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Nerd Gone Wild
Chapter 5: Struggling to Stand with Your Head in Your Hand
PG-13/R, 2446 words
A/N: This would have been up a lot sooner but when you work till really late the whole weekend and then try to pack, no work gets accomplished.
Previous Chapters: Chap.1 Chap.2 Chap. 3 Chap. 4

Chapter 5: Struggling to Stand with Your Head in Your Hand

“Do you ever get scared that one day someone’s going to tell you that you can’t do your job?”

“Sometimes. Why? Are you afraid that the psychologist is going to tell you, you are unfit for duty tomorrow?” Nick lifted his head off the armrest to look at Greg reclined on the other couch. He didn’t reply or even glance in his direction. “It’s not so bad; you’ll go in, they’ll ask a bunch of questions and then make a recommendation for duties. They aren’t there to torture you, just make certain that you are able to handle going back to work. If you’re nervous, you could talk to me. That is if you want to.” He still made no indication of any response. “We could play a version of twenty questions… You can ask me anything and vice versa, but you won’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” He sighed, waving his hand negligently in acquiescence. “What do you remember about the accident?”

“I don’t remember much…” That was a lie, he remembered many things. He remembered the coke he did, the bitter taste of alcohol he downed in one swallow, hands, and pillows. But most of all he remembered her; she was the one thing he recalled most often. He couldn’t remember all the details in her face, but her eyes burned into him. Blue grey like a storm, and glassy. They had been out of focus, staring off into some happy reality of their vision. Even as she began to slide off the platform, they were still looking beyond into that blissful nirvana she had found in her mind. Right before she fell, they changed. They had pierced his gaze, staring at him, through him, wide open. A flash of acceptance, or sadness had crossed those stormy orbs just before they lost contact although. But her dull, lifeless eyes staring back at him when he fell haunted him. They were cold, with silent accusation of misplaced trust. They followed his every movement, every time he gazed into the mirror those reproachful eyes stared back unblinkingly.

He also remembered falling, watching as the world fell away. It didn’t have to be silent for him to hear the crunch of bones breaking as people landed on top of one another, or the sickening crack of the human skull against the concrete, or the wet snick of objects sliding into body parts and coming to a rest. If he closed his eyes he could smell the heavy cloying stench of blood and death. But he could also remember the screams, the screams never seemed to cease unless he drowned them out. With vivid clarity he could also recall tears, sobbing, and phantom voices calling out for help, for God, for anything until they faded away.

“The dead of the battlefield come up to us very rarely, even in dreams.” A New York Times reporter had once written after viewing images from the battle of Antietam; this he recalled from his American history classes. How wrong they were; the dead of the battlefield did come, even without the dreams. They crept up upon you in the silent darkness of the night, and the frantic crush of day. Faces peered around corners, and stared back from your reflection in the mirror. Whispers swirled around like breezes, brushing across your hearing like forgotten songs of the past. Ghostly bodies danced across your skin in contact, raising the hairs and creating goose bumps in their wake. Sometimes they surrounded you, watching with their vacant eyes, and murmuring faintly until it became a roar in your ears.

“Greg?” Nick said softly, sitting upright on the couch.

“Hmm?” he replied, realizing his friend had been repeating his name to garner his attention.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, sorry. Just trying to piece things together you know?” He turned up the corners of his mouth in a sardonic little smile. “I don’t remember much. I was following this girl up the stairs. We were grooving into one another. Then I remember falling, and screaming. And that’s it. I hadn’t even been there longer enough to have a drink, everything happened so fast.” Accusing whispers of ‘liar’ echoed in his ears.

“That’s good I guess, the less you remember about those types of things the better.” Nick replied, taking a swig of beer. “Can I get you another beer?” he asked rising, and collecting the empty bottles from the coffee table.

“So it’s your turn to ask a question.” He said as he set a fresh beer next to Greg.

He raised himself up to take a sip, relishing the cool liquid as it slid down his throat. “Why do you keep coming over almost every night after your shift? Do you draw the short end of the stick or something?” He looked at Nick quizzically.

Nick scratched his head, his gaze directed at his beer. “You’re my friend.” He replied looking up through dark lashes. “And I guess I’m trying to convince myself you’re all right. You looked really messed up when I found you. You were surrounded by bodies… I didn’t even know you were there, but your fingers moved as I was photographing and I started moving things, feeling for a pulse. I didn’t even know it was you until a pulled a DB off of you. Everything was so surreal. I kept seeing you among the bodies and it creeps me out. So it’s kind of my way of reminding myself that you’re not one of them.” He took a very long gulp of his beer. “How about we switch to less morose questions? The other day, why were you listening to Beethoven?”

Greg smiled; he should have expected that question sooner or later. “Why not man?”

“I just can’t see you as a Beethoven fan. It doesn’t seem like your style of music.”

“I have very eclectic tastes on music I’ll have you know.” He laughed. “I really love that piece; I find it incredibly beautiful and relaxing. Of all the classical music I’ve ever listened to, it’s one of my most favourite. My all time favourite being ‘Toccata and Fugue in D minor’. Besides how can you not love a deaf musical genius? Honestly now.” He grinned widely. “Alright, your turn. What music do you listen to that someone wouldn’t expect?” Nick mumbled something, his cheeks turning pink. “What was that?”

“I said; I own a Savage Garden cd.” His face was stained bright red, and he stared at his beer in his hand.

“You own a Savage Garden cd? Which one? More importantly, why?”

“It’s the second one, ‘Affirmation’. I have it because an ex gave it to me. Well, more accurately it was in a box of stuff she left on my doorstep; she never asked for it back so I kept it.” He glanced sideways at Greg. “But now that you know, if you mention it to anyone I’ll have to kill you. And since I’m a CSI, I can hide your body and no one will ever find it.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “No one will hear a word from me. Your secret is safe.” Without warning, a yawn crept from his mouth.

“Right,” said Nick. “I think that’s my cue to go.” He picked up the half empty beers. He drained them in the kitchen sink before tossing them into the trash. “Sleep well and try not to worry about your appointment. It will be fine. Give me a call and let me know how it goes okay?” He squeezed Greg’s shoulder. “I’ll catch you later man.” With a smile he was out the door leaving Greg with the whispers of the dead in his ears.

He tried sleeping, he really did. But every time he closed his eyes dreams would come unbidden. He saw the faces of those who had died, but this time they were looking down at him, and he up at them from inside that Plexiglas box. Nick was also one of the faces. They chanted words over and over, soft as a whisper at first but growing in volume. Liar. Fool. Pathetic. Idiot. Junkie. Failure. Disappointment. Nick was the one speaking that last word. He screamed, pounding against the lid, yelling he wasn’t any of those things. He struggled, trying to push the lid off but they held it down. He railed as the box was locked. Liar. Fool. Pathetic. Idiot. Junkie. Failure. He sobbed as shovels of dirt landed on top of the box. Nick’s face was the last thing he saw before the earth covered him entirely. Disappointment.

Shakily, he got out of bed. He retrieved the little packet of heroin from his dresser, jiggling the bag ruefully at the little amount that remained. The words of his dream echoed loudly in his head. “Shut up,” he murmured, staring at the little pouch. Liar. Fool. Pathetic. Idiot. Junkie. Failure. Disappointment. “Shut up!” he screamed, “SHUT UP!” He sank to floor, tears running down his face. “Shut up,” he whimpered. “Just shut up!” With trembling hands he opened the baggie, taking out the last pinch and snorting it. Pathetic. Junkie. “Stop it. Please stop it…” He curled into a ball, sobbing as he waited for the words to quiet in his mind.

His ribs ached when he awoke in the morning, but he gritted his teeth and bore the pain. He looked like shit when he caught himself in the mirror as he washed up, but there was little he could do about it. As he brushed he teeth he thought about what he was going to tell the psychologist when they asked. He even spiked his hair just to put across some semblance of normal Greg. He had chosen to wear black pants and a multi-colour striped button down to help cement that impression. With one last glance at the mirror he pasted a smile on his face and walked out the door.

The psychologist was friendlier than he expected. Dr. Knight was her name. She greeted him personally in the lobby of her office, offering him coffee and telling him to make himself comfortable. She smiled warmly as he discussed what he remembered, but he couldn’t look directly at her. He kept seeing the dead faery girl standing behind her, blood covering part of her body, her lifeless eyes watching him. Every time he opened his mouth she would sneer “Liar.” With every word he said, one of her wounds would open and blood would drip onto the floor. And for every question the doctor asked him, and for every answer he would give, another of the dead partiers would appear. They stood behind Dr. Knight, leaning over her shoulders. “Liar, junkie, failure,” dripping from their lips. He found it hard to listen to her as the words grew louder; he blamed his distraction on not having taken the pain meds this morning. She nodded agreeably, telling him she could understand that. Soon after, she was escorting him out of the office, pressing a card into his hand and telling him to see her anytime if he felt the need to.

The moment he pulled out of the parking lot, he was on the phone. “Sanoma, I need to meet you. I’m out… I can be there in a half hour. Thanks.” He put in the ‘Queen of the Damned’ soundtrack, drumming his fingers nervously against the wheel as he drove down the street. In his review mirror he could see the faery girl staring at him with icy eyes. “Junkie. Failure,” she hissed. “Pathetic. Liar.” He turned the stereo up, refusing to glance in the mirror again.

He turned into a driveway, parking the car. He grabbed the book that resided under the passenger seat, tucking it under his arm as he strode up the front door. One of Sanoma’s group greeted him with a hug, ushering him inside like an old friend. The greeting was an act, he knew. Kept the neighbors from being suspicious, so they put on the charade every time, even though Sanoma or one of her friends would just as happily stab him in the back if it came to saving their skin over his. He made his way to the back of the house, stepping over others that had decided to try the merchandise on premises. He handed her the book and she gave him a different one in return. The money and narcotics never really changed hands, just books, and they never gave the same book twice to someone. She had thousands of hollowed out books for that reason alone. He opened the book, looking over the packet that rested there.

His phone rang, ‘Nick S.’ flashed across the screen. He held up two fingers to Sanoma as he stepped out onto the back porch. “Hi, I was just about to call you.” Liar. “It was fine like you said. I’m being cleared for work, light duty for the first few days and then back to the usual insanity.” Sanoma tapped on the window, nodding at him. She didn’t like her guests staying any longer than necessary. “I’m about to get some Chinese and then head back to my place. But you were right, everything’s good. Catch you later man.” He shoved the phone into his pocket. He headed back inside, picking his book up off the table. The girl who greeted him walked him back to the front door. She gave him a kiss on the cheek and watched as he got in his car and pulled away.

Dead faery was still there when he looked in the mirror, arms folded over her chest, blood dripping onto the seat. She glared at him accusingly. He pulled into a gas station, filling up his tank. While the pump dinged merrily as the amount grew higher and higher he wandered into the convenience store grabbing a pop and a pack of Pixie Sticks. He convinced the attendant to let him leave his stuff on the counter while he went to the restroom. It’s was an urgent need, he could understand right? Of course he could, so he gave him the keys and turned to ring up another customer. He didn’t take long, fearing someone would actually want the bathroom for its intended purpose. Just long enough to inhale a bit of the pixie dust, a little more than he usually ingested. He hoped to stave off the dead a little longer this time. When he started his car back up, he looked in the mirror, the accusing eyes and bloody faery gone.