The Degenerate (TO BE REWRITTEN...SOON)

CHAPTER 17: Small Talk and Deep Thoughts

A/N: Okay so I wrote two parts of a kinda long chapter. I was gong to put them together, but I decided they really have nothing to do with each other and would be better suited as two short, seperate chapters. So, as always, enjoy, my beautiful, wonderful, smart and lovely readers. :)

 CHAPTER 17: SMALL TALK AND DEEP THOUGHTS

I got used to the oasis life quickly. For most of the day, I swam, picked fruit, and learned to weave baskets and such out of leaves and grass. It was a nice change from being at a constant state of starving, arguing and burning to a crisp. A really, really nice change actually. But it still couldn’t compare to indoor plumbing and Wi-Fi, not that I was complaining.

“How’d you even learn to do this?” I asked one sunny afternoon, a slight breeze stirring my now chin-length bangs. I swiped them behind my ear and pursed my lips as my clumsy fingers attempted to weave multiple palm strands at once.

“You pick up a lot when you’re on the run,” he said, finishing up a neatly-done basket. I pursed my lips and looked down at my messy, uneven pattern. “I mean, I’ve had some time to perfect the technique. It’s not like I make a living off selling these things.”

I thought about that for a moment. Rick never stroked me as the arts ‘n’ crafts type. “Well, if you weren’t a degenerate, how would you like to make a living?”

Rick shrugged. “I dunno. I never really thought about it before. If I had to pick, though, I guess I’d be an architect. I mean, I can hardly draw a stick figure, but I’ve always had a thing for buildings. One time, we were in San Francisco and I saw the Golden Gate Bridge. It was so cool, I just- why are you laughing?”

I was quaking from silent laughter when I pursed my lips to stop it. “Wouldn’t you be more happy doing something you love, like…prostitution?”

He smirked like the old Rick. “Doing what I do best.”

My face went totally blank. “Oh, totally. But you’d have to shave your pubes, you know.”

Rick’s smirk faded as my momentary composure broke. He immediately came back with a comeback, “hey, some women like the grass long in the garden.”

“Okay, okay- enough.” I said, already regretting bringing up the subject of Rick’s bodily hair. Shudder.

There was a brief pause before Rick spoke. “I’ve been meaning to ask you since I found you at the bottom of that mountain,” he started, looking up from his perfectly weaved basket, “this entire time that you’ve been in the desert, have you matured at all?”

I frowned. “It’s been like…three weeks? A month? Two months? Something like that. How could I of matured in- oh. You meant that kind of matured. How long does it even take for a degenerate to mature?”

“Well, typically it takes about a couple years for the change to be complete. But for the first couple stages, it hardly takes two months. It’s weird. Has anything….happened since we last met? Have you been constantly nauseous? Migraines? Body pains, aches…extreme thirst for blood?”

I frowned deeper. “Well, yeah. But I’m pretty sure I was just dehydrated. The last time I drank blood was the day I climbed that mountain. There was a rat, but nothing human.”

Rick muttered, “Weird,” again and looked back down at his work. He laughed through his nose. “Are you sure you’re even a degenerate?”

The thought had crossed my mind, but then the memory of the night in the parking lot would cross my mind. “I said my craving for blood wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle, not that it wasn’t there.” I nicked my finger on the edge of the palm frond and squeaked. My finger shot towards my lips to suck the small bead of blood, not thinking, until a hand grabbed my wrist. I turned to Rick, a question in my eyes.

“Just to be safe. Even your blood could get you revved up, thirsty.” I averted my eyes from his intense ones.

“O…kay? Thanks, I guess.” I yanked my wrist from his grasp. People touching me was not my favorite thing to experience.  I huffed and pushed my ‘basket’ aside, deciding this task was useless. Rick was better at these stereotypical feminine tasks than I was. I stood and brushed the dirt that wasn’t ground into the material off my jeans. “I’m gonna go have lunch.”

Rick shrugged and started weaving again. “You know where the pantry is.”

I shook my head and headed over to the shack to grab a handful of grapes, or possibly a mango. Nah, I was feeling more grape-ish at the moment.

I pushed back the hanging-leaf door and entered the shack. Early-morning sunlight gleamed off the mostly-ripe cluster of fruits, a few rotten bananas black and stinking on the floor. I kicked them aside and plucked a few grapes and plopped them in my mouth, relishing the sweet, robust burst of flavor. On second thought, I grabbed a fistful of the fruits and leaned against a wall.

Lately, I ate as much as I could possibly stuff in my stomach at a time. It was like I always had this suspicion in the back of my mind that I still might not get enough. Eventually, I gained weight. My ribs didn’t stick out like curved swords straining against my skin. My fingers weren’t toothpicks anymore.

There was this recurring thought in my head that I never could seem to get rid of. What had become of Anthony? Had he suffered some typically cruel fate, like falling off a cliff like Phoebe had? Or died of thirst, or a hungry, rabid coyote’s muzzle? Was he just barely hanging on? Or had he found California, like he hoped he had? Was that bastard enjoying the blessing that was electricity and air conditioning?

Would I ever even make it to Las Vegas?

I tried ridding my mind of these thoughts by taking long naps, swims, and walks. And, sometimes, it worked. But eventually, usually right before I fell asleep while watching the dusty star-ridden sky at night, Anthony’s hurricane eyes surrounded by a bitter, blank face would reappear.

My stupid conscience wouldn’t let his memory die. 

But Anthony wasn’t the only one still sticking on my brain. Occasionally, a certain head of loose dirty gold curls still entered my mind. A frown always painted itself on my face whenever that face appeared. I was confused. Did I love him? Was I afraid of him? Was it real?

Did it even freaking matter anymore if the dream was just a dream or not? The exact details of it kept getting foggier and foggier, like walking backwards on a trail thick with mist.

Whether it was real or not, I was too far out in the desert to go back. But surely there had to be civilization nearby. I’d been walking in that dry, sandy butt crack of the earth for far too long for there to not be any nearby civilization.

I acknowledged (begrudgedly) that one day, I would have to leave the lush paradise, if I ever wanted to see another face besides Rick’s again.

Even more difficult, I acknowledged that the longer I stayed, the more attached I would grow. If I stayed too long, I’d never be able to leave.

But…maybe it would be okay to stay just a few more days. I’d get my strength back, pack a bunch of food and water, then leave.

Just a few more days of paradise...and then I’d be gone.