YAYA second chapter bb
Light peers through the broken blinds, casting a misshapen beam of sun onto the disheveled mattress. Weasel's eyes flick open. He lies there for a moment, awake, but not quite continuous.
"Where am I?"
Slowly, but eventually he realizes there is something; someone, next to him. Beside him, a hulking man lays: one arm under a pillow, the other resting around Weasel. His arm is scarred and scratchy; reddish-yellow blotches creeping up it.
"Oh shit." "Shit." " Shit." "Shit." "Fuck."
Now, the panic sets it. Realizing where he is, and the pain that might be inflicted on him (once the sleeping Wade awakes). Weasel weighs his options: on one hand, he could try and sneak out, but risking escape could also mean potentially waking his friend-on the other hand, he could wait, stay absolutely still, and eventually, hopefully, fall back asleep and hope when he wakes up, he'll be anywhere else. Figuring the latter was just as risky as the other, he stays put and clenches his eyes shut. At least then (if he were to be pummeled) he would be well rested and might have the energy to flee.
As fast as Weasel falls back asleep, Wade wakes up.
"My arm is around him... haha, gay."
He gets up, slowly, giving a stretch, a yawn, and a much needed butt scratch.
"HEY!" "DON'T ADD THAT LAST PART!"
("Too late.")
After yelling at me, Wade grabs a pair of PJ pants from the floor, gives them a sniff, decides they are 'good enough', and pulls them on. Wandering into the kitchen, he yawns again and grabs a pot of 'hour old' coffee, pouring it into a chipped mug.
"Morning Al." He says, plopping down next to his blind roomie.
"It's 1 o'clock..."
"Meh." He shrugs.
"So, is he still here?"
"How did you know-?"
"I'm blind, not deaf." "You both woke me up "
"How did we wake you, but not Deuce?"
The dog shoots his head up upon hearing his name.
"I got heightened senses ya'know?" "Lose one, gain strength to the others."
"Don't go tryin' to be some 'super lady', there's only room enough for one of us." He nudges Al playfully and takes a sip from his lukewarm coffee; grabbing the TV remote and flipping through channels.
Back in the other room: Weasel awakens. Still and slow, he opens his eyes and realizes he's alone.
"Maybe I was dreaming and I forgot I was squatting in a crack den?"
He sits up, tossing scratchy linens aside, hoping to find his glasses.
"Where are they?"
After a few more minutes of scavenging, he gets out of bed, slightly stumbling about; not quite having clear vision. Eventually he comes across the door and opens it slightly, peeking through the crack attempting to make out any human shapes. Thinking the coast is clear (but actually just having heavily impaired vision), he sneaks out-then tripping over an oozing garbage bag and falling face first onto the cold floor.
"Morning Weasel."
An excited Deuce hops up at the sound of his second owner's name, licking the side of his planted face.
"Oww..."
Weasel pulls himself up from the floor, still being harassed by the gitty pup. Once he's fully to his feet, he glances at Wade then Al and books it to the door. He struggles a bit with the door, gripping the rusted knob, now sweaty hands slipping, loosening his grip.
"Are you doing to stop him?" All murmurs, half enjoying the sounds of a struggling Weasel.
"Should I?"
"Eh, I kinda want to see if he'll manage to get the door open-you gotta jiggle the knob and give it a 'thunk' with your hip."
"This is kinda sad to watch, but like-sad in a funny way."
"Too bad I can only hear it, but to be fair, I can vividly imagine it."
"Weasel, buddy?"
Weasel turns around, freaking out, thinking 'oh shit, my ass is grass'.
"Wade..." "Look, I don't know how I got here, or why I appear to have woken up in your bed, but-"
Al interrupts "You slept in the same bed?" "We have a couch."
"Don't make this weird."
"PLEASE DON'T BEAT ME!" Weasel pleads, back to the door, hand still on the knob.
"Whoa, 'beat you'?"
"LIKE LAST TIME!" "YOU FOUND ME HERE WITH AL AND PUT US IN THE BOX!" "DO YOU NOT REMEMBER?!"
"Oh."
"Y'know, that makes a lot of sense, you did do that"
"I'm gonna be honest, everything is so scrambled up there, I totally forgot about that."
("How did you forget that?" "It's like a major plot point in your relationships...")
"Get out of my head." "Anyways, I ain't gonna beat you Weas, like I'd bring you to my pad, just to get your blood everywhere."
Weasel loosens up a little, slightly moving forward, away from the door.
"So you're not gonna smash my skull in?"
"Nah."
"Ok."
He walks away from the door and sits down on a worn lawn chair that sat near the couch.
"Wait so, why am I here?"
"I don't know why I'm slightly surprised that you don't remember, but whatever." Wade soon explains the prior night (which I'm not gonna summarize again because I honestly don't want to).
"And that's why you're here."
"That's extremely embarrassing." Weasel gets up once again and walks to the door. "Thanks though."
"Weasel?"
"Hm?"
"Your glasses."
"?"
"You left them on the sink in the bathroom."
(Figured for imagery, which this chapter unfortunately lacks, I'd add this little note. Weasel tried to leave the Dead Hut without glasses, shoes, and dressed in Wade's oversized clothes.)
Weasel flees from the shack. He ran, barefoot and frankly, afraid. Lost in the slums of San Francisco he wasn't sure what was around each corner, so he kept moving, hoping that eventually he would come upon some mode of transportation. When he finally came to a stop, he leaned against the slightly cracked glass of an empty bus stop-huffing and puffing reaching into nonexistent pockets in an attempt to grasp his Nokia flip phone.
"Shit."
Not only was Weasel wearing a baggy pair of boxers, but said boxers didn't have pockets. Giving himself a pat down, he double checked every inch of himself in hopes he would eventually find what he was looking for, but it was useless.
Walking around to the other side of the bus stop, he sat down on a creaky bench and waited. Minutes, possibly hours passed by, he sat-only moving his fingers; ripping at his nails and the flesh around his fingers, causing the tips of them to be bloodied and ugly. He hoped a bus would come, maybe the driver would feel for him and allow him to ride without fee (he didn't have his phone, so of course he didn't have his wallet). All he could do was wait, so he did just that. He sat and waited, eventually getting lost in his thoughts. 'Why would Wade take me in?'
'He hates people in his home, especially me.'
'Why would he help me at all?'
These questions kept him guessing, now confused about the out of pocket actions of his friend. It never seemed to occur to him that Wade actually cared about him; well as more than just collateral.
"Weasel?" The voice approaches him, sitting beside him (having found him through the 'WEASi0' tracker. that's a thing).
"What do you want?"
"Whoa dude, chill, I was just trying to check on you." Wade throws his arm over Weasel's shoulder, attempting to make peace with the disgruntled man. Weasel, not sure how to feel, pushes Wade away, getting up and standing face to face with the ugly brute.
"What's your edge?"
"What?"
"Why are you doing this?" "Are you messing with me?"
"What are you yapping about?" "Like seriously, I'm confused." Wade says, in his not usual sarcastic, stupid, tone.
"Why did you help me last night?" He crosses his arms, staring down at Wade.
"Because we're pals, I don't understand what you're picking at."
"Bullshit."
"..." "I brought you your stuff." He gestures to a plastic bag, set on the ground next to him. Weasel grabs the bag and walks off, leaving Wade on the bench alone.
"What in the fuck was that about?"
("Why should I know?")
"Because you're the one writing this garbage, you're the one piecing together this universe, and you're the one controlling us."
("That's not how it works.")
"It like, totally is." "You flat out told me that you can control us, you write; so it's your rules."
("It's a bit more complicated than that, look, my role is to put the story together, it's sorta like a puzzle- I might have control of putting the full picture together, but I didn't create the pieces.")
"That doesn't seem legit."
("*Sigh* Ok, so, you have your own feelings and experiences yes?")
"Yeah."
("Same goes for Weasel and well- everyone in this world." "I take those emotions and experiences and write them in a way that allows them to be expressed, that then allows you guys to go down certain paths, forging your own lives.")
"So you are like, the god of this story?"
("What?" "No, that sounds kinda cult-y, let's just say I'm your uh world builder?")
"Our ruler?"
("Your fate?")
"Our author?"
("That seems to be the correct term, but it still sounds kinda weird.")
"So then what do I refer to you as?" "I mean, I'm like the only one who can communicate with you so there's not much point referencing you to others."
("Uhhh, how about something logical, but simple.")
"How about I just call you 'Writer'?"
("That's chill.")
"Cool- anyways I'm just gonna-"
("Yeah you probably should do that; can't move forward if we stay still.")
Wade gets up from the bus stop bench, walking back to his house. He could go after Weasel, but to be honest he figured he'd find his own way home; probably hailing a cab or hitchhiking his ass back to Chicago, he also realized that a bit of space between the two might be for the best. After all, Weasel was right, this 'helpful' behavior wasn't his forte, for each favor from the merc weld a double edged sword. Something was wrong.