

All of it, he fed into this dream of his and he didn’t realize what he was doing. Not in the least, letting Jeff little by little inch his way into Chip’s life. Personal life be damned, Jeff knew and did everything. Took everything out of him, absorbed it. Maybe he should have expected it. Maybe at some point he could have taken that recognition of Jeff’s destructive behavior and turned it. Just selfishly turned it away from him and pointed it elsewhere, but he didn’t.

 

He was adamant on fixing it.

And for probably the first time- he wasn’t thinking of his actions as an effort to fix Jeff. He didn’t have the safety in thinking he was right in protecting him and saving him from that dark evil he had succumbed to earlier in life. No, he felt like a part of it. Better yet, the cause of it.

 

Anything he ever did for Jeff made it worse. So Jeff wasn’t ruining his life at all, oh no, Chip was ruining his.

 

Same with Ryan. Chip had every right to blame himself for the now permanent end to their…little nothing that they shared together. He always knew he was asking too much just to be with him. It wasn’t love and it wasn’t forever and he should have been able to accept that.

 

And Jesus, the kids.

 

No, fuck wait he couldn’t think of them. Right out of his mind. They needed someone to take care of them and Chip had failed them.

 

That was the end of that.

 

Patty, she…he didn’t-he just didn’t know what to do. Running away was such a childish thing. Unless he was a dog. Then he’d just be running away to-

 

He felt himself move his hand and turn on the blinker. Turning off the highway, then? Why so soon? Where was he going, anyway?

 

He didn’t know. He was on autopilot entirely. He was so far removed from himself that he couldn’t feel. Well, he could feel- he most certainly wasn’t numb. An out of body experience with all of his emotions still intact. The worst way to go.

 

If only he could stop for one moment and think. Rationalize like he always had, put his problems away and lock them up so no one could have to deal with them. Not even himself. But it just seemed like too much of a hassle for everyone else now. And he’d lost the key to that hope chest.

 

There was that echoing notion of how he couldn’t go back.

 

…but that there was nowhere else to go.

 

Maybe, if he had been better about it, watched more carefully, paid attention, heard the cries, not disregarded everything…maybe.

 

It wouldn’t be happening if he had just cared a little more.

 

He didn’t have an excuse to back him up, he was the only common denominator with him. The two of them, a failed friendship forged in ink and blood, documented death certificates for future reference.

 

He wondered if he and Jeff were to coincidentally die at the same time, would it have been considered some…suicide pact?

 

No, never. He didn’t even think he would…He didn’t know what he was doing.

 

Ah but. He didn’t even comprehend what he was about to do, and he’d written a note?

 

So maybe he did know and was still afraid. Especially how if he’d left a note specifying one thing and then not following through. Then she’d see it and he’d have to explain what had…

 

He couldn’t ruin this too.

 

He stopped the car and looked out in front of him through the slightly dirty window.

 

The beach.

 

And everything went silent.

 

For the first time in his life, he knew what he had to do. And he could do it. It felt like he’d been preparing for it far longer than he thought he had. Bits of memory snapped into place-filling in the gaps he had otherwise avoided. He must have had the borderline unconscious thought for years, and he was just now accessing/addressing it? That was a surprise.

 

With a sip from the water bottle that had taken up residence in his cupholder for far too long, he turned off the car and stepped outside.

 

He took a breath. (One of his last.)

 

As he walked towards the beach, he started to empty his pockets. A brief thought came over him about how his cell phone wasn’t there, but he let it go. Like everything else. It was invigorating.

 

His feet met the sand, and this natural calm came over him. It was warm and comforting, and he didn’t want to lose that feeling. To tell the truth, he didn’t think he was going to.

 

He could hear everything on that beach. The waves crashing distantly, the sound of the sand being disturbed beneath his feet, the faint music and laughter that only resided in his head as it played a familiar tune, a bird calling out- probably a seagull, but without the visual confirmation, Chip pretended it was something a little more majestic, a little more respectable.

 

Chip went to clench his hands into a fist, but found no tensile strength there in his hands to do so. He sighed, looking out on the ocean and feeling nothing but what he had to. No barrier was needed to hold back what wasn’t there.

 

He didn’t think of what he might lose because he could no longer recognize it. It was liberating to have one instance of being like a modern-day drifter, no ties to people or to life. A real one, not an acting job. It was so goddamn freeing. He was no man but himself. Truly himself.

 

He felt the saliva building up in the back of his throat and mouth unintentionally. Like it was watering for more. He knew what he needed.

 

They didn’t need him.

 

The further he walked, the more plans came together in his head. He sat down on the shoreline. Stay on the shore, he thought, give everyone a little more time with him on the earth. He contemplated what everyone else was doing at that moment, and the little flash of what he knew was the truth accompanying his thoughts was enough to cement the decision in his head.

 

That and the familiar voice in his head, telling him or maybe ordering him to do it, like it had been for years-perhaps unknowingly. He didn’t have to be around anymore, he was engrained in there already. Like he had always wanted to be.

 

It was so peaceful out there. Beautifully so. Drawing him in like a siren.

 

For a second he thought the lights had dimmed. But no, those were internal.

 

He was okay with it all. No…wait…

 

He was happy.

 

And goddamnit, he was going to drown there.

 

--                                                                     

 

If anything he thought back to the days of typewriter dictation, and how that seemed to be his life. That perfection was strived for but not achieved, there wasn’t a real way to back up- not without cheating, and enough mistakes and he’d wind up in hell.

 

There were certain habitual recurrences that came with him being who he was, Jeff Davis: the unflattering troublemaker extraordinaire. One of them was weight, something that was just going to continually haunt him, thanks to- well he couldn’t even blame Chip anymore, could he? He was hanging on to that thread for far too long. All he had left was himself to blame, every falter and every stumble was his own- and it was massive.

 

He didn’t think ballooning applied to people until he realized that’s how his weight worked. Blow up a little, let a little bit out. Go up a bit more, slowly let it out. One more time and the button would strain against the fabric of his already tight pants. It would break off, flying across the room for an escape. At least it could have one. And without that little plastic button holding him back he’d spill out the sides as well as the front, his horribly enormous amount of flesh already being deemed soft and playful by the non believers, it’d be pressing against his clothes, Chip would be staring, it’d just keep getting bigger and bigger-tugging and tearing, tugging and tearing, tugging and tearing.

 

He was going to pop. Given enough time. And if it kept creeping up on him like it had, it’d be soon.

 

He bought scales almost every week, like it was a fucking ritual. He’d buy one or two with a smile and a flirtatious glance. Then he’d go home and throw the older scales out, as if the machinery was what was to blame, not him. Funny that he was afraid of scales. Almost deathly afraid, it didn’t matter what kind it was. Because always in his head there was that thought, that thought of-

 

What if he looked down and he couldn’t see the numbers? Couldn’t see past himself? Had he gotten to that point already?

 

There was always the recurring notion he had that he was going to end up completely and utterly alone. Always trying to push people away, and then realizing that he needed them oh so badly so he’d pull them back in with a whine and a cry. It was vicious and demanding but he continued his little practice all the same. That was how he loved.

 

And there was something about love that he couldn’t comprehend. Everything on his side seemed to be a manufactured love, the love of the lonely. Everlasting and impure, tainted by insecurity and mental fodder.

 

But he kept on trying to fight the voice that was lining Ryan up as a replacement. Latching onto him. Jumping from attachment to another, far too lazy to ever make it obsession. Not that, not him. Goddamnit, he didn’t want that. He especially didn’t want that.

 

Ryan was insensitive. But then again, didn’t Jeff love poisoning himself with punishment? The term “glutton for punishment” came through his mind and he nearly threw up.

 

He could keep that thought at bay though, there was enough wrong with Ryan to keep him from letting that little…whatever it was fester.

 

Because that was how his perverted love worked. It was a disease, there was no other explanation. No rhyme or reason, just torture. He couldn’t let it happen, it had already happened once. That was enough.

 

And then, there were the frequent and recurring dreams.

 

He used to dream about a steamroller flattening him completely, but he’d wake up just as big as ever. Sometimes, if he was alone, he’d work himself up into such a panic that he’d cry.

 

He used to dream about a black shadow enveloping him and eating away his insides, but after the initial jolts and all, he’d wake up feeling fine. Maybe even better than fine.

 

He made sure he dreamed about death, so that maybe it would lose its stigma.

 

And then he’d wake up, proving he was still alive and a failure.

 

He wasn’t sure of what he was most afraid of in life. Maybe the more appropriate phrasing was that he was afraid of life.

 

“I have a problem with you.”// “What?”

 

Four times five is twelve.

 

“I need to see Chip.”// “No.”

 

Four times six is thirteen.

 

“You don’t give a shit about what I have to say, do you?”// “Nope.”

 

Four times seven is—

 

Fuck.

 

It was hard to keep events in order, time wasn’t something that Jeff could keep track of. (Or tell, if it wasn’t a digital clock. Didn’t really have the attention span in school to get through that one.) He remembered the trip to the bathroom, something about the kitchen and had he gone there before or after? Ah, knowing him probably both. The scummy residue of Nestlé’s powder was crammed in the lines and etched their own into his surprisingly older than he remembered face.

 

He ran his thumb over the backs of his fingers and he realized that he must have been up since he couldn’t unconsciously do that action. But he couldn’t place himself. (So maybe not?) And he hadn’t woken up in that way of frightful panic that he did so well. That he would have remembered. He was too calm. Either he had never gone to sleep and ended up in here or he was still asleep and part of a very lifelike dream-Nightmare.

 

But where was he? Nothing looked familiar.

 

There was one place he wasn’t a snot nosed little annoyance, where they looked at him and listened and nodded and never ever scolded him for his wrongdoings. It was a faded dream but he swore it was real at some point. Probably back when he was clear headed and saw the world as bright and as beautiful and full of potential, like people said he was. Like Ryan had said jokingly, like Greg had said in trying his best to be supportive over the comedian he wanted fixed in his image, like Chip had said. And meant it.

 

He knew where he’d rather be. He knew acceptance. The early on delight of not focusing on shit because all he knew was that he was too young to care was intoxicating, more than anything he would ever take. He’d dream of the outline of a house just as a simple imaginary solution to his problems. Years went by before he found out what he’d been describing all along.

 

It was Chip’s house, and no other answer was right. No other answer was safe. Not like the impossibly lit palaces he had visited, Chip had a house. A home was a better answer. One of those places he wanted to stay, tucked away from the rest of the world and tucked into a plush oversized armchair that he could fall asleep on just by touching the fabric. Something about tracing lines and figures into something just as soft as the pad of his own finger could make him fall asleep faster than any pill. A mathematical problem, he thought, one of those he had never taken the time to learn the answer to in school. He had to retrace it out until he found the answer, still contemplating it in the back of his mind-where memories still existed, left untouched and covered in a layer of protective dust. The stuff he didn’t bother to change, resurfacing only when he was too tired to do anything about it. He could explore tangents, but just unconsciously. (Ah, math again. Not his favorite subject.) People could still care, they could still be around him, people could still exist.

 

Yes, but only in Chip’s house. Where they lit the fireplace because it made the fucking heat of all year round California go away for a night or two because it was winter everywhere else and it may as well feel like it there. Where the worst words thrown around with a slight and gentle admonishment were darn and dumb and stupid. Where there was such a thing as a game night. He liked being near all of that.

 

There was a wire mesh holding him together. It wasn’t thick enough and it wasn’t going to stay, common sense told him that because nothing ever did. And he could hear the gentle snipping of a pair of dull and rusty wire cutters making their way towards his center.

 

He could die there.

 

He could die right in the middle of Chip’s living room. Callous fingertips could stroke him back to life, but only after he was ready for it. Back to life, with a flash of lightning or something just as dramatic. He’d stand right back up and look into her eyes and feel completely refreshed. Crack his back and there he was. No problems to his name or id. Existing only as some part of a newborn. Reborn was more like the right word. It appealed to him.

 

Ah, the conundrum of faith.

 

What was faith, really? He wanted to believe in past lives and future lives, where things made sense and where he could remember his past mistakes so he wouldn’t make them again. But it ruptured whatever he had of a soul to think about how there were no remnants of him being anything else other than tortured in this life. Therefore, no next and no preceding lives to be had.

 

He wasn’t going to let Chip win. There was nothing, absolutely nothing left to save. To save within him, no traces left behind by a previous owner. “Save”, hah. It was just great how the religious connotations swarmed the word to the point where even Chip was overly cautious of using it with Jeff. (To Jeff. About Jeff.) He didn’t want to seem like he was forcing shit, while he was-he so was. Chip probably looked at him and saw bits of scripture tattooed on his skin, every little rule broken. Every lesson left unlearned. Even though it didn’t communicate well through his words, every single look or sigh or murmur screamed religious distaste. Chip may as well have force-fed him the Bible.

 

See, he wanted the bestial nature of life itself to grip him in the chokehold he had thought was imaginary and throttle what was left out of his strangely deformed body and spirit. The grip would release once all was gone, and he’d drop to the ground painlessly. Let them discover him, he’d think. The coughed up blood staining their perfect carpeting, he imagined so much of it there, his lifeless body draped near the craft supplies that had been left out overnight, the overturned glitter container spilling all those shiny bits into his hair. Let the pitter patter of soft and tiny footsteps overtake his senses until all he'd be able to hear was the whining buzz of a nearby alarm.

 

It may or may not have been real, since most of his memories were completely fabricated (Hey, something to do with his time right?) but he remembered sitting with Chip and Patty on a couch, no tension whatsoever (Not on Jeff’s side, or any he could pick up.) There wasn’t even anything in his coffee. No, he’d said he drank it black and even though it tasted like shit that way, he’d cover up his small grimace over the fact of having to look like a complete pussy by asking for cream or sugar or that shit. He almost felt above Chip in making that little decision. Of course Chip liked his with all the sweetness of his little personality. Though, the more he stared at him- the more he realized that wasn’t him. The niceness sure, but not the—

 

Ah, he couldn’t explain it. Just Chip was much quieter than people must have thought. And that’s how shit went. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just unnatural to him at first. Especially since that should have been around the time period where every time he looked at Chip he saw a naked figure, arching his back against the presumably cold mirror. Something that would give his lip a quick twitch and a curl but nothing much else.

 

But for some reason his memory was always trying to correct itself. Say that Jeff hadn’t seen Chip naked, not really. He’d seen him with his shirt off and just imagined the rest because of the situation. He wouldn’t know why he’d have stripped him more in his mind, enough was enough really.

 

He’d just find ways to distract himself. He’d smack his lips or try and smile non-threateningly at Patty or just stare down at the carpet in those intervals and think about how soft it would be against his cold, dead cheek.

 

But that wasn’t where he was, no he’d have recognized that. He knew that cream colored carpet surprisingly unstained still. This was dark. Too dark to be something nice. Black Marley with an undeniable sheen. Thousands of old and tired voices screeched on about how those shoes weren’t supposed to be on the floor, but Jeff knew they weren’t real. Just his mind reminding himself yet again that he was doing something wrong. Because no one was actually there or speaking to him, like most of the time.

 

Jeff stood alone on a darkened stage. His tongue darted out and touched his lips. They were cracked, torn. Little bits of tissue hung off them like he had been biting at them for months. He heard a cough and turned his head not even an inch.

 

Well, maybe he was wrong. Maybe he imagined that cough. But it was in that panicked anxiety mode of his where he knew it was just a need to seek out a person. He was desperate in those times, hoping someone would be with him because he just.

 

Couldn’t

 

oh god.

 

Be

 

oh my god.

 

Alone.

 

He looked towards the wings- for any sort or face or familiar blur. Of course, of fucking course. Just to add to his panic, it seemed. He’d have done better if someone had strung him up with twine, in fact, he encouraged it. Anything to prevent the swaying of his own body to try and offset the intense amount of shaking. Goddamnit he couldn’t handle being left alone.

 

So as most things in life involving luck and another person’s presence, he was completely by himself. No one to help or offer a hand, showing him the way out. No, that would be far too easy.

 

A loud clunk was heard as the stage lights seemed to go darker. A harsh spotlight went up on Jeff. Well, not really. It more or less was put down on him, shone down on him from above. The great above. Making it way too fucking hard to see. Where was it coming from? It was fucking bright as hell, use the big spotlight. A great idea, if ever there was one. It had to be up on the catwalk or light grid or-Fuck! Jeff never took a stage class. He didn’t know the technical fucking term for any of that fucking shit. He didn’t work. Rough hands were for a day laborer. Not him, oh not him.

 

It wasn’t a normal spotlight, that was for damn sure. The more he looked at it, waiting for his eyes to adjust, the more orange the light turned. Before it was white, too bright for him. Too pure, yeah that was it. He’d rather a filter of unholy red gelatin tint his world, like the way it should have been. The way sympathy and sin had taught him from his younger years.

 

No, now the light was orange. Much like the sun. See- When he was little, he was told not to stare at the sun. It never stopped him. His mom would pull his hand to walk further through the parking lot but he’d stumble, looking up once again. No, he liked it. Directly disobeying, staring at flashlights even late at night so he could look up at the wall and draw lines in the fuzz and spots. It looked like he was producing his own light source, like he had superpowers in a way. When really the answer was damage to his retinas. Sometimes, just sometimes did he regret all of that, for the mere fact that his eyes had the worst reaction to light. Sunglasses weren’t just a cool thing, they were a necessity because the light hurt enough to make him want to tear up. Not the best thing for cameras to see.

 

But this light, much like other stage lights he had come into contact with, didn’t affect him any. (The deal with stage lights being that he had enough physical and mental drive to believe he could overpower those lights with a good staring down. He wanted to see, and just because he had to wipe his eyes every now and then-it looked like enjoyment. Double win.) Sure, he wanted to close his eyes, out of habit. But if anything he was drawn to that light source. Manufactured light source, but he was fucking drawn.

 

And for a second it seemed like the light blew away his eyelashes entirely.

 

He was sure that it did. A shocking feeling, it almost made his eyes spin as it happened. But he wanted to relive it almost instantly and was just the teeniest bit upset when he realized he couldn’t. It took him a couple more seconds to realize he should have made a wish. Or several.

 

He heard a sound, almost like rain. Rain sticks probably, those cheap ass things. Not too loud but not too soft, just the right decibel to be annoying as fuck.

 

He looked down at his hand in the light. (A thought struck him about how comical it was that everyone went for hand as a checkpoint for light adjustment. If you couldn’t see any body part, wasn’t it still just as dark? How was hand the official marker? That was one of those observations that wouldn’t even make the best stand-up write it down as material.)

 

And that’s when he saw it. Just a speck at first, maybe a bug. Crawling across his hand, but leaving a trail.

 

Of dead flesh.

 

Feeling a quick burning sensation he shook his hand out and looked again. Holes, there-

 

He took a quick gasp of air.

 

There were holes on his hand. He flipped his- And on his palm. His gaze followed up his arm, seeing more and more holes. Giving an easy view of all of the inner workings of Jeff’s tissues and muscles, which were clearly being affected as well.

 

He looked over at his other arm, jerking it out while it still moved. He wanted to scream out in pain or just to alert someone, but nothing was happening. He couldn’t even coordinate his mouth, it hurt too much.

 

The holes erupted on his skin faster than a spreading wildfire. He could feel his lips burn off before he could move them. He was sure his teeth were next to go.

 

A strong wind came from the side, blowing away his cheek. And strangely enough he was completely aware of what that would have looked like.

 

He couldn’t keep up, the holes were too deep and he didn’t want to touch them. He wasn’t exactly sure he had fingers.

 

He opened his mouth and unhinged his jaw. A flurry of white moths flew from it and surrounded him. He watched them as his eyelids were eaten away. They circled him, making a cyclone in the air and disappeared as soon they showed up. If his mouth was still there by the end of it, he’d closed it.

 

He looked down. His clothes were unraveling. But he didn’t see the thread. Everything was just disappearing, right into the light. What he knew, could have known- it was all gone.

 

The hushing noises from the possible rain sticks grew louder, becoming the only consistent sound in Jeff’s head.

 

Was he turning into sand? Or just disintegrating?

 

It was the light, the fucking light was doing it. But he couldn’t escape it, he couldn’t even move. He was just stuck there, watching his own death. And hating it.

 

What was left of his eyes rolled back in his nonexistent head and he began to fall. There was a loud thunk as he connected with the floor.

 

He thought he heard the sound of a detached eyeball of his (left eye? probably) roll downstage and plink to the floor.

 

Soon there’d be nothing left.

 

 

Jeff woke up, finding his thumb securely in his mouth. He pulled it out as quick as he could, embarrassed paranoia washing over him in that instance as drool began to seep from his mouth back onto his wrinkled thumb.

 

He looked around, giving himself a quick patdown to make sure he was okay.

 

Ryan wasn’t there that time.

 

--