Everything & Nothing

little things - tempest r.

Sundays are the one day of the week that I get to do something grand and fun with Rhys; escape from my daily routine, enjoy the many delights New York City has got to offer, meet up with the friends we'd made paintballing in last month's carnival and go out club-hopping. Regrettably, since Mouse's arrival in the scene, he has become quite busy with her. For instance, this week they've decided to spend the day at Central Park. Rhys invited me to join in but I've noticed that whatever's between him and Mouse, it's more than a 'just friends' deal. So I don't really wanna go with them, become the third wheel, make things weird for everyone.

Also, I believe my habitation could use some cleaning.

Mind made, I don a faded, old plaid shirt, denim dungarees, and tuck my mess of red hair in a bandanna. Arming myself with a broom, a mop, a bucket of diluted phenol, and a bottle of surface cleaner, I'm ready to commence the cleaning of the decade. I hit play on the portable speaker connected to my iPod, starting the playlist Rhys had made for me. I begin with the cobwebs that decorate the ceiling, then tackle the shelves and mantles, the photo frames and every other surface that wears a coat of dust. After that, I clean the insides of the kitchen cupboards, the bathroom cabinets, my wardrobe, and then rearrange their items in them with a bit more tidiness. I cover all of the rooms except for Ducaleon's bedroom. I'm not gonna be a creep.

By the end of three full hours, the ordeal is almost finished. And so is my enthusiasm of the task. I wish there was someone to help me in this, but of course, everyone's busy with their own lives. Anyways, all I am left with is a need to vacuum the floors and I'll be done.

With the house this clean and pristine, smelling faintly of lemongrass and pine, every plane squeaky clean and reflectively shiny, the only thing defiling this newfound purity is me. I stand in the center of the living room, beholding the pleasing results of my handiwork and seeing that my being is the dirtiest in the house; covered head-to-toe in filth, dust bunnies clinging to my clothing, grimy smudges marking my face and hands.

I need a long, warm shower.

I don't really spend a lot of time in the bath, but today, that feels necessary. I crank up the volume to Meshuggah (my current musical obsession) and use Lavender Elixir shampoo for my hair, citrus scented, Vitamin C enriched shower gel, and focus on languidly using the loofa in expediting the process of scraping off the dirt and the layer of dead skin cells. This is so therapeutic.

Just as I finish with the body cleansing products and stretch to the shower knob to rinse, by a particular, unpropitious curse I like to call my inborn gaucherie, I slip on my lathered feet and take a great, big fall. On my way down like newly-chopped lumber, I flail trying to find purchase and call a halt to my body's date with gravity—I'm not very successful. As is expected of me.

The tap-nozzle comes up to smash into my head, I meet the floor on my portside. Mind numbing pain shoots across my skull, followed by another crippling ache traveling down my arm. A combined torture that rips a scream from my throat. My head is spinning with a harrowing throbbing beating a relentless rhythm on only the left side of my cranium. I can't seem to be able sit up without seeing the world whirl and swim like crazy. The resultant nausea is exceedingly unpleasant. I try to lift myself on my elbows but my left arm only erupts agony in me. I cry out again and helplessly fall back down.

Through the haze of tears veiling my sight, I see the bathroom door open and someone walking in. Clarity sweeps in and out of my vision, I recognize the hulking person as Ducaleon. In spite of the anguish I am in, I transpire to be disturbingly aware of my nudity. Myself in this soap-covered birthday suit and in no condition to fend anyone off, in the presence of the male I have the hots for, who in turn might also have reciprocating feelings... Shit's gon' go down.

I attempt to tell him that I'm fine and I can manage on my own, but all that comes out of me is a tortured groan, the sound of which seems to make Ducaleon act faster. I dimly register that he opens the spigot and fills the tub with water, while murmuring something reassuring and sweet as Demiurge begins playing in the backdrop. He looks at me lying there, curled fetal in all my butt-naked (non)glory which I'm feebly trying to hide behind my crossed arms, then he reaches for me. I flinch and back away. A bad idea. I'm gonna throw up.

"Shhh..." Ducaleon hushes. "It's okay... I'm trying to help you here."

Something about his voice soothes me, perhaps its kindness. I relax and let him encircle me in his arms. They're strong and beefy, yet cozy, trustable. I like the feeling. Just as much as I'd been hesitant of him touching me earlier, now I want him to hold me forever—he has that kind of paradoxical effect on me. Alas, he let go once he'd successfully lowered me into the water. Yet again, much to the happiness of a hitherto unknown, kinky part of my mind, his hands are back. He runs his fingers through my hair, rinsing the shampoo from it. Accidentally, he grazes a sore spot, causing me to wince.

"You hit your head," he observes, gently caressing the potato-like lump that must've built up there. When he pulls back his hand, I see red on his fingertips. I manage to nod without vomiting as the sight of my blood brings an onslaught of overwhelming vertigo. "Your shoulder's been dislocated," he informs solemnly, adding, "but, you'll be okay..."

"Ow..." I say.

And it's one of those rare occasions when I get to see Ducaleon's smile—his luscious lips canting into a smile so tender and protective, it lights up my very soul, almost makes my embarrassing situation worth it. Ludicrous, I know.

He says, "the good news is I know how to fix your shoulder. The bad news, it's gonna hurt a bit."

I nod again, signaling him to go ahead.

He takes the towel from the rack and kneels back to his former position beside me, waiting for the tub to drain. As the level of water falls, I become overtly conscious about being fully exposed in front of someone from the opposite sex all over again—not like the transparent hydrogen dioxide had done any good in hiding me. Like the gentleman that he is, Ducaleon covers me in the towel, and patiently watches as I weakly tuck the cloth around myself in the best coverage possible. He makes for my arm, but stops midway and asks, "you ready?"

"Yeah," I rasp, bracing myself.

Ducaleon takes my arm, turns it a little in the socket extracting a yelp from me. He holds that posture until I'm nearly convinced that the deed is done. Unexpectedly, he shoves my limb into its rightful place in the shoulder socket. The pain is unbearable, coupled with the blunt force trauma that'd been bestowed upon my head by the chromium faucet. I make a sound like the animals at a slaughterhouse, my eyes are scrunched closed, forcing tears out to flow down my cheeks.

He rubs my back up and down, murmuring, "it's alright, it's over. You're fine."

We stay like that until I'm finally able to stop crying. I sniffle and turn away, wiping at my face to hide the fact that I look like a snot manufacturing factory.

After some time, I hear him question, "can you walk?"

"Yes," I answer frailly, even though I feel as unhinged as a chronic alcoholic. My attempt to stand is a massive failure when a dizzying, spiraling light-headedness overpowers me. Black spots begin dancing in my sight, then blot out all light while in the fading milieu, Meshuggah keep up their angry performance with, ironically, The Hurt That Finds You First.