Time... His Script is You and Me (A David Bowie Fanfic)

Silhouettes and Shadows

Hey guys!

Sorry again for the late update, but last weekend was what would have been David's 74th Birthday, and then it was the 5th anniversary of his passing. I was so emotionally wrecked that I couldn't find it in me to write about him.

But anyways, here's the next chapter, and more uploads should be coming out once or twice a week.

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And so I ran.

Down the pathway, down the street. I had no clue where I was in LA, what I was going to do, but I just had to get away.

***

20 minutes passed (or was it an hour? Time always seems so relative during a crisis) and I was still wandering downtown LA. By this point I had stopped running, but had been walking around the streets aimlessly - anywhere but the park - trying to figure out what I was going to do.

At this point, I had been in 1976 for two weeks. This was by far the longest I had ever stayed in the seventies. Especially after the argument between David and I, the issue of getting back to 2017 grew considerably more concerning. As it had always been, I never returned until our problems were resolved; and currently things between us were very far from that.

It was getting dark now. Shit. Maybe I had been walking for longer than an hour? I honestly couldn't tell.

As the sun set, and LA started to get darker and colder, the urgency to find somewhere to go grew immeasurably. I couldn't go back to David's, no, not now. Even so, I had no way of finding my way back there. He was probably shagging Roxy right now, anyways, too busy and high to think about me.

And to think that only last night he was mine.

No, not anymore. No more thoughts like that, thank you very much. He was driving himself to the brink of death, and I couldn't stand it. I had to get out of that situation, even though I didn't think it through that well.

Now the sun had properly set and the night had taken hold of the streets. It made everything gloomier and scarier: the shadows larger, sounds creepier, and every figure like someone wanting to molest me.

I couldn't help but get flashbacks of that night. Back in 1973. Karl's grubby face. The bed in the corner. The gun, the knife.

The images swirled through my brain and all that I saw wherever I looked was his ugly grin, spitting the filthy word, "sugar".

Overcome by the traumatic flashback, I had to sit down on the curb. Curled in the foetal position, my arms wrapped around my legs, I tried to calm myself. No, tonight was not going to be like then.

But then suddenly -

Anxiety.

Hairs raised at the back of my neck.

Then - breathing. Heavy, laboured, foul-smelling.

Before I could register all these warnings fully, a man grabbed me from the back. He pulled me up from the sidewalk, and constricted my movement, trying to force me into his truck.

No no no. Not again.

I screamed, louder than I ever had before. Oh how I wailed; crying, yelling, hollering; hoping anyone would hear me. But it was night now, and we were in the back blocks of LA. Nobody would hear me, but more likely, nobody would care.

He soon put an end to my screaming, though. While one of his hairy arms remained in an iron grip, the other covered my mouth to muffle me.

In a weak attempt at freedom, I bit his arm, tasting foul blood as he let go of me for a moment. I used this chance to escape, and started running - but not fast enough.