(un)lucky

six.

EMPTY MY GUTS ON THE SIDEWALK
AND GET YOU A BLANK SLATE
MAKE WAY FOR THE NEW MEYOU WANT ME TO BE

//♪

06: scrubs

HEADACHES EXIST IN DIFFERENT FORMS. Although he is sure there are many, he only knows of two types, personally. Intimately.

Headache (type 1): the painful sensation in any part of the head, ranging from sharp to dull.

Causes: stress, lack of sleep, an incorrect eyeglass prescription, loud noise exposure.

Treatment: ibuprofen, aspirin, acetaminophen, or naproxen.

Headache (type 2): the complete and utter ruination of Mamés Beverly. From the tissues and structures that surround the skull to the inflamed periosteum that surrounds his bones and the muscles holding his skull. It's heavier than type 1, sharper, dangerous like an earthquake in his skull. He could feel it all the way to his spine.

Causes: MelMelMelMel

Treatment: 500mg of forgiveness served by Melanie Hart.

Mamés is not in the mood to work. To plaster a smile on his face for hours and pretend everything was okay. Nothing is okay. He feels ill, moments away from throwing up and he's scared. Deathly afraid of what would come out— tears, blood, his minced heart. Or worse all the years they spent together; the hand holding at ten, sleepovers in the mornings belly faced down to hide the heat packs under them as they play sick and fool gullible Lulu. Practice kissing at 2 am because Mel wanted to make sure she could do it when Ryan Bryce asked her in seventh grade. His whole life. And then he's empty. An empty shell. Would Mel want him then? A blank canvas. She could paint the picture she wanted him to be.

At the sound of plates crashing, he jumps. It's enough to bring him back to reality. Barely.

It's Jamal.

Through the haze of pain and regret. He feels a stab of guilt. He had chosen to remain in the kitchen for most of his shift assisting the chef. Leaving poor freshly plucked Jamal to the wolves.

Brown, his boss, cuts him a pleading look. "I know you aren't feeling too hot Mamés but if he continues like this I won't have any chinas. He really isn't good with crowds."

That's true but also false. It's just this crowd. Cardboard cutouts of the all-American dream. Cute white blond boys(girls) with bowties on their necks on a Friday night and little girls with trimmings in their socks. If Mamés was out of place despite his bleached smile then Jamal, sweet Jamal—with his tattooed neck of his favourite bible quotes, and his colourful durags that he sewed himself— was a shark on dry land.

It's not like Mercury's was always like this.

But now it is.

Jamal uses his durag as a towel to wipe the sweat off his face cause he's nervous. The customers are nervous too. Brown's nervous too. Everyone's nervous but Mamés isn't.

He just feels strange. Funny, like his skin is inside out. It tickles.

Brown clears his throat, loudly, because Mamés still hasn't replied. He spent a full minute just staring into space as if in a trance. But the spell is broken now and he murmurs his assent and switches places with Jamal who looks more than happy to slink into the kitchen.

The next hour passes by quickly and his headache has mostly died down into a dull ache when a loud and rowdy group saunters in like the night isn't almost over. Mamés shares an uneasy look with his coworker Cooper, who shrugs in reply. Because it's technically Mamés' turn to deal with the next customer(s). While Cooper ushers them to the big table, Mamés glances up at the window making sure his smile is still in place.