Chapter Text
The stench of espresso hangs heavy in the air upon your awakening. Weak winter sunlight filters through the slits in the bedroom blinds despite your valiant effort to dispel such an occurrence. Your back hurts from an unspeakably lumpy mattress. Your jaw hurts from unconscious grinding. You hurt. All the time.
Your name is Harrowhark Nonagesimus and today is your eighteenth birthday.
The rough pads of your feet hit the piercing cold of the concrete floor. The formidable silence tells you the ancient heater must have once more faltered during the night. The hunk of lukewarm metal was on its last legs, no better than scrap at this point. As sleep slowly drains itself from your body, the chill finds refuse in the base of your spine and multiples, spreading outwards through your body, numbing the fingers and raising the fine hairs on the back of your arms.
Groping blindly, your hands find the comforting grip of years old sherpa. The blanket snags at the calluses on your hands, and when pulled up against your face, it catches the peeling skin of chapped lips. A few moments are dedicated to just rubbing your face against it. You inhale- your stench is woven deep into its fibers, even after two goes through the washing. The blanket is highly preferred this way, the harsh florals of generic detergent tends to hit you like a brick wall, headache included. What the hell is a “fresh waterfall” even supposed to smell like? Water? The outdoors? If you wanted that you’d prostrate in the dirt like a mutt.
You pull the blanket taught around your gaunt frame and bring yourself to a standing position. A few bones pop in their sockets as you shake your legs, rousing the blood to begin sufficient circulation. A bout of lightheadedness quickly overtakes you. Your hand shoots out to catch the nightstand before you topple and crack your head open on the floor, disturbing errant pens and notebooks. A light ringing begins, dancing on the edge of your auditory canal as you force yourself to steady. The margins of your visions grow unfocused and distant and for a moment you’re reminded of television static.
The ringing subsides as a shout echoes from outside your bedroom, probably an announcement of breakfast being completed. You don’t bother with a response. Today will be a very long day. These cherished moments of solitude are held more precious to you than a palm full of diamonds, more sacred than sacrament.
A barrage of heavy pounding assaults your senses and the bedroom door. You trudge over to cease the incessant banging and perhaps put your companion into some sort of choke hold until she cries mercy. The heavy black fabric of your blanket trails behind you in the facsimile of a cloak, keeping what little warmth there was tucked close to your core.
You unlock the door and shoot Gideon Nav a glare so scathing the barest hint of repentance for her transgression passes over her unworthy face before being brazenly set aside for an expression that was both more familiar and infinitely more aggravating.
The ragged blunts of your nails fiddle anxiously with the fraying thread of the cloth draped around your shoulders. Your gaze bores into hers, bright and shining despite the early hour, the color of fresh fat.
“What the shit do you want, Griddle?” you spit.
Your roommate leans casually against the doorframe, mouth quirked into a half smile that inspired the embers of violence in your bosom. Her russet hair is uncombed, errant strands resting against the pockmarked copper of her face. For one scandalizing moment you nearly believe she hadn't bothered with pants, before thankfully notice the hem of basketball shorts peeking out from an oversized t-shirt. The shirt is most likely emblazoned with some sort of juvenile pun, but the text is blocked by wellbuilt arms crossed over her front.
A glance down informs you her foot is dangerously close to crossing the threshold of your room. You rectify this by kicking her in the shin. The sensation is comparable to driving your foot into a solid square of cinderblock. Your nose crinkles in pain, but a muttered swear and a half step back on her behalf tells you the pain of jagged toenail hitting bare flesh makes up for the lack of force behind your kick.
Gideon’s dark brows knit together in annoyance. She roughly grabs you by the scruff of your neck and draws you closer. It takes a moment for you to realize that this is an ill conceived attempt at a hug and not a strangulation in process. She drops her head and mutters something in your ear.
"Good morning midnight starshine. It is your special day and magnanimity has found its way in my heart, so please indulge in the finest present I could think of: not launching my foot so far up your bony ass you'd get athlete's foot in your gums."
She pulls you from the confines of your sleeping chambers much to your immediate dismay and pushes you towards the bathroom. You are nearly sent careening into the wall and catch yourself on the frame. Another wave of dizziness threatens to topple you momentarily.
"If it were not," you hiss, "for the clemency in my heart, the laws of this land, and the simple mess it would create, I would have already slaughtered you where you stand."
"Yeah, yeah," she acknowledges with a distracted wave. "Get washed up. The stench of death is only charmingly on the brand after the first two days."
"Eat shi-"
Your admittedly half baked retort is cut short by the bathroom's door slamming in your face. Gideon's heavy footsteps grow more muffled as she makes her way back to the kitchenette.
Today is your eighteenth birthday, marking eight years in this crumbling apartment complex and a lifetime sharing quarters with the second biggest freak you've made the misfortune of making your acquaintance.
The two of you reside in the basement of a barely functioning complex run by a man in what seems to be his mid-thirties by the name of John Gaius. Part of you is inclined to believe there is no way in hell that could possibly be his real name, and his dodginess about the subject only furthers this suspicion He could, at the best of times, be loosely referred to as your guardian and at the worst seemed to be suffering some sort of early onset midlife crisis.
It had been decided as of a few years ago you and the bane of your existence might enjoy some extra space , as he had so delicately put it.
"Wouldn't it be nice?" John had proposed, early enough in the day to catch you unawares but not so early to be soft pitching to teens in the trenches of sleep deprived delirium, "The two of you wouldn't always be tiptoeing around all my junk! Plus, you could have...friends over."
He had paused, apparently registering how ludicrous he sounded. Between the two of you, you only knew about three people who didn't share the same zip code.
Gideon, much to your curiosity, had jumped at the opportunity to move eight floors down to a place you would soon discover had no central heating, insolation or functioning plumbing. It appeared that her main motivation was the ability to run the television nearly twenty four hours a day, every day, with minimal intervention. Her reasoning behind this was far beyond rational minds, she was hardly ever preoccupied with what was actually playing. Knowing her, the mere knowledge of your own frustration may have been enough. She has such a talent for being an exorbitant bitch.
Your blanket is tossed upon the hook of the door. As you let the nasty brown mystery water drain from the pipes you wrench open the cramped closet. Taking stock, it's clear laundry should have been done at least a week ago. Sighing, you pop the door back and grab a dry erase marker from the sinks counter. A note informing all parties of the situation is hastily scribbled on the shower tile in your tight handwriting. It was easiest this way. Someone will get to it.
A bright green post-it pasted to the far right of the cracked mirror catches your eye. It is stacked upon a growing pile of multicolored notes. They are all in your hand. You only recall writing some of them. Snatching the topmost note from the pile and inspecting it, you are informed you should probably brush your teeth.
You run the meat of your tongue along the enamel of your upper row. Grit has worked its way into the grooves and there is a slight dip where one has been chipped from previous incident.
Currently, your toothbrush is squirreled away in your bedroom. If you return there now, you'll have no inclination to leave again by any means short of being dragged. It's far too early to endure such indignities.
You make note of your lapse in hygiene in the margins of the post-it and return it back to its resting place.
The remedy to your lethargy is no less wildly unpleasant. After a hasty whore's bath in the sink basin, you rummage around in the medicine cabinet for the foul tasting mouthwash and a small plastic cup. You pour yourself the absolute bare minimum. The cup is brought to barely part lips, but stops just short of entering. The electric blue liquid trembles lightly in your grip. The smell is unbearable. Why must you endure such indecency?
Squeezing your eyes shut, you regain your composure and knock back the hellish concoction in one long pull. You swish for as long as your sensitivities will allow for without outright upchucking, then spew the contents into the basin.
Bile rises at the back of your throat and threatens to spill. You force the acid back down- if you vomit you'll have to rinse all over again. You silently curse whoever decided to make antibacterial taste of Peppermint Purgatory.
You emerge from the bathroom slightly cleaner, definitely more nauseous and smelling of cheap hotel soap. You finally advance towards the kitchen.
The blinds are up, but the lights are off. The sunlight streaming in casts a strange rim light around her body. It placed most of her in shadow, the halo setting her red hair aflame. Her back is to you, revealing the words I HARDLY KNOW HER! emblazoned in bold white font. It was times like these that made you pray you were simply having another spell of insanity, but reality would not grant you this amnesty.
Gideon turns to face you, two large mugs in her calloused hands. One is navy blue, with the letters FBI on the side racing you. The punchline of that particular novelty purchase assaults your memory with a vengeance, forcing you to grimace slightly. She places your mug down in front of you, thankfully without comment. It's a plain black ceramic mug with a large white skull on its side. The sockets are narrowed in indignation and the upper row of teeth are elongated enough to negate the inclusion of the mandible. Not the most accurate thing in the world, but one takes what they can get from the bargain bin.
The cup completely empty. You raise an eyebrow at her. Gideon rolls her eyes and stalks back over to the far counter, grabbing a box of green tea and tossing it at you. Your reflexes succeed in batting the box to the floor.
"You know how you like it," your roommate offers bluntly. She's right- you wouldn't have drunk anything she handed you, not in this mug at least.
You watch her prepare your drinks, barbarically scorning the kettle and opting to just microwave your mugs full of tap water. You open a packet of tea and absentmindedly dunk it in your radioactive beverage. She rips open a packet of instant coffee with her teeth and pours its earthy contents into her cup. Whatever trace amounts of drinkability it might have retained are quickly squashed by her addition of six full fucking scoops of sugar .
"You'll rot another hole in what little teeth you have left," you bristle. Just watching her do that makes your stomach ache. She holds your gaze and pulls a long swig from her sugar swill.
"Hypocrisy is unbecoming of your fresh adult status," she retorts simply. God, she is going to be a fucking nightmare today isn't she?
"You know I can read those little notes in the bathroom, right?" she continues, swirling her mug distractedly, "How many days has it been again?"
"That's none of your business."
"It becomes my business when I'm forced to endure the cave of death that is your fucking breath."
You briefly consider how hot your nearly full mug was, and if it could possibly melt the flesh of such an audacious worm.
"It's handled," you insist curtly.
"It better be. Pal was so looking forward to seeing you today. I'd hate to tell him we can't go because you're in another one of your moods and must resign to your room to lie in filth once more."
Now that caught your attention. Gideon was already halfway out the room before you could probe her further. You grab your mug and follow her to what used to be the living room and now functioned as the world's saddest bachelor pad.
Gideon has been sleeping on a pullout couch and a pile of hand me down clothes for the better part of four years. It was entirely her choice, although it would be a cold day in hell before you allowed her to share the only bedroom with you full time. The second you both moved down here the first order of business had been installing locks on all the doors.
At rare times, you consider it a largely unnecessary measure, as she seemed perfectly content confined to her den of debauchery. However, there had been more than enough incidents in which you were lapse in triple checking you had actually locked the door behind you that was more than enough justification in your mind for the effort put forth. The mere suggestion of her rummaging through your shit with her oafish fingers drove you to fever. The few times in which it actually came to fruition had been largely unpleasant for both parties.
There are very few things Gideon considered sacred enough to bother hiding from you. Paradoxically, the mere effort of hiding them was what drove you to methodically unearth them in the first place. Any value placed upon them was almost entirely sentimental, which is what made them so amusing to you.
Her car, for one, is of little interest to you. You had never bothered to get your license nor were you ever planning on doing so. They're dumb and loud and you have nowhere to be with any particular urgency. Gideon's car is a different matter entirely.
That thing is her baby. It is, in the most literal sense of the word possible, her child. She would die or kill for it, you considered it an extension of her. It is mawkishness bordering on delusion. You often catch her talking to it, muttering in hushed tones to a configuration of overpriced second hand metal and leather. If it was possible to fuck a car, your poor Griddle would have whored herself out years ago.
The machine deeply disinterested you in the worst way possible. On the other hand, the contortions her face invents to convey new levels of rage when you casually slip you've found the newest woefully inept hiding spot for her keys is nothing short of mesmerizing.
Whatever else she's squirreled away is dull and childish and betrays a naivety that never fails to bring what little respect you have for her down a few pegs. The rest of her is displayed nakedly and also fails to capture the imagination. Well worn smut mags litter the coffee table next to old takeout containers and unwashed dishes. The TV is predictably turned to something vapid and confusing and probably stars at least twelve women who seem to have trouble finding clothes that fit. The remote is another item she sees appropriate to keep out of your immediate range. Any attempt to change the channel manually would be met by her bodily tackling you.
The only other noteworthy thing in eyesight would be a lone cage placed atop a donated waist high bookcase. Inside was a single rat. Its name is Gilgamesh and you hate that thing so fucking much.
"Go where?" you probe, careful not to betray much consequence in your tone. She would dangle most anything above your head just to watch you squirm.
"You'll have to ask him," Gideon replied nonchalantly, preoccupying herself with her vermin companion. "He wouldn't tell me much- thought I'd spoil the surprise or some shit, I guess."
"Smart. He's finally begun factoring in your extraordinary big mouth."
"Not as impressive as my big dick."
You don't justify this with an answer. Your chilly silence still serves to split a goofy ass smile across her face. At the right angle, she was almost worthy of the gawking she claimed to attract regularly.
"When is the sixth floor expecting us by?"
"When you bother to change out of your jammies, young lady."
You sigh bodily. Today was so hard. Drinking was hard. Cleaning yourself was hard. The act of conceptualizing yourself going back to your room, picking out an ensemble and putting yourself inside the garments, let alone correctly, is nearly impossible. Something in Gideon's face shifts. It sat down the street from pity, but did not dare approach any closer.
"If it expedites the process," she begins carefully, "there are some things in the bin that still pass the smell test. I'm sure whatever he's got planned isn't for another few hours. We'll get changed then."
"And if it's now?"
"Fuck him. It's your birthday Harrow, I'm sure the public can handle being scandalized by a nightgown and sweats."
You anxiously fiddle with the lace of your sleeve cuff. The fabric of your gown has been worn paper thin from constant use. It barely hits your bony knees now, prompting you to futilely tug it down a few centimeters. A hum rises in your throat as you quickly skim your options.
It is your birthday. People want to talk to you- too many people, one might say. You'd be lucky if you got around half of them today. You'd be blessed to remember a fraction of it. You want to go to bed. You want to drop to the concrete floors, drag yourself bodily to your chambers and curl yourself inside a warm cocoon of fabric. You want to unfocus, to unwind yourself layer by layer. To lay your flesh bare, to expose your very bones to the elements. You want to rest within a tomb of yourself.
"You can borrow my good hoodie."
Fuck. Shit. Hell. Son of a bitch. Damn her.