Izzie Business
By calei esprit

Chapter 02
Circumstance

I followed Dave into his apartment, but waited in the doorway as he went to go turn on some lights. Before long, a dim living room lamp filled his small flat with its gloomy glow. The place was a dump. There were odds and ends everywhere, and no semblance of organization. Still, it's probably pretty clean for a guy's place, I mused. Dave moved on to the kitchenette and flipped another light on.

“Want something to drink?” he asked.

“What do you have?”

He opened the small, “well-used” fridge before saying, “Uh... water?”

“Okay,” I said and cleared some computer parts off the armchair so I could sit down. Dave's computer sat where a TV might have. I don't think he believed in televisions. I guess it was a pretty good computer though, but I couldn't tell you a thing about it (or any other computer for that matter). The armchair faced it directly, and a couch lined the wall on the left. There was a coffee table in the centre–I think. I couldn't tell whether it was a coffee table with a big pile of junk on it, or just a really big pile of junk. Nothing gross like last week's dinner or anything; Dave wasn't dirty. He just had lots of computer bits and books and more CDs than your local HMV. The only immaculate area in the whole place was the far right corner of the main room, just past the kitchenette. His guitar stood there, propped up on a stand. It was acoustic–he had to sell his electric for rent last year–and it was pretty.

I had been here only a couple of times before. Dave didn't really like having people over, but he insisted I come over tonight. He had offered to drive me home after The Dungeon closed, but knowing that I couldn't go home I gave him your standard evasions. I guess he knew me too well, because it didn't take him too long to figure out the truth of the matter.

“Here you go,” Dave said as he handed a glass of water to me.

Accepting the the glass from him, I thanked him, and he dropped rather ungracefully onto the couch. We sat there awkwardly silent for a pretty long time. The bad thing about silence is that it tends to lead to me thinking about painful things, and this time was no exception. Even being aware of the fact doesn't seem to help; if anything, it makes it happen all the more!

I took a sip of my water, and idly wondered about my mother. I hated how much I had hurt her. I hated that pained look she wore whenever she looked at me. I hated the way I always seemed to disappoint her. She's hard on me about the choices I've made in life, but she really is a good woman. I think, I would be lucky to turn out half as good. Sometimes, I think she truly is okay with who I am, that she accepts me, but is too scared of my father to show it. Maybe it's just wishful thinking, but true or not believing that made bearing my parents' harsh treatment easier. I daydream a lot about what it would be like if she ever accepted me as her daughter. We were very close before, and now we barely even speak. I know it was probably irrational, but I blamed my father for it.

Truly, my father is someone I hate. I know hate is a strong word, and that it isn't something that should be taken lightly, but I can't help but hate him. He has shown himself capable of cruelty I didn't think a person could possibly inflict upon another human, let alone their only child! Still, I kept forgiving him all through my childhood, and even now I guess. As much as I hate him, I do love him. I just wish he could let go of his prejudices and his dreams for Eric, and form new dreams for Elizabeth. I knew it couldn't happen, as I was reminded every time I was in his presence, but for some reason I kept hoping.... If tomorrow he gave me a hug and told me he was sorry, I'd probably forgive him of all the horrible things he's done without a moment's hesitation.

Gods, what a silly, naive girl I am.

Dave spoke up suddenly, “We need to get you out of that place.” His comment trailed off as if he was going to say more, but he didn't.

I looked over at him. It was so creepy how he did that! He always seemed to know what I was thinking. “There isn't anything I can do about it right now,” I replied tiredly. It wasn't entirely true. I was sixteen, so I could legally leave; I could go to a shelter; or I could get a job and share an apartment with some college kids or something. I could do any number of things to get myself out of there, but I didn't. I felt helpless to affect that kind of change, and kept going back for more. I didn't really understand why.

Gods, what is wrong with me?! I screamed at myself. Almost as if it was mocking me, my body replied with an embarrassingly loud stomach grumble.

“Want me to make you something to eat?”

“No, that's okay. I'm not really all that hungry.”

“Bull! I'm not so poor that I can't feed a friend when she's hungry. Besides, I bet you haven't eaten anything since last night at the club,” Dave insisted.

Reflexively, I chewed my lip, and shifted a little in the seat. Sighing, I conceded, “Alright,” and so as to not sound ungrateful I added, “I'd like that.”

Grinning smugly over his “victory”, Dave got up and struted over to the kitchenette. Jerk, I thought, and resisted the urge to stick my tongue out at him–and kick him. Okay, I wasn't quite able to resist the urge to kick him, so I did, and he complained. For a minute or two, he rummaged through the cupboards to find something suitable to eat.

“Kraft Dinner okay?” he asked.

“Sure!” I smiled at him. I could tell he was a little embarrassed, but I acted as if I hadn't noticed (or at least, that's how I hoped I was acting). I watched him as he got everything set up on the stove, and when he was done he just kind of stood there watching the pot.

With his back to me, Dave asked, “Izzie?”

“Yeah?”

He hesitated before continuing, and I started to get kind of freaked out. Thankfully, he did eventually look over his shoulder and managed to ask, “A–Are you going to be okay?” To say I was surprised by his question would be a considerable understatement, and I'm sure my shock was written all over my face. He looked away again and elaborated, “at home; with your Dad, I mean.”

“Oh,” I paused, “Yes, I'll be fine.” I didn't really believe that, but I wanted to. My father hadn't done anything in a while, after all. I started to wonder why Dave was so worried, and decided to ask, “Why?”

“I just... don't want to lose another friend to shit like that,” he said straining to keep his voice even. I just sat there with a worried expression on my face, and looked at him. I wanted to ask him what happened, but I wasn't sure if I should. “It's okay. I don't mind,” he assured me.

There he goes, doing it again!

Dave returned to the couch, and started to tell me about his friend: “Jake and I met during our last year of elementary school. Luckily, we ended up going to the same high school. It was when we were in high school that the problems started. As time when on, I bulked up and out, like all the other guys at school, but it was pretty apparent that Jake wasn't doing the same.” My eyes widened in surprise at that, and he continued, “No, not like you. He had some changes, like his voice, and a bit of facial hair. Anyway, his Dad was,” he thought for a moment and said, “disgusted with Jake. By our second year, his Dad had taken up drinking. I didn't notice until nearly the end of our third year that he had taken up hitting Jake too.” Dave stopped to take a moment to contain his anger, and his grief.

Just from the way Dave spoke, it was apparent that he and Jake had been very close; like brothers. I wanted to go over and hug him, but something held me back. He looked like he wanted, needed, to get this out, and I wasn't sure he'd be able to if I did go over to him. Or maybe he didn't, maybe I was justifying my own desire to hear what he had to say?

"Jake got a hard time from the guys at school too. They even took to calling him 'Davey's little girlfriend', but rarely when I was around. I got in a lot of fights over it, so most of the guys were afraid of my temper–before Jake made me promise to stop fighting anyway. He said something about it 'bolstering their image of me'; of him that is. Jake always tried to hide what happened to him from me, so often it would be weeks (or months) before I would hear about anything, and I'm sure there's a lot that I never did hear about.” He took a deep breath. “He was always smiling though, and generally seemed to be happy despite what happened. I knew it was an act, but, I guess we both needed to keep it up. The only time I really saw the pain he felt was when we played music together.”

I saw his eyes flicker briefly towards the guitar in the corner as he recalled some painful memory, but he didn't dwell there long, because he forced himself to continue, “During our senior year, he was attacked (worse than usual). He was in the hospital for a pretty long time, but not long enough. His–“ Dave choked on his words, and was visibly shaking.

Crying, I stood up and walked over to him. I just couldn't not hug him. It looked like he was dying. So, I did. I sat beside him and held him. I didn't let go when he began to speak again.

“His father refused to pay any additional medical charges, so once his coverage was up, Jake was sent home. He couldn't take care of himself, so I went over as often as I could to make sure that he would get food, and clean clothes and trips to the bathroom and everything. A couple of days after Jake got released from the hospital, his Dad came home from work, and got smashed like he usually did, I guess. I–I had forgotten to leave Jake's pain pills beside his bed, so he hadn't had any in several hours. His Did kept telling him to shut up, and stop making noise, but he couldn't help it. He was in too much pain. I remember him telling me that even just breathing hurt.” He started crying himself, and I held him tighter. “His dad got sick of all the noise, I guess, and hit him until he stopped making it.”

We were both quiet for a really long time, and I found myself holding on to him for my own comfort as much as for his. I don't think I had ever felt so close to someone before then, or even seen someone is so vulnerable a state. Gradually, he stopped shaking, and became more and more calm.

“Izzie? Thanks,” he croaked, and turned to look at me.

I looked up at him, racoon-faced for the second time tonight, and he kissed me. Actually kissed me. On the lips. Everything just seemed to freeze. My heart started beating one point seven million beats per second, and all my senses were in overdrive. Abruptly, time decided to flow again, and I found myself kissing him back. What am I doing?! I asked myself frantically. But before I could answer myself, Dave broke the kiss. He was looking me in the eyes; I mean, really looking at me. It felt more intimate than I imagined even sex could be, like he could see everything there ever was to see about me. A very large part of me wanted to run from this kind of closeness, but another loved it. My body was unresponsive to any of my instructions in any event, so I just sat there looking back at him. I tried to find his thoughts in his eyes, and read them in the same manner as it felt like he was reading me. Nothing was revealed to me before he leaned in to kiss me again. This time I responded a little more consciously. He kept leaning forward, guiding me down towards the couch cushions. I moved my right hand up to his neck, and my other arm kept me from falling over. As inexperienced as I was, it felt so natural, that I barely even thought about it before doing it. Noticing a strange smell, I broke the kiss.

“Do you smell that?”

He looked kind of confused for a moment, but then he smelled it too, and exclaimed, “Oh shit!”

With speed I didn't know he was capable of, he jumped off the couch and ran to the kitchenette. He turned off the stove and lifted the pot off the burner. The macaroni and cheese was burnt, and I wondered why he put the noodles in before the water boiled. I couldn't help but laugh. Well, it really came out as more of a giggle, because I was trying not to laugh. I didn't want him to think I was laughing at him, which I wasn't. But the whole circumstance was just so... cliché.

Dave filled the pot with water and placed it in the sink, and did some general clean-up before returning to the couch. With an embarrassed grin, he said, “Sorry.” So what did I do? Play it cool, and say it was fine, no big deal? Nope, gods help me, I giggled again. Witnessing me do something so out of character (twice!) left Dave grinning, and now it was my turn to be embarrassed.

“You look so cute when you blush like that,” he said as if it wouldn't just make me blush harder, which it did. I hadn't even felt the heat on my cheeks until he mentioned it, and now I felt utterly mortified. I don't think I had ever been called cute before, or blushed for that matter! He took mercy on me though, and asked, “Want to go out and get something to eat?” With a grin, he added, “Since I botched the cooking thing.”

“Sure,” I smiled at him, “just give me a moment, kay?” He nodded, and I got up and went into his bathroom. I did a necessary deed, and just sat put for a moment afterwards to calm down. After a few minutes, I decided that was enough, and went to the sink to wash my hands and redo my makeup. I also made absolute sure I wasn't blushing any more. I had a public image to maintain you know! When I finished, I took a deep breath, and headed back out into the main room. Dave was ready to go, so I just grabbed my bag and followed him out of the apartment.

Dinner (breakfast?) was good. We ended up going to a little burger place not too far from The Dungeon, where the food wasn't too bad. I was feeling a little sick afterwards, but I usually do after eating. I ate more than usual too. Dave and I mostly talked about music. He wanted my opinion on some line-ups for some future shows, so we worked on that for a most of the time we were there. I always liked doing that with him. I knew the local music scene almost as well as he did, so I wasn't lost like I was whenever he went on about computer stuff. We didn't talk about what happened in his apartment, but, for some reason, it didn't feel like we were avoiding talking about it. It just didn't seem all that important to talk about it. We stayed for a while after we had finished eating, because I had some time to kill before I could head home.

Dave turned into my driveway about half an hour after my Dad would have gone to bed. When I opened the door and stepped out, I noticed, to my surprise, so did Dave. He had never done that before. He walked with me up to my house, and we stopped a few feet away from the door. My house didn't have a front porch. We both just stood there kind of awkwardly. I wasn't sure what to do now, and it looked like he wasn't either. Not wanting to drag the awkward moment on any longer, I raised myself up on the tips of my toes and kissed him on the cheek. Then, I gave him a hug, and told him I'd see him tomorrow at the club.

He went back to his car, and I waved to him as he drove off before heading inside. I closed the front door and relocked it as quietly as I could. Taking similar care, I crept upstairs and made my way to my room. I went in and closed the door behind me. Making my way over to my bed, I dropped down on it and sighed tiredly. As I lay there, I thought about the night. So much had happened. Mostly though, I thought about what happened in Dave's apartment. Was that just an “in the heat of the moment” kind of thing? or does he want to be more than friends? I wondered, Do I want to be more than friends?

Any conclusions I might have come to were interrupted when my bedroom door suddenly swung open. With a sudden realization, I cursed at myself, Fucking idiot! I forgot to lock my door. I was scared to look and find out who it was, but I knew I had to. I sat up, and turned slightly to see my father standing in the doorway looking–enraged would be an understatement, but that was the word I thought of at the time. “Fuck,” I muttered.

“You little shit!” He growled.

He started advancing towards me, and I slid to the floor and started to try and get under the bed. I was about half way there when I felt the first punch. I bit down hard, being careful to keep my tongue out of the way. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of making noise. He dragged me away from the bed with ease, as if I weren't resisting at all.

“I saw you outside with your little boyfriend,” he spat, “I would have thought you learned your lesson with that last boy, but I guess not!”

Without any hesitation, he kicked me in the chest. I couldn't get my arms in front properly in time, so it landed full force onto my left breast. I yelped and tried to curl myself in a ball as quickly as possible.

“It isn't enough that you disrespect us, and go about looking like a freak in public is it?! You have to flaunt your faggotry at our home too? Fucking faggot son.”

Tears were stinging my eyes, and the throbbing pain from the kick was quickly drowned out as he continued to punch and kick me. After a while, I couldn't tell the difference between his fist or his foot. I hurt absolutely everywhere, and I was pretty sure that at least my arm was broken, if not more.

Amongst it all, I heard a woman scream, “Paul! Stop!” She kept shouting it, and after a couple times, I recognized it as my mother's voice. I think maybe she grabbed him or something, because he stopped hitting me. It took me a few minutes to realize that though. Just as I was starting to think it was over, I felt something drive into my middle with such force that I wondered if I might split in two. I blacked out before the full thought could even form in my mind.

The next thing I felt was a cool cloth against my arm, and someone's hand running gently along my face. Both kind of hurt, much like everything else, but I felt comforted by them.

“Honey?” I heard, “you need to wake up now. Come on.”

“Mom?” I wheezed out, and coughed. I tasted blood in my mouth, and felt some other things I couldn't identify. I silently prayed to the gods that I hadn't bitten off my tongue or something, not cluing into the fact that I had just used it to speak.

“Yes, honey. Please get up now, okay? I can't carry you.” She was still petting my face. It felt really nice, so I just wanted to lay there. She tried to “lift” me into sitting up, and it made everything hurt a lot causing me to moan loudly. Putting me back down gently, she stifled a sob. “Do you have a friend I can call who will help me get you into the car?”

Friend? I wondered, Shouldn't she call an ambulance? I simply said roughly, “Amblance?” I had trouble saying the “u” part for some reason. She squeezed my hand lightly. I hadn't realized she was holding it.

“No, dear. They would take you to the city hospital. We have to take you somewhere else,” my mom spoke slowly.

 I didn't understand, but I figured she had a good reason. She could call Dave. He would come, right? I reasoned before saying aloud, “Dave?”

“What's his phone number sweetie?” she asked in a soothing tone. I told her as clearly as I could manage, and she said, “I'll be right back. I'm just going to go call him, okay?”

Once again, I was confused by what she was saying. Why couldn't she use my phone? Had Dad broken it? I decided it didn't matter, so long as she came back quickly. I knew it was silly, but I felt like everything hurt even more while she was gone. Before long, my Mom was back and she held my hand and petted me again. We didn't talk the whole time we waited for Dave, so when I suddenly heard him ask “Is she okay?” I jumped, causing me a fair bit of pain. The resultant moan seemed to be enough answer for him. I guess Mom was used to the quiet too, and thought he was pretty loud, because she told him to be quieter. I felt Dave's hands slide under me: one under my leg, and the other under my torso. It hurt something, because I inhaled sharply when he did it.

“Be careful!” My mother hissed quietly.

“I am,” Dave said, trying to sound reassuring, but mostly he just sounded frustrated. “Ready Izzie? It's going to hurt. I don't think there's any way we can do this without it hurting.”

I nodded, and he lifted me into the air. I felt a sharp pain around my ribs, and the places where he was holding me up hurt from the weight. As he lifted me, my left arm slid off my stomach. I quickly learned that it was the broken one, and screamed into Dave's bicep so I wouldn't make as much noise. My arm was just hanging now, and it really, really hurt. “Ow, ow, ow! M–Mom...” I whimpered. She rushed over to me I guess, and I felt her gently lift my arm and place on my tummy again. As soon as she did this, I sighed, and started breathing again. Dave stood still for a little while so I could get used to the new position, and I must admit that it helped. It wasn't as painful when we started to head downstairs.

The whole time I was terrified that my Dad would show up, or wake up, or whatever. He never did though, and we eventually made it to the front door and outside. When we went out, I could see it was pretty bright out through my eyelids. I noticed for the first time that I hadn't opened my eyes since I woke up. I was scared to now though, because one felt really swollen, and I didn't want to make it any worse.

“My car?” Dave asked.

My Mom must have nodded her answer or something, because I didn't hear her respond. I heard a car door open, and Dave tried to put me in the back seat as gently as possible. It was still rather painful though, because of the awkward way he had to carry me. After he set me down, I heard the car door close, and then the driver side door opened. Someone climbed in, and I guessed it was Dave, because the person sounded heavier than my Mom. A few seconds later, the back seat door nearest to my head opened and my Mom slid in. I knew it was her, because I could smell her. She lifted my head a little, and when she lowered it again, it was in her lap. She pet my head and face until I fell asleep, and every so often she told me that everything would be alright.

I don't really know what to say except, I hope another chapter like that doesn't want itself written by me any time soon. ^^;; I also hope I haven't lost everyone.