Lorcan - deed (E4)

This is for Lorcan's solo route, when he and Crowny visit Stephanie's boyfriend

Through the hazy smoke of his damp cigarette he could see Daryl’s trailer. The gross fuck had left the door to it open when he went to Alice’s. Just because everyone in Camelot is dirt poor doesn’t mean people don’t steal all the time. Lorcan once made the mistake of leaving his window ajar and someone slipped their hand in to take his radio.

But, it’s not like Daryl has any shit to steal anyway. Lorcan snorted. He sucked in hard on his cigarette and kept it in his mouth as his mind wandered to the frequent visitor of his mind lately. Crowny.

What’s their deal? He might not know much about how to ‘read’ people like Imre does but he knows Crowny has been spending too much time with him. He has to stop that. Try to get them as far away from him as possible.

Spending more alone time with them means that he’ll get used to them. He’ll not flinch or feel angry when they’re near anymore. And he can’t have that. For his mom. For Orla. Today when they weren’t looking at him, he was looking at them.

He’s starting to notice things about them has doesn’t want to. How soft their cheeks are. How effortlessly cool their hair is. They smell nice too. Clean like sunlight on water.

“Ugggghhhhh,” he groans and drops his cigarette. He presses his palms into his eyes. He can’t stop seeing them.

The swirling of guilt restarts in his stomach. At first he just thought he was getting sick or that he hated Crowny so much he couldn’t bear it. But now...

He drops his hands and looks up at the stars. Is Orla in heaven? Is she looking down at him and judging him for his thoughts? He lets out a shaky breath. What’s wrong with him? He doesn’t even believe in all of that crock of shit.

He’s so weak. Just having them near him is threatening to ruin years of hatred. And that’s not fucking fair. They shouldn’t get off so easy, they never even fucking apologized.

“I wouldn’t even accept it,” he grumbles to himself. He runs his hands through his hair and kicks a nearby trashcan angrily.

No, it can’t be what he’s thinking. He could never. It’s just because he’s lonely and they’re around so goddamn much. He’s confused. Yeah. Also, Daryl was being a fucking asshole to them and he always hates bullies like that.

His eyes open wide, as if a light bulb when off. FUCK YES! He doesn’t like them at all! He just feels bad for them. Duh! He hits his own forehead and looks around, his eyes landing on Daryl’s trailer. He just needs to stop feeling so bad for them. Then everything can go back to normal.

Lorcan leans back against the wall of his house and ponders. He could get Daryl in trouble for something. Young girls? Lorcan clicks his tongue. Yeah that shit is gross but not illegal if the girls are like 16. At least that’s what he heard.

A word slips off his tongue: “weed.”

Lorcan makes a face. He sells pot too. And he hates the cops. The no-snitch rule is supposed to be sacred. On the other hand, it would make the market a bit larger and more importantly it would make him stop thinking of that weirdo with marble eyes.

Lorcan goes back inside. He passes his snoring Grandma on the couch. A late night soap is playing on the old TV. He opens the door of his room, “ew.” It smells like old socks and something gone rotten in here. In his defence, he hasn’t spent that much time here in the past few weeks.

He walks on top of his t-shirts, jeans and coats. He grabs a tin can on top of the mounted miniature bookcase over his bed. He plops down on his rumpled bed and opens it. His stash is intact, grandma hasn’t gotten into one of her clean-freak episodes yet.

He shifts through pills, some crystals and then his last quarter. He grips it in his hand. “Damn it,” he curses. “Damn them.” He shuts his tin, and gets up.

Even though it gets super quiet here at this hour, everyone is practically still awake. Lorcan keeps to the shadows, moving past the rusted trailers with their dim porch lights and cracked windows. He knows the paths between them like the back of his hand, stepping over old beer cans and discarded cigarette butts.

The night air is humid, clinging to his skin, and he feels the weight of his plan settle heavy on his chest. He tells himself he doesn’t care. He has to do this or his life is going into more shit than it’s already in.

Daryl’s trailer is just ahead, the open door a dark mouth waiting for him to step inside. He checks his surroundings. No one is watching. The usual night owls are either drunk, high, or too wrapped up in their own problems to give a damn about what he’s doing.

With a final glance around he slips inside.

The inside of the trailer smells worse than his room. Stale beer, sweat, and something rancid lingering in the air. He holds his breath as he steps over a pair of discarded shoes and an empty pizza box.

His fingers tighten around the bag of weed in his pocket. All he needs is the right spot.

The kitchen counter is littered with beer bottles and a half-eaten sandwich, but it’s the open cabinet above the sink that catches his eye. He pulls it open wider and half-hardheartedly smiles. A mess of clutter.

Old receipts, loose change, an empty prescription bottle. Perfect. He shoves the bag of weed into the pile, making sure it’s just visible enough if someone were to go looking.

His heart is pounding. He needs to get out. He moves quickly, slipping back into the night. But he doesn’t let himself relax just yet. The next part is just as important.

He makes his way back to his house, slipping inside and grabbing the old landline. He rips off a strip from his grandma’s dish rag, wrapping it around the receiver like he’s seen in movies. His fingers shake as he dials. It rings once. Twice. A voice picks up.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

He swallows hard, deepens his voice as much as he can. “Yeah, uh—there’s this guy dealing drugs out of his trailer. I heard he’s got a bunch stashed away. Daryl Perkins. Lot 17, Camelot in the Meadows.”

“Can you give me your name?”

He hangs up.

Lorcan leans back, dropping the phone onto his lap. His breath is uneven, and his hands feel clammy. He tells himself this is the right thing. Daryl deserves it. This will fix everything.

Then why does his stomach still twist with something that feels a hell of a lot like doubt?