Taking out the Trash 1/?	  Taking out the Trash 1/?

 by XTricks

  

 

 Disclaimer: AA ownes 'em, though we'll neve see more of 'em, except in
fanfic.

 Author's Notes: 

 Story Notes: Set about 2.5 years after the series ends and kinda AU--not
to mention an OC in a major role. Fraser and Ray K are in Canada and
Vecchio is back in Chicago after a disastrous 2-year marriage to Stella.
This is not connected to my 'Long Journey Home' series.

 

 

 Taking Out the Trash 

 When I was twelve years old, I found out I had an uncle. I remembered
that, 'cause no one talked about him and that was the story of my life
too, so I was interested. We were visiting my granfolks and I was always
good for that 'cause it was really a vacation. No smacking around. It was
Christmas and my grandfolks were fighting--about this uncle and I
eavesdropped because that was always the best way to figure stuff out.
Didn't learn much except his name; Stanley. My grandmum wanted to call
him--wherever he was-- and my grandpop didn't. I figured anyone who was on
the outs with a Kowalski dad had to be an okay guy so I remembered it. 

 Found out a little stuff; my grandmum got mail from Canada, her and no
one else. My uncle no one talked about had been--maybe still was--a cop.
When I found that out, I knew why no one talked about him; all cops do is
take out the garbage--that's what my dad said. Saw some pictures in the
album; skinny and blond and wearing the stupidest glasses I've ever
fucking seen. He looked kinda like me--except for the glasses--and I
wondered if grandpop used to beat the shit out of him like dad did me. 

 When I was fourteen, my dad beat me so bad I thought I as gonna die. It
was my fault, getting beat up like that, 'cause I pissed him off--more
than usual. I knew I was gonna get a smacking; not hard to figure out when
you're being dragged to the garage by your hair and dad's going on about
how he's gonna take out the trash. That's what he said, when he was going
to whale at me; gonna take out the trash. So, I go; "Yeah, well, garbage
in, garbage out." 

 Nobody said I was smart. 

 When I woke up there was blood all over the sheets and I could hardly
move and was seeing all kinds of shit that wasn't there. I didn't wanna
run away, I was scrawny and young and knew what would happen on the
streets if I did, plus, if I got caught and sent home--I wasn't going to
just think I was gonna die when my dad got his hands on me. But I didn't
wanna die either. So, one day, when everyone was at work or school, I
ditched classes and came home. I stole every penny I could find; mom's,
dad's, Julie's-- hell, I searched the couch. I stole my mom's jewelry
('cause my dad bought it for her and she never did shit to help me), I
stole Julie's stuff, same reason, plus my dad never hit her. Hell, I took
dad's laptop and the DVD player and sold it to a guy I knew. I packed my
duffel and shook the dust of Arizona off my feet. 

 I ended up in Chicago.  

 "Oh yeah, oh yeah--" the guy pushed on the back of my head and I relaxed,
letting him fuck my mouth. That's what he was paying me for. "You got one
fine mouth, really hot--" 

 I hummed and sucked, 'cause I was tired and I'd been here most of the
night already and-- too late--I figured this guy with the big house and
the big car and the big bodyguards as a mob guy. I wanted to get the hell
out of here. His hands pushed through my hair again, petting me,
scratching his fingernails over the bite marks he'd left on my shoulders. 

 "You are one pretty bit of street trash." I flinched and he came, hands
clamping on my head like a vise. I held it in my mouth, then spit it into
a corner of the blanket while he was still catching his breath and
couldn't notice me doing it. I didn't swallow my tricks, it was like a
pride thing for me. When you're getting by on getting fucked, you gotta
take your pride where you find it. 

 Leaning back on my knees, I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand and
grinned at the guy. He smiled back but those eyes were cold, like they had
been the whole time. He was an old guy, starting to go gray, little fat
around the middle. He had a round scar on his shoulder and a fucked up
knee and he looked at me like I wasn't even there--or like I wasn't going
to be there real soon. I didn't know his name, he looked a little
familiar, like someone you see on TV. 

 "I gotta take a leak," I said and slipped off the big bed with the satin
sheets and the big bottle of lube and the sticky condom on the floor.
Naked, I padded across the room to the big bathroom with it's Jacuzzi
(wished we'd used that, it was fucking cold outside and it's be nice to
get warmed up some way besides having some guy lying on you), it's gold
faucets and cold, cold marble. I rinsed my mouth out and heard voices.
Slinking to the door, I listened, holding my breath. 

 "... take out the trash, will ya?" My guy was talking, bedclothes
rustling so I lost some of the words. "Quietly." 

 "Sure thing, sir." And that was his bodyguard. 

 My mouth went sour, I was so scared my fingers were tingling and my
stomach cramped. They were gonna kill me. The guy I'd just blown was
sitting there telling his guy to fucking kill me. Just like that. I looked
wildly around; there was a window but it was small. The bathroom went
right back to the bedroom where they were waiting. There wasn't anywhere
for me to go and if I went out there, I'd be shot or strangled or cement
shoes or something. My life was shit but I still didn't wanna die. 

 I peeked out from the door again, just in time to see the bedroom door
get kicked open and then guns were going off and there was fucking blood
everywere. I slammed the bathroom door and locked it and started yanking
my clothes on as fast as I could; fuck the underwear, screw the socks. I
shoved my feet into my ratty boots and climbed on the toilet to open the
too small window. The shooting had stopped and there was just this creepy,
scary, really scary bellowing and all I could think of was at least the
guy had gotten his rocks off before he got killed. That and the fact his
bodyguard hadn't done much guarding when the door went down. 

 I was skinny but the window was really small. I was looking at it and
trying to figure how to get out when I heard someone try and open the door
to the bathroom. I stopped figuring and started shoving, kicking my feet
against the wall and holding my breath and pushing, pushing--someone was
slamming against the door now--and my shoulders were out and the rest of
me was sliding out and someone was shooting the door and I was falling out
the window. 

 It wasn't too far and I fell on some soggy bushes. My arm hurt but my
legs worked and I was pushing myself out of the shrubbery when the big
swath of yellow light from the window was blocked out. The guy--the guy
with the gun--and I looked up and he was looking down and we saw each
other. Then I saw the gun, flashing like a camera and I was knocked on my
ass, screaming and hearing more shots. 

 "I didn't see anything! I didn't see anything!" I screamed and started
running as fast as I could, straight out, praying for the dark to hide me.
I must of flew over the wall, I didn't remember climbing it and I ran
until I puked. I puked until I nearly passed out and then I walked until
the sun came up. I didn't hitch hike, hell, I jumped into the ditch by the
road every time a car came by; especially when the cops and the ambulance
and the fire truck came by. I didn't want anyone seeing me out here, in
the 'burbs. 

 I walked all the way back to Chicago; hurting like hell and hid in the
nearest public library. The sun was up by then, I'd had to walk all night
and the story was already in the papers. I got sick again, puking in the
bathroom, when I saw the picture of the house and remembering how scared I
was. There were names now and 'alleged criminal activity' and unknown
assailants. I didn't usually read much but this thing--I sat down and read
every word and when I was done, I knew I was in deep, deep shit. 

 The police were 'investigating the homicide' and that meant they didn't
have the guy who'd done the shooting. And that guy had seen me. I watched
enough TV, I knew I was some kinda witness and everyone was going to want
my ass. There were going to be people looking to kill me. 

 I sat in the bathroom with a hank of paper-towels on my arm, trying to
sop up the bleeding from the big cut there. I also had a gouge in my side,
it felt like someone had dragged a hot poker over my ribs and I was pretty
much black and blue all over. The paper was at my feet--I'd bled on it and
was going to get kicked out if I wasn't careful-- and I didn't know what
to do next. It was almost enough to make me wanna call home and I rubbed
my face and rocked back and forth. I had to be crazy desperate, thinking
my folks would care; dad would probably be glad I was dead. "I don't wanna
die," I whispered to myself. "I don't wanna die." 

 All I could think was that I had to get out of Chicago. 

 Then all I could think was, where the hell would I go? I wasn't going to
go home, I was more scared of my dad--I knew what he'd do to me--than I
was of some mobster. I knew people in Chicago, sure and they were all like
me, homeless, broke, hustlers and one of them was pretty likely to turn me
over if there was money in the deal. I mean, I would, right? My grandfolks
were the only relatives I knew and they'd never done shit for me. Then I
remembered I had an uncle. Somewhere--somewhere in Canada and that was
real far away from Chicago. I had an uncle that no one else in my family
liked and that was a plus in my book. 

 I rested my head on my knees, sitting on the toilet in the library and
tried to remember everything I could about this Stanley Kowalski, Canada
and Christmas at my grandfolks. 

 I used to get the mail for them, I remembered that. I wanted them to like
me so I'd get their mail whenever we visited and at Christmas time they'd
get all kinds of mail. Cards and packages and cookies from somebody
'Vecchio' and they'd talk about all those people and it was kinda like I
had friends too, listening to them. So, I'd get the mail and look at the
packages and the pictures. Every year, grandmum would get a package from
Canada and no one ever talked about that. I remembered that because it was
a thing different from everything else. 

 I squeezed my eyes shut and remembered those packages. Always wrapped in
brown paper and always stained from coming so far. Messy handwriting; "Mum
Kowalski" from...from...it was always initials. "S.R.K" and there had to
be a return address on it and who the hell was I kidding, thinking I could
remember that. But I rocked in the dark and I didn't have anywhere to go
and I was gonna die if I didn't get out of Chicago. Then--it wasn't a city
it was a thing! A knife. 

 "Yellowknife!" I yelped and sat up and nearly fell off the john 'cause I
was dizzy. I mopped everything up again and flushed the bloody towels and
tried to look as neat and clean as I could. I needed the library and for
more than just the dry and warm for once, I didn't wanna get kicked out. 

 It took me awhile and I yelled at the computer once--and promised,
promised I wouldn't do it again when the librarian came around, I think
she felt sorry for me--but there was a city called Yellowknife in Canada.
I hadn't been wrong. I'd remembered something and I hadn't been wrong and
that was kinda wow, 'cause brains weren't my thing. The thing I did know
how to do on the computer was Greyhound but they didn't go to Yellowknife
and I couldn't pay for a ride anyway. Yellowknife wasn't close to the
border--it wasn't close to anything, I finally figured. It was the bumfuck
of beyond and if there was somewhere farther from Chicago in the world, I
didn't know what it was. I couldn't concentrate on the stuff on the
computer; Northwest Territories, diamonds and stuff like that. I was
thinking; it had been more than a year since I'd run away, this uncle of
mine could've moved somewhere else and why would he wanna help me out
anyway? He could be just as bad as my dad--they were brothers after all.
He was probably whomping the snot out of his own kids while I was here
waiting for the mob to find and kill me. 

 What I came back to, over and over, was that I had no where to go and I
was scared shitless. My dad beat me up, and I figured he woulda killed me
if I'd been stupid enough to hang around but there was somebody out there
who wanted to fucking shoot me. That was different. I thought no one
scared me as much as my dad butat least I knew what was up with him. Some
stranger trying to kill me was different, I couldn't predict it, couldn't
get an angle. And a gun was way different from fists and feet and a belt.
So, I sat in that library chair and felt blood seeping down my arm and
didn't know what to do.  

End Taking out the Trash 1/? by XTricks: x_tricks2000@yahoo.com

Author and story notes above.