Statesota, USA

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Come at a Bad Time
dicedonions wrote in statesota
Fandom: Moral Orel
Pairing: ClayxStopframe
Rating: PG-13 for Violence and Suicide
Disclaimer: You know the drill with Orel. The song is The New Pornographers' Adventures in Solitude (thought it would fit in with the awesome-indie-rock trend Orel has; I could totally see something from them being played on the show if it was allowed to go on)
Notez: This is from my DA account. It's shaky, but I still like it and I think it's a good cheery way to start of the community :D

 Balancing on
One wounded wing
Circling the edge
Of the neverending 
The best of the vanished marvels have gathered inside your door


Ol'Gunny smiled up at Clay, as expectantly as a gun has the capacity to. Clay was stalling. The winter months following Christmas were universally considered the most bleak and miserable, and this year was no exception. It was cold and miserable and dark, the lights were all taken down and the carollers stopped singing. It was the perfect time for this, honestly. The fatty lump that had been parasitically rooting itself to his emotions for the past twenty-two years was steadily hardening and going cancerous. He could feel it, as if it was not something that his so resolutely unpoetic mind had made up to explain his feelings-- it was tangible, and it kept him up at night, aching in that pit in-between his diaphragm and his stomach which he had always fancied housed his soul.
He had been aware of this presence ever since his mother died, the daily backhands from his father, ever since he met the woman who pressured him into his first sip of alchohol and eventually became his wife, ever since Orel was born and became yet another cell in the tumor. He inflicted it all on himself like a diabetic who resolutely continues stuffing his face with Hostess snacks, or a coronary patient who refuses to give up his love of thrillrides. He was a ticking timebomb. A soul-attack long in the making.
The omnipresent glass of amber liquid that had been like an extension of his hand for so many years was put down now, in favor of a slightly quicker and more permanent method of disposing with those pesky emotions. As a matter of fact, for the first time he could conceivably remember, he was absolutely sober. He felt like shit, too. He was standing in the backyard, knee-deep in snow and wearing only his robe and slippers. He didn't mind. The cold had left him quite nicely numb.
For now, he pondered this numbness. After a lifetime of misuse, in these final moments, his brain was feebly attempting to make up for all the musing it might have done if not completely dulled down by alcohol for the past several decades. What he mused, then, was this: Whenever someone touches a part of his own body-- and humor me by keeping your mind out of a gutter on that note-- they don't just feel a part of their body. They feel a whole whirlwind of confusing things: the sensation of the skin on the fingertip, the sensation of the fingertip on the skin. A billion unimaginably small molecules simultaneously rearranging themselves around that seemingly infinitesimally insignificant motion. When the receiving flesh is numb, however, he is liberated. With one of the responding sensations muted, in a rare moment of simplicity, he feels his skin; its pores, its scars. And so Clay felt, sober and miserable and completely alone in the world, as if for the first time he was truly feeling himself. His flesh. He was looking on at himself like a stranger might, comprehending himself. For the first time he recognized fully, though of course the knowledge had always been a dull throb within him (the throb, in fact, that he had been spending a lifetime trying to subdue), the fact that he was an unthinkably horrific excuse for a human being.
And what God do to unthinkably horrific excuses for human beings?

Sleeping for years
Pick through what is left
Through the pieces that fell and rose from the depth
From the rainwater well
Deep as a secret nobody knows


Like a story, come full circle-- and there were those damned sissy-girl poetics rearing their ugly head again-- the object that pinpointed the beginning of his misery would, after all was said and done, be the end of it as well. His father was right: through his age Clay, too, could properly detect the bloodstains befouling the object weighing down his hand. As a matter of fact, he couldn't believe that he didn't notice it before. There was so, so much of it. Every drop spilled over the years as a result of his own drunken stupidity, spilled not only by his mother but vicariously by his father, his wife and his children. Those he was technically obliged to love and cherish.
"Clay?" said Coach Stopframe, somewhere on the peripheries of his consciousness. At first, Clay thought it was just some sort of hallucination-- a life-flashing-before-your-eyes sort of thing-- but then again: "Clay? Buddy?"
"Hey, buddy," Clay said, his voice hollow. The singular bullet clinked smoothly into its chamber. This was the first time he had seen Coach Stopframe since Christmas. Clay had been by Forghetty's several times since, but the Coach wasn't to be found. Not that it mattered at this point, anyway.
"Look-- hmm. It looks like I'm interrupting something private," Coach Stopframe said as the cold shape of Ol'Gunny seemingly pronounced itself for the first time jarringly in his consciousness. Pause. Behind his eyes, Clay could see the Coach battling mightily with the notion of putting a hand on Clay's shoulder. He didn't.
"You could say that," Clay responded blandly. "If you wanted to."
"Clay, you know I can call somebody if you want."
"Don't bother."
"Clay, you're sober," said the Coach logically. "You're not in your right mind. Think about what you're doing. You'll be better in the morning, once you've had a highball or two."
"Can't think," said Clay dully. "Don't want to waste all this good numbness."
Ol'Gunny readied himself expectantly at Clay's temple. This was the moment he'd been waiting for.
"Whoa," said the Coach, for the first time since Clay had known him allowing some emotion inflect his omnipresent monotone. His voice was quivering. "I-- have to admit, I don't like where this is going."
"Thanks for letting me in on the joke. You're right, it was funny. Too bad it's too late for me to laugh."
"No, Clay-- I was wrong," the Coach said imploringly, stepping forward. "It's not too late. It's not too late for anything."
"Says who?"
In reply, Coach Stopframe wordlessly flung himself onto Clay's neck. With an utterly animalistic lack of rhyme or reason, he forced his lips roughly over Clay's for the first time, over and over-- a First Kiss ten years in the making. A decade's worth of exchanged innuendo finally coming to glorious fruitation.
Clay didn't return it.
"You're lying," he shouted, thrusting him off roughly. "You're just trying to get me not to kill myself because you know it would be your fault!"
Click...
"No, Clay-- I didn't mean anything, that was an acci--!"
...Coach Stopframe grabbed his arm...
"There are no accidents!" Clay bellowed, loud enough that all the God-fearing people of Moralton snug in their beds could hear him. The deafening bang of a bullet leaving the chamber of a pistol rang out and was muted by the snow and by the pounding throb in Clay's head: "There are no accidents! There are no accidents!"
...For several minutes, Clay repeated himself hysterically to the night, while a blue baseball cap fluttered mildly down to rest on the red-shaded snow.
Such crippling symbolism. It was too much for a person to bear.
Coming to his senses, Clay didn't allow himself time to react, or even comprehend what had just taken place. He fell to his knees, shoved the muzzle of the gun roughly to his forehead and pulled the trigger.

I know you want to
Breathe through
Come back
Come too
But it's come at a bad time
Old scarred face
Survivor's guilt
For all we know


Ol'Gunny clicked impotently. Lights were switching on around the neighborhood, and the resounding thought-- the only thought-- that formed itself over and over in his brain was that it looked like he'd be taking the long way out after all.

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