A cop vibe first, then, no: junkie. Both? Whatever: the guy gave off weird. Then he proved it by waving a naked stump at Tati, the melted remnant of his handless arm clubbing the air near her face. Ahh, prescription pain killers, and now she was all ready for a confab, to compare notes, when he bent to confide in her.
“I feel it,” he spat, sweating. “It’s freezing down there.”
Not here, Tati thought, too short to escape the trapped body heat of the
dozens around them on the basketball court. “No,” the doctor had barked over the phone at her when she questioned the location, “it’s not sports therapy. What the hell is sports therapy?” A question that was pointedly not an answer.
The cop/junkie was at her. “The depths are crushing, you would think it
could not survive. But late at night I feel my hand down there, searching, feeling its way through the silt, traversing deep canyons. Sharp ridges. The chewed-down rib cages of whale carcasses. All the shit in the world – its gotta end up somewhere, right?”
Her arm was grabbed, distracting her from the crazy. Tati turned. When she
saw it was Dr Thurston, she slowly unclenched her fist.
“Tatiana.” She winced, not the habitual response to her pain, but at the way
the extravagance of her name plumbed its way out of the doctor’s mouth. Like her mother thought she was the second last of the Romanoffs or something. “Kindly cease chatting with Sergeant Burns and assume your position.”

Read the rest of it here at Fleas on the dog, why don’tcha?


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