Author Games: The Absent Empress

Task Two Entries: 1-10

King

Mimosa:

(1 part) Orange Juice

(1 part) Champagne

*

Rough sheets, sliding hands, tossing pillows onto the floor one after the other. What good were pillows in a bed he wouldn't sleep in? King didn't sleep. Never slept. Only slowed down. The world is slower now, but not by much. It steadies the jittery hum in his veins. The eyes are less dilated, the fingers move with less fluidity, but he's still the same. King was a steady rock in a riptide. There was always enough energy to supply his habit. To keep the blissful world of sleep at bay. But very little else right now. There isn't enough energy in the building for the high he needs. There's barely enough nervousness seeping through the walls to keep his eyes open and his lights on and his ears twitching for sound. For entertainment.

Somewhere in this facility, there is movement. Voices. Laughter, perhaps. But it's too faint to feed his hunger. His bones ache. His shoulder throbs. King tugs his shirt off by the collar, flopping down onto the empty bed. The sheets are scratchy. Fingers run over them, stroking the coarse fibers. It's a humbling experience. Sleeping in someone else's bed. Realizing how little you know. King knows so much but all of it seems to be the wrong information. Like taking a Spanish test when you've been studying Greek. The confidence in his smile fades into a tired sigh. The coat of his aching cheeks gets stripped away, revealing the cold crease of his eyes as he buries his head in the rough blanket. King's feet shiver when they touch the headboard. He breathes in the smell of the sheets. Hopes it will smell like something familiar. Something he knows. Maybe this is where Kitty would have stayed too, once upon a time. They might have been happy here.

He wants to tune into everything but there is nothing. The walls are bare. The vents are silent. Even the bed refuses to creak under his weight. King rolls onto his back. The movement curls his lips into a quiet gasp of pain. Fuck, he'll never get to take those painkillers. They insisted he stay. One night, they said. One night. As if there weren't things to do. People to talk to about his new arrangement. He reaches up, rubbing the ache out of his shoulder piteously. The cuts seem more closed. He doesn't know how fast he heals. Or if he heals quickly at all. Each day is the same. The same as the last. Twenty four hours on a clock that only serves to distract him long enough to make him forget those few hours he's alone. When was it that he talked to the woman? Two days ago or two hours? The stitches in his shoulder feel too loose. The skin looks too pink.

Speaking of pink, it's way out of season. And the phone in his pocket refuses to stop buzzing. He fishes it out of the pocket of his pants. It's not unlocked. The wallpaper is some brunette girl sticking out her tongue with a cup of coffee in her hands. King doesn't even remember her. Did they have sex? He doesn't think so. She doesn't look like his type. But anything could happen. The messages on the screen are from all sorts of different websites. He can't name any of them. But there are texts that claim to be sent by him. Those, he opens.

-Hey asshole you took my phone.

King sighs. Fingers stroke the bridge of his nose and he feels his eyelids flutter. They touch the keyboard just as gently when he replies. Patience is key. Never a word doubted. Everything is fluid. Thought out. Delicate. So he says what he means without any apologies or explanations.

-Keep it, honey. I've started to like your case.

He doesn't need it back. Not really anyways. All the pictures have been deleted and he prefers to memorize his contacts. There's nothing attached to it. There's no proof King's hands ever touched it at all. It's better that way.