The Great Below

The Nasty Habit - Part 2

Alex rubbed at his eyes, struggling to make sense of his alarm clock in the dark. The knocking at his door was sloppy, frantic. It wasn't often that he was woken this way, but in his downtime he sometimes imagined how his uncle's illegal underground business might end. The dominoes would tip like this: his uncle would piss off one of the lifers, who would break into the weapons cage and shoot him with one of his own guns. Or worse, they wouldn't need the weapons cage. They'd break Dominic's neck, or beat him to death. They might not even need to be pissed off – they might get greedy and decide the run the business themselves. Therefore, Alex would be next. Maybe it was selfish, to dwell only on how it affected him, but the men would perceive not that he had power, but that his uncle had intended to give him power, and that would be enough to seal his fate. He would be stop number two. They would come to his room, just like this, and bury him in it.

He untangled himself from the bed sheets and warily opened the door. "...Octavia?"

She was the only person in the hallway. The far wall held her up, like she'd knocked and then promptly fallen backward. Her breathing was labored and when she moved her hand toward him, the empty glass container slipped from it and cracked against the concrete. She had spent her time bonding with the bottle and nothing else. Her own blood was still smeared on her cheeks, pale and flaking. If their confrontation had softened her, the booze had turned her to mush. She watched him with drowsy eyes. "I can't sleep in that bed," she told him.

"Let's get you cleaned up." Alex picked up the glass and brought her in.

"I can't sleep in that bed," she said again, rubbing at her face. She followed him to the bathroom, where she sat on the closed toilet and waited while he warmed a washcloth under the faucet. When he touched the water to her face, the blood came back to life, running down to drip from her delicate jaw. Droplets flecked her baggy pajama pants.

"Show me your leg," he said. She tried pulling her ankle up to her opposite knee and he had to catch her before she tumbled off the toilet. Alex retrieved his small first aid kit and cleaned the messy scabs forming along her ankle. He applied ointment and a clean bandage. She wore only a thin, white cotton t-shirt, and at the place where it exposed her upper arm, he saw an unwelcome reminder: little fading bruises, the size of his fingertips.

He got her to drink most of a cup of water after moving her to sit on the edge of his bed. She caught sight of the plastic shopping bag on his dresser and tilted her chin toward it. "What's that?" she slurred.

Alex began to have doubts about his peace offering. She might think it was stupid, that he had gone out and chosen these – he could still feel the strange look of the clerk who'd rang him up. "It's nothing, really."

"Oh," she replied. "Is it a secret?"

"No...it's a gift," he said. "I don't know if you'll want them."

Octavia frowned. She looked like she might move to retrieve them, then thought better of it. She braced both hands against the covers. "Will you bring it over?"

He lifted the bag and brought it. Alex tried setting it next to her, but she insisted on guiding the bag to her lap, where she looked surprise at the weight. She spread the plastic back with her fingers and the first title appeared: Woman's Day. Then Cosmopolitan, In Style, Glamour and, at the bottom, Better Homes and Gardens. At the bottom of the bag, a few items of makeup from the drugstore. She flipped through the magazines with a stern look of concentration, and that was when he became certain how silly it was. Why had he thought a few magazines and some eye shadow would cheer her up, after what she'd been through? It seemed stupid now, and he couldn't bear to see the laughing, smiling faces on the magazine covers mocking his poorly executed peace offering.

"I'm sorry," he told her. "I just thought maybe—"

She lunged to hug him, letting the contents of the bag spill to the floor. He hugged back, grateful that his position hid the stupid smile on his face. She didn't let go for a long while. "Thank you," she whispered against his neck.

#

He'd tried to give Octavia the bed. Inebriation rendered her mostly mute by then; she had no reason to argue with him, but she'd held fast to his hand and refused to let go until he agreed to stay in the bed next to her. It was stubborn, her insistence, like a child too ashamed to admit she thought a monster lived under her bed or a ghost in her closet. Alex turned out the light and lay next to her, pulling the blankets over her shoulder.

In the dark he buzzed with worthless thoughts. Was he supposed to maintain a generous distance from her in his sleep? What if she woke, sober, in a few hours and didn't remember coming to his room? Would she have another nightmare, attacking him in her sleep? His breathing was too loud, his body, too sensitive to the shift and rustling of the sheets. Alex turned when skin brushed against his. The mattress creaked. She was climbing over the top of him.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

Her lips closed over his. Her hands were on either side of his face, holding him there. Octavia had settled on top of him, straddling him, and the fabric between them where they met was like parchment. The kiss went deeper and she was testing him, sampling him. It was almost curiosity and it was maddening. Everything from his stomach to his feet glowed warm and his hands went up her thighs, scraping the sides and pressing her in closer. He tasted the black tang of vodka on her tongue and abruptly pulled away.

"Octavia," he warned.

"It's okay," she whispered. She sat up slightly, hands against his bare chest.

"You may not feel the same way come morning."

"I know what I want." And the more she sat up, the more she leaned that part of her body against his, and the heat of it was killing him.

"I'm sure you do," he said, "but I think what you need is rest."

She stopped. The silence between them was tangible; humidity in an unlit world. "But...I want to," she replied. Her voice cracked.

His eyes had adjusted to the point that he could make out her shape in the darkness, so he reached up and stroked her long hair. "I want to as much as you do," he said. But really, more than she did. "And when you're ready to do this stone-cold sober, I want to be the first to know."

He heard a tiny moan, and Octavia sank down into his arms. He maneuvered them both until he was behind her, with her back against his chest, and hugged her close with the blankets. The heat was still there, but manageable, and he could smell the last traces of her cool, eucalyptus scent. Or he thought he could. Alex rested his face in her hair, took a deep breath, and willed them both to sleep.