29/07 - the day i don't care.
I AM ARMELLE. I SHALL NOT CARE.
It was Wednesday afternoon when I woke up on my living room floor. Calum was sleeping on my couch, and we had empty bottles of wine and scrunched up cans of beer scattered around the house. A breeze shook my hair out of my face and I looked up, my head pounding. One of the windows were open, and alongside that, a shelf had been knocked over. The blind blew forward and I stood up, closing the window and walking over to the couch Calum lay in.
I slapped him; he woke up.
"Armelle, I swear to fuck." He didn't rise, but he rubbed his cheek, staring at me with one eye open. His breath was knitted with alcohol, and I noticed one of the barrels we took from Michael's was left on its side behind the couch. Calum's shirt was unbuttoned, down to his navel, and his hair was swept across his forehead. Sitting up, he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. "Can you get me some Advil?"
"I can give you clozapine."
"Why the hell do you have clozapine?"
"I'm schizophrenic, you dick."
He was silent for a couple moments, and picked at one of the loose threads of the upholstery in the worn sofa. I frowned at him, and he looked up.
"So, can I have the Advil?"
"No."
"Why?"
"I don't have any."
"How can you not have any?"
"I don't get drunk off my ass like somebody."
He went to say something else, but I left the living room, walking into the kitchen and pouring myself a glass of milk. I'd ran out of cookies just the day before, and I hadn't found the chance to go to the corner shop to buy some. It'd been raining too much, anyway. I wouldn't have gone even if I had the time to. Instead, I took one of the powdery crackers from the bread bin and dunked it in the milk. It didn't taste as nice, and it crumbled in my hands. Calum appeared behind me, after a while, and scavenged around my cupboards. He made unhappy sounds when not finding anything edible, and his footsteps were heavy on the linoleum.
"Do you have anything to eat?" he said, finally.
"Did you not take any snacks from Michael's, last night?" I didn't look away from my food.
"No? Was I supposed to?" His jaw tensed, and he stared at me harder.
Shrugging, I handed him the bottle of milk. "Drink straight from the rim, and I'll kill you."
I took a moment to examine him. There were dark marks shadowing his eyes, and his face seemed slack under the afternoon sun. He smelt of leftover beer and fierce tobacco, and the cut on his lip he had was almost gone. He had lost the limp in his leg, I realised, and his hips were sturdy in place. There was a tear along the side of his jeans, however, which wasn't there when we went to Michael's house last night. Did he leave the house while I was sleeping? Or, worse yet, let somebody in? My frown set deeper into my face.
"Where's that from?" I asked, pinching one of the fraying edges of his jeans.
He looked over. His cheeks had a bit more colour in them now he had some sort of hydration other than alcohol.
"Oh, must've gotten caught on something." He continued drinking the milk, his upper lip swept with a creamy white. "I was really wasted last night. I don't remember how."
I studied him. The night before seemed like a blind spot, to me. All I could recollect was rough, that was all. Whether it was a fist kissing my cheek, or the ram of the headboard against the bedroom wall, I couldn't tell. The kitchen was a mess, too. There was a stain across the tiled floor, and the vase of roses I had perched on my window sill was tipped over, the water flooded into the sink. That wasn't much of a problem, anyway. The roses were already wilted. I was pretty sure Michael got them for me, but, whatever.
"Who's that sitting on Michael's doorstep?" Calum asked, leaning over the sink to look through the dusty blinds.
I gave him a hard glare until he realised.
"Oh, it's Michael." He pushed his hair away from his eyes and licked his lips. His face was shadowed, and he had bags rimming his dark eyes. "Do you think he noticed we stole all that stuff from his wine cellar."
"He had a gun," I said quickly. I didn't think before I did, but I remembered the gleam of the handle blossoming from his pale fist. It was a distant memory, and I had to force myself to remember it. "I assume he keeps it in his room. We could use that on him instead of one of our own so the police think it's a suicide."
He clicked his fingers and grinned. His teeth were stained from all the we downed.
"You're pretty smart, Mercedes," he told me. "C'mere."
I went over to him, and although he had his arms spread for a hug, I leaned in, and kissed him. He tasted strong and sharp, like tequila shots without any duller. He gripped my waist, and kissed back.
And with one eye open, I watched Michael drop his notebook and jaw contract, before storming back into his house.
