Pages Written to Rid You From My Bones...

[Bits and pieces of Ben Thomas' background/history since I've gotten all these images in my head, and Ben is not likely to talk about this stuff in detail BT]



I.

It’d all started off like grudgingly looking after a dog that didn't want help in the first place, and then by the time things got out of hand it’d gone and turned into something much more bittersweet. Like smoking the first and last cigarette of the day. Three years into the trash bin. That was one thousand and ninety five days he didn’t want to think of, one thousand ninety five days he couldn’t help but talk about. Half of those days had been the best in his life, and yet somehow one of them had gone and turned into the absolute worst.

He just couldn’t figure out which one it was.

That was what got Ben started as he recounted, no, poured out every little stupid, insignificant detail while Tinker sat patiently on the edge of the bed. Both his head and chest throbbed with loss, one more physical and real than the other. God only knew where Tinker got her morphine from, but Ben was more concerned about when the stuff would start kicking in.

He tries working the definitive moments out aloud, trying to compare and contrast days and events, never taking notice of the small hand that tries to squeeze comfort onto his jagged shoulder. Dumpster diving had always been good and fun. So had the pigeon coop. Well, that one was a bit on the debatable side. (“Akita, you fucking dick! You totally got that goddamn stupid sky-rat to shit on me on purpose!”)

The list of activities they’d done together went on and on. One thousand ninety five days. Six hundred twenty two arguments, and twice as many scuffles as that. But, for every one fist or cruel word there were at least four jokes and smiles exchanged.

Mostly it’d been him who did the smiling. Akita just looked too feral and wild every time he tried to grin. Those too white teeth burned into Ben’s fried brain and left tantalizing after images that followed him all the way into his fitful sleep.

Ben groans gingerly into his hand over his own stupidity as he recalls how, eventually, that almost too dangerous smile had started to drive him crazy. Tinker laughs mockingly at her poor, wounded, heartbroken friend, laughs even harder and louder when Ben tries getting off the hook by saying her smile drives him even crazier than Akita’s ever could. When she finally calms down her face changes dramatically from amusement to sullen pity. Ben frowns at the shift, but realizes that maybe he’s in need of just a little bit of pity. As long as it’s from Tinker, anyway. He smiles faintly at Tinker as she combs her powder-blue fingernails through his mess of stringy, nearly greasy hair.

“Glad somebody’s getting’ a damn kick out of this.”

After a hour of long, personal conversation, Ben is ready and willing for something lighter to brighten his mood, but his nicotine stained voice is worn down and tired, his single functioning eyelid fluttering open and close. Tinker says something good humored in return but it only falls on Ben numbed ears as he eagerly submits to the morphine.
Before passing out Ben manages to croak out two things. First is his burning urge to kick that eyeball stealing Akita bastard in the shrunken balls, and the second is tirade of gratitude for Tinker and her bleeding heart. She chuckles and makes a pirate related comment, all while making sure Ben’s bandage is on snug and tight. Moments later, he’s breathing deep and slow and calm. Tinker nods in approval.

The sleeping pills had defiantly been a good idea.