f (foundling) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-04-08 06:21:00 |
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Entry tags: | !marvel comics, *narrative, cristián martin-argüelles |
Narrative: Cris M
Who: Cris Martin-Argüelles
What: narrative
Where: Marvel, jail→home
When: now
Warnings/Rating: mild, but usual stuff
Four days, or, more important, four nights were what it took. One night in holding, bench for a bed, and a blanket tossed through by some rookie who felt bad for the guy couched on the floor between bench and wall, head on his knees. Next day, transferred downstate to reception, orange jumpsuit, long underwear bleached to a crispness, toiletries given—toothpaste, toothbrush, generic deodorant, followed by cavity search, scour-soap and shower, and a bed assignment. Most men passed through, on their way to Rikers, but a small group were just kept, boarders, who got to forgo the testing mandatory for men serving more than a year on a felony charge—TB, HIV, intelligence, blah, blah, blah. One more night, then arraignment. In light of the suspect's past charges, including several complaints of excessive force on the job and an arrest six months prior for shooting a civilian (though no charges were brought),—and with the severity of the assault on Mr. DeWitt, who is still in the ICU—the People request bail be set at one hundred thousand dollars. Detective Martin is a lifetime officer, with ties to the community, and a daughter, whose mother—Detective Martin's ex-wife—recently disappeared without word—Your Honor, one hundred thousand dollars is punitive. But this was punishment, was it not? One hundred thousand dollars it was. Another night in reception. Guys knew they had a cop with them. They didn't like that. A fourth night. Quiet. With the house up as collateral, bail was posted in the morning. Four nights, all together. That was what it took. He had to go home first. He'd call the sarge in a bit, but first, even before picking Teresita up from Penny's, Cris needed to go home. He needed to go home, and he needed to eat something not made in a vat by guys in hairnets. The house was quiet. Brown-dried blood was the welcome mat, just before the gate, and Cris didn't look down. He unlocked the door and he took in the quiet with slow steps and a headache that drilled from the bottom of his skull, persistent. He went up to his room, peeling off the clothes his lawyer had brought him, a t-shirt in wash-worn white, jeans, sneakers, a suit jacket grabbed from the back of a chair. In the bathroom, Cris turned the sink's faucet on full-blast, and he stood, hands on the vanity, sagging in the middle, head down, until steam started to curl up from the rush and splash. He looked up into the heat-gauzed mirror only once. Blue-black bags under his red-shot eyes, tears held back only by force of will, his cheeks dark with four days' growth, stubble that scratched the butt of his palm as he felt at it. He lathered shaving cream on slow, soft, eyes closed, with fingers that shook against his cheekbones. His razor wasn't anything special, cheap, from the pharmacy/bodega down the street, but somehow, still sharp. Cris tried to still the tremble of tears that moved through him, and he put the blades to the cream, drawing down methodical and measured. Once, twice. Three times. And it nicked him, on the cheek, down near the bud of his lips, and he swore, the red welling up into a small bulb in clouds of thick white, fast, hot, flowing, always flowing. His anger spilled over from burning eyes. It was leadened enough, he didn't throw the razor, snap it, he didn't put his fist to the mirror that reflected back not a man—just some pathetic guy, some guy someone needed to take pity on. He just collapsed, forward, onto the brunt of his elbow, shaving cream smearing among black hairs, mixing with leaking tears and dabble of blood. Fue una actuación penosa. Juanita. Before, with Juanita, she would come in the bathroom, and she would pick up the razor when Cris couldn't stand the sight of himself in the mirror, and she'd finish the job. She'd hold his chin firm with her brown fingers and she'd tell him when to lift or duck and she'd smooth blades across plane of cheeks, upperlip, until there was nothing left. She'd take a cloth, dip it in warm water, and clean up the wisps of shaving cream that remained, brushing at him like he was something fragile, like she needed to take care of him. Maybe she did. Fue enteramente culpa suya. Sam should be here, he thought with the same vein of selfishness. If love was action, if it was doing,—she was just running. Cris had had to keep her, every time, he stopped her, blocked her, tried to clip her wings, and she just wanted out. She was gone now. He knew that. He saw the paper. She was gone, and he was here, like this, alone. He thought helping the person you cared about was—it was just part of it. Picking them up. Not putting them back together, 'cause only they could do that, but helping them make sure everything was lined up, helping them when their hands shook like crazy. That was love. She didn't love him. Fue enteramente culpa suya. He got that. He wasn't Neil. He got that. He did. But he wanted it. And he'd tried to make her. He tried to hold her and he tried to make himself imagine, she wasn't just staying because his arms were around her, but because she wanted to be there too. Maybe that was messed up. He was so fucking pathetic. He knew, wherever she was, she had to take care of herself—before anything else, including him. She needed stability and she needed to get on her feet, and he wasn't good at helping her with those things. No. He was bad at that. Cris got that too. But he wanted her here now, selfish as it was, because he needed help. He needed help and there was no one. Elena was gone. Sam. His family. He'd never see them again. He was here, and there was no one else. Que estaba solo. |