The Emperors of Washington by gallantcorkscrews.pdf

The Emperors of Washington by gallantcorkscrews

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5337013/1/

"amazing how death wins hands down

amazing how much credence is given to idiot forms of life"

- Charles Bukowski

He was my psycho. It's all... so horrifying, but it makes sense.

Because love should be scary.

Love means you'll throw yourself in front of a bullet for someone. Love means a

willingness to die.

People like to whitewash the sentiment, but really, love's a pretty morbid thing.

It starts like this.

I should start the story further back, to when we first started picking on Edward

at school. To when we made him cry. From what Edward tells me, my friends had

tortured him since first grade. He says Tyler even killed his pet frog after he

brought it in for Show and Tell. Threw it against the outside wall of the gym and

laughed as Edward screeched in shock.

But the thing is, I don't remember any of that. Edward had been suffering for

years because of my friends, and it wasn't notable enough for me to remember.

For me, it started on Dress Down Day.

I went to a very nice Catholic school. The girls usually wore skirts and button-up,

and the guys had khakis and button-ups. On Dress Down Day, the students each

paid a dollar that goes to some charity- some deaf, dumb, and blind institute on

the other side of town, and we got to wear our street clothes.

That day I was wearing my yellow dress. The color yellow washed me out

horribly, making me look slightly jaundiced. But I loved the color. Maybe it's

because when I was little, I drew yellow flames a whole lot. The drawings

featured houses on fire, trees on fire; little flames dancing above stick people's

head, like apostles receiving the fire of Holy Spirit. In Forks, water was

ubiquitous. I loved fire, because it could dry this soaking mess of a town out.

We all -Jessica, Lauren, Tyler, Mike and myself- cut fourth period and went to the

Forks' diner. For several minutes, we loitered in the parking lot in front,

wondering if we should risk going inside where people might recognize us for

truants.

"We're dressed in our normal clothes," Mike said. "So they won't know we're

cutting school."

Lauren scowled. "As if. Our school is, like, the only entertainment this town has. I

bet every establishment has a calendar of the school's events posted in their

office. They probably all called each other this morning, all like, 'Shit! They

Catholic school girls aren't wearing their skirts today!'"

"Quit being a Negative Nancy." Mike pinched her waist.

"I can't be caught skipping school again," Tyler said. "They'll suspend me, and I'll

lose my scholarship."

"Broke ass," Mike sneered.

Jessica slapped Mike's shoulder. I was silent.

You see, St. Mark's Prep School was voted top parochial high school in the

Northwest. It was also the largest supplier of jobs to Forks community, employing

more people than even the hospital. Kids from all over the country were sent and

boarded at the institution.

Except for Mike and I. We were 'townies' who happened to get admitted. It

helped our popularity; we had houses where friends could spend the night at over

the weekend, getting away from their dorms.

The school set you for college. Cambridge, Harvard. It was a golden star on your

application. It's only blemish was that it was ninety-nine percent white. They

started giving scholarships to minority kids. Jessica was Asian... we don't know

exactly what her lineage is, specifically, because she changes the answer from

Chinese to Thai to Vietnamese, based on her mood.

Tyler swore she was Japanese. "It's obvious. Look at her eyes. You all can't tell

the difference between a Japanese person and a Vietnamese person? It's like

night and day!" he had once said, all incredulous. But Tyler's mom is from

Senegal. So maybe he knows more about minorities.

Forks is completely, utterly white. The only black people in town are St. Mark's

students.

Lauren started to get restless, and she pulled out her iPhone to scroll through

pictures of spring break.

"Big bad Tyler, too scared to go into a diner," she muttered.

"Look, how about we stay out here. You three will go order our shakes," Mike

declared, addressing Lauren, Jessica, and I. He plunked himself on the front of a

Jeep Wrangler, dusting his knees off and ostensibly settling in on the sagging

fender.

"Coward," Jessica said, rolling her eyes. "You send the girls in to be caught while

you stay outside."

"That's pretty much the gist of it." Mike spat onto the pavement. "Go. I want a

vanilla shake. With extra awesome."

Jessica and Lauren both made annoyed faces, cringing at our mulish boys, just

sitting there and spitting on the concrete.

Quietly, I turned on my heel and headed inside before one of them opened their

mouth and a fight ensued. I swear, they could make a mountain of a mole hill.

The diner reminded me of the fifties, all chrome countertops and black and white

checkered tiles. A jukebox played Sam Cooke.

I ordered the shakes for us. For a bunch of run-of-the-mill, C+/B- teenagers, we

sure were eclectic with our tastes in ice-cream drinks. Lauren loved the

cappuccino, Jessica dug the pina colada. Tyler was all about the peach almond.

(Seriously, the Forks Diner shakes were a feature at a town. They're even

mentioned on the town's website.)

Mike loved vanilla. It was the only flavor he ever drunk, and he was loyal to it. I

liked this about him. My favorite was strawberry, and it was all I'll order, too.

Sometimes, when I was in a contemplative mood, I analyzed my friends. I

thought of what their shake choices say about their personality. Lauren was a

charged personality, and she dreamed about being a sport agent, a la Jerry

Maguire. Jessica... well, she aspired to be a trophy wife. She was very open and

self-aware about her choice, always saying, "Hey, at least I know I'm only good

for arm candy." You have to admire her honesty. And Tyler, he was creative. He

painted intricate scenes in art class, and he could play the tuba. In sophomore

year, it was whispered that he was hooking-up with Eric. You see what I mean?

Creative, a free spirit.

Mike and I were the most boring. We would probably live out the rest of our

years in Forks while our friends moved away, and have vanilla and strawberry

loving children together.

Lauren and Jessica walked in behind me, chattering about the new dye job our

Biology got.

"Totally wrong complexion for blonde hair," Lauren decreed. "And you did you see

how she bleached her eyebrows to match?"

"It totally looks home-done, and that's really dangerous. She could have blinded

herself!"

"Yeah, and then we could do whatever we want in class, and she couldn't see!"

Lauren snickered.

The shakes arrived on the countertop, four cups wobbling in the cardboard cup

holder. Mine was the odd man out, standing outside on its own. I smiled at it,

rubbing the top affectionately.

"You're going to pay for these, right?" Lauren asked me.

"I always do."

I picked up the cup holder. The girls retrieved their drinks, sucking noisily at the

straws, and I walked outside to bring the boys their shakes.

The parking lot of the Diner was shared by the pharmacist, grocery store, post

office, etc. etc. It was the only thing we had resembling a strip mall. The lot was

large, and the sun was out today. When I walked outside, all the sun and the

white concrete flashed brightly after the dim diner interior. It was like snow

blindness, and I covered my eyes with spread fingers to filter out the light. The

door closed behind me, the handle's bell jingling as my friends exited.

"Bella, you're blocking the way-" Lauren, poking me in the back.

"Yo, Bella's got the shakes!" Mike, waving from his post on the jeep.

Suddenly, so suddenly, a loud noise echoed across the parking lot. I still confused

by all the people calling my name and didn't react.

And really, a gun shot's not something you think you'll ever hear in real life. You

hear it so much in movies, T.V. shows. It becomes a little unreal. You never

expect it to really happen. Gunshots are a thematic device, on-par with gigantic,

rolling boulders and sharks equipped with laser beams. When talk show pundits

squabble over children being desensitized by television violence, this is what they

mean. Not that you'll go out on a killing rampage after watching too much HBO-

but that you won't duck when a bullet comes by you.

Not that it hit me.

I stood there, still confused by all the people calling my name, and now

disoriented by the loud, foreign sound. Jessica and Lauren were suddenly

crouching at my feet, their arms crossed protectively over their heads.

As if that would stop a bullet.

Tyler was shouting. "Oh God- someone shot him! Someone got him!"

The sun was still in my eyes, and I blinked, trying to focus.

And I saw him crouching and crying over Mike's crumpled body. Tyler cradled

Mike's head in his hands, and he was leaning very close over Mike's body. Like,

familiarly close, like he's held him that way many times before.

Still, I was disoriented. At first, I didn't think about what was happening, why

Lauren and Jessica were now on their feet and screaming next to me. All I

thought was, huh, maybe Tyler got into Mike's pants the same way he got into

Eric's. I guess Mike wasn't that vanilla, after all.

But oh, Mike's head was half-blasted off, red gore dripping and wiggling out of his

shattered face.

We'd never have strawberry-shake-loving babies, now.

"and I run child-like

with God's anger a step behind,

back to simple sunlight,

wondering

as the world goes by

with curled smile

if anyone else

saw or sensed my crime"

-Charles Bukowski

No one ever paid as much attention to me as they did when I was a victim. When

Edward was gunning for my friends, people looked at me like I was a delicate

marvel, a miracle.

I was suddenly precious.

I wonder why people bother to succeed in life. Why they strive so hard.

It's so much easier to be a victim, to have horrible things happen to you, and to

be loved for it.

Well, it was all very interesting, to say the least.

The cops and my dad, they said the shot that killed Mike came from the woods

out behind Wagner's Meat Mart. They also said the shooter was a good criminal.

His shoe prints left no tread marks, and they lead to a rocky creak where they

disappeared. The police scoured all up and down the brook, but they never picked

up his trail.

My friends and I talked to policemen, reporters (all the way from Olympia! how

did they get there so fast?), and a representative from the Forks Council for

Recreation and Tourism.

"Try not to say too much to the reporters," the representative said. "Forks hasn't

experienced a murder in thirteen years. And the fact that it was a St. Mark's

student; that can look bad to the school's investors."

A random sniper killing teenagers in small town Forks was going to cause a panic.

People wanted to be told that the killer didn't live here, and that he wouldn't

attack again. Charlie said he was receiving pressure to say the suspect was "likely

a drifter, just passing through". It all reminded of Jaws, when everyone was

worried that the shark attacks would adversely effect Labor Day weekend

tourism.

The principal for St. Mark's visited all of us the night after Mike's murder. He was

seriously freaking. He asked my dad if they should close the school until they

were certain there was no threat to the students.

"That's ... quite the overreaction," Charlie told him. He later grumbled that this

"murder business" was seriously going to cut in to his fishing time.

"It's totally silly," I said. "Hogwarts got attacked annually, and you didn't see

Dumbledore closing it down."

Charlie frowned so deeply at me the grimace curled the wrinkles in his forehead.

"This isn't a fantasy, Bella. Stop comparing everything to the damn movies."

Sometimes, I suspected that Charlie sort of disliked me. Maybe he thought I was

a freak. According to him, I changed when I became a teenager. Grew morbid.

He would get so offended by my blasé attitude about life and death. Like six

years ago, he shot and killed a rapist. He was torn up by what he did.

I harassed him with questions about it: how did it feel, what sort of noises the

man made as he died, what visual changes his body went through. I pretended I

was a detective on Law and Order, like Jerry Orbach.

My father yelled at me. He wouldn't speak to me about work for many months

after that.

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