oliver_jerzyck

In the Presence of a Lady

Wed, 29 Aug 2007 13:00:04 GMT

"Hello, Grandmother. Are they taking care of you?"

The morning room at Willow's Grove faced outwards towards a manmade lake through a large plate glass window. The sun reflected bright and sharp off of the surface of the water, broken up by large geese that paddled lazily across the green depths. Oliver supposed there were fish in the water as well, although he had never asked. It was ten o'clock in the morning, and he had showered and shaved with the utmost care before making the journey to the private care facility to arrive in time for the beginning of visiting hours.

In her wheelchair in front of the window, Amelia Jerzyck turned at the sound of the voice and beamed, her pale face crinkling as she smiled. "Oliver, how delightful to see you. I didn't know if you'd come. Please, have a seat. Alston was just about to bring the tea things in. Would you like a cup?"

"Yes, of course, thank you." The spellcaster took the chair opposite from the tiny old woman, folding his hands in his lap. His flight from Nevada had passed without incident, and he'd allowed himself one last cigarette before getting into the taxi to come here. He didn't smoke in front of his grandmother. In Amelia's opinion, smoking was for unwashed masses, and he'd never allowed himself to light up in her presence. Some things you just didn't do in front of a lady.

"Are you doing well? I spoke to Doctor Trask on my way in, he says you just recently had a physical and passed with flying colors." "Who knows with doctors?" Amelia wrinkled her nose with veiled distaste. "They poke, they prod, they draw blood, and then six months later they do it all over again. But they do take care of me here. My room is very comfortable, and I've just gotten the loveliest new furniture."

Oliver felt the ghost of a smile pass across his face before vanishing. Willow's Grove was a very selective, very expensive community, no more than a hundred or so residents at the time, but the cost was of no concern to him. No state-run hellhole for his grandmother, where they would steal her money and her medication with equal impunity, thank you very much. Amelia was the last relative he had who actually gave a damn about him, and he was going to see to it that she lived out her remaining years with all the dignity she deserved.

"You look as though you haven't been sleeping," the old woman said, but before Oliver could either confirm or deny the assessment a short, rotund little man in his early fifties came trundling into the room bearing a tray with a silver teapot and white china cups on it. "Alston, this is my grandson, Oliver." The younger man rose to his feet, and a formal handshake came and went. "A pleasure to meet you. I didn't realize Mrs. Jerzyck was having company today."

"I live in Nevada now," Oliver said somewhat distantly. "We don't see one another as often as I'd like." He re-took his chair as the other man went about pouring the freshly-brewed tea into the delicate cups. He remembered the tea ritual almost as well as he remembered the ritual of watching Nathe shave on Sunday mornings. His grandmother would start out each day with a cup of strong black tea, only the slightest spoonful of sugar stirred carefully into the hot liquid. He remembered the first time he had ever been considered adult enough to pick up one of the fragile cups himself, feeling the heat against his fingers and his palm through the thin dishware. The cups had been a wedding gift to Amelia from her own mother. He wondered who would inherit them after she died. He was her only grandchild. Would she see fit to leave them to him?

Alston left after the tea was poured, offering a slight half-bow to the other occupants of the room, and once the door clicked shut, Amelia said, "I should like to take my tea on the patio this morning. Could you mind push my chair outside?" "Of course, Grandmother." Oliver rose to his feet again, took hold of the handles of the wheelchair, and he watched the level of tea in Amelia's cup as he manuevered them outside onto the patio. If any of it spilled out onto the saucer, that meant he'd been walking too fast.

The beginning of September in Maine had a definite bite in the air, and the spellcaster seated himself in a padded chair with his own cup and saucer as his grandmother looked out across the landscaped grounds. A stroke two years ago had left her chair-bound for the most part, but with careful monitoring and the presence of a competent doctor, her health remained good. Oliver had made sure to check and cross-check Trask's qualifications before allowing him to take over his grandmother's care, and he continued to keep an eye on the situation through Virgil's reports. So far, there had been no issues.

"What's Nevada like? Nathe and I never went that far west." "Hot. Dry. Sandy. Lots of gambling." The magic user sipped at his tea, grateful for the warmth. "I can't imagine you living out there full time," Amelia said, and it might have been Oliver's imagination, but she sounded a little reproving. He cleared his throat. "The climate of Seattle was far less accomodating," he offered. The old woman directed a look in his direction, and one eyebrow lifted. "You are fully aware that that is not what I mean, Oliver Jerzyck."

Oliver Jerzyck. No one else had ever used his full name like that, not the way Amelia did. She had always loved the boy, this angry, troubled young man who'd been so carelessly abandoned by her own son. And as for his mother...well, the less said of Corrinne Desmond the better. Grasping, ambitious, common Corrinne, who had killed Saul as certainly as if she'd tied the noose around his neck herself. Nathe had always said she would, and her husband had never been wrong about anything in all the years they'd been married.

"It's the people there," she continued, lifting the cup to her mouth. "I know what goes on in places like that. How people take advantage. There must be more than one reason they call it 'Sin City'." Her tone carried all the offended gentlility of her station, and Oliver nodded, playing his part as her dutiful listener. "Yes, Grandmother, I have been very careful."

Except for Jill, the mocking voice in the back of his head spoke up, and the spellcaster drank another bit of tea, ignoring it. Because he knew without asking that Amelia would find Jill common, and perhaps she would even be correct. And hadn't she taken advantage of him? Started out using him for his blood and his magical skills while she dallied with vampires? She hadn't loved him, she'd only loved what he could do for her. He was going to have to remember that.

"How long will you be staying?" "My plans are open-ended at the moment. I needed to get away for a while, to be able to think more clearly. And I wanted to see you." Amelia's expression softened a bit at her grandson's words, and she set down her cup to cover his hand with her own. They were the only one left on his father's side. What would happen to the boy after she was gone? "You are always welcome here, you know that."

They sat there in silence for a moment, their hands still clasped, then went back to drinking tea, re-enacting a long-past moment from Oliver's childhood. In his grnadmother's presence, he felt calmer already. Less abused.

He wondered how long it would last when he left.

Leavin' On A Jet Plane

Thu, 23 Aug 2007 13:30:11 GMT

Oliver did not, in fact, go get drunk after he slammed out of Jill's apartment. He thought about it, considering it most strongly when he hurled his weight into a cab and demanded to be taken back to his hotel. The driver, a rail-thin black man in his late sixties, looked at him as if he might start having seizures at any second, but the spellcaster ignored the prying stare and held up a few crumpled bills before holding them out over the barrier of the front seat. If he had learned nothing else in his whole fucked up life, it was that money solved almost all problems.

The taxi passed by several bars en route to the Bellagio, and Oliver wanted a drink so badly that his vision started to blur. But he didn't ask that the car be stopped, instead hunkering into the corner of the seat near the window with his arms folded tightly across his chest. Fuck her. He didn't need a drink, not right now. He didn't want to be numb, he wanted to feel every soul-blistering second of this. Everything she'd said, everything she'd done, the way she'd looked at him. As if he were gum she couldn't quite scrape off of the bottom of her shoe.

He wanted to feel it, to remember it. So that he would never make the mistake of wanting to trust her again.

He'd been a fool. He knew that now. And it made his skin crawl, how vulnerable he'd been. How open and trusting, thinking that finally, finally, he had found someone to love him completely. Only it had all started to fall apart because he'd yelled, because she had forgotten that he was an asshole, because he'd tried so hard to keep that part of himself away from her. Only now she knew everything, and she hated him for it. Hated him the way he'd always known she would. He'd been a fool. He knew that now.

He handed the taxi driver some more money when the vehicle pulled into the lot of the expensive hotel, and he walked through the lobby with his head down, arms still folded around his midsection. The elevator was blessedly empty, and he huddled against the wall, counting the floors as the numbers overhead lit up and then dimmed again. A soft thumping noise began to accompany the quiet dings as he began to make contact with the unforgiving surface behind him with the back of his head. Thump, thump, thump, stupid, stupid, stupid...

He didn't need her. He'd get over it. He'd lived without her before. She didn't love him anyway. She was such a liar about everything, he doubted even she knew what was true and what wasn't.

But he'd never thought she'd lie to him, that somehow he was exempt. Fool.

Maybe she'd go back to her vampires. Hell, maybe she'd become one finally. Maybe that would make her ungrateful, unappreciative ass happy. Everything he'd done had been for her. Out of love. How fucking pathetic.

In his room, Oliver took off all of his clothes and got into the shower. He ran the water hot, as hot as he could stand it, and steam filled the room as he braced his hands against the wall and let the water run over his head and then down his back. It burned, and his skin immediately started to pinken, but he stayed where he was. Nothing could hurt him any worse now. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he could cook the rage out of himself, until the flesh fell right off his bones. A tribute, a sacrifice to make himself worthy.

Would she love him then? Or was she even capable of it?

He finally exited the bathroom, not bothering to dry off. It was fully dark now, and he opened the doors to the balcony to step outside and just stand there, looking out at the skyline. Las Vegas at night was a neon-colored playground, and as he stood on the balcony in all his bare-assed glory he let out a raw, wounded scream that tore at his vocal cords and left him gasping for breath once it was over. He grabbed for the railing with both hands, holding it so tightly that his knuckles whitened as if they might break through the skin and make him bleed.

He pitched himself back inside, stumbling over the threshhold. A litle steadier, and his hands almost stopped shaking as he found his cell phone and punched in Virgil's number. "I need a favor," he said without preamble once the attorney picked up on the other end of the phone. His voice was hoarse, and he coughed before adding, "I need a plane ticket to Maine. Before I kill myself. I'm counting on you, Virgil. You're the only one I trust."

Stumble Homeward, Angel

Mon, 06 Aug 2007 12:53:12 GMT

No more drinking with Harry and Virgil after this, Oliver thought, putting on a pair of sunglasses against the glare of the early afternoon sun. Virgil isn't so bad, but Harry is a putz and he's not invited next time.

It was one in the afternoon, and he'd only gotten as far as a block away from where he'd slept last night. His hair was still damp from the drenching it had gotten, drying in the heat of the day. His shirt was untucked, though he'd made a sloppy attempt at putting himself together before being sent home. At least he felt moderately sober, but fuck, his head was killing him.

The spellcaster trudged along for another block or so, then said to hell with it. He fished his cell phone out of his jacket and punched in Virgil's number. The lawyer could always be counted on to come pick him up if he needed it, and he wanted some asprin and water. There was a conveinent bus stop bench close by, and Oliver lowered his weight onto it with a soft grunt.

Within three rings, he heard, "Guzman. Speak to me." "Are you in a meeting? I don't know if I can get a cab to come to this neighborhood." "Good morning, Oliver," Virgil said dryly, and the magic user could almost see the heavy-set attorney leaning back in his desk chair and looking at his Rolex. "Yeah, good morning to you too. Are you working, or did I catch you on your three-scotch break?" There was a rustling sound on the other end of the phone, and the other man said, "I'm just going through a little paperwork right now, a couple of new cases and some other files." "Can you come pick me up? I feel like somebody dropped a concrete block on my head."

"Where are you?" Oliver squinted through the dark lenses of the sunglasses, looking for a street sign. He gave the other man the street name, closed his eyes. The surrounding neighborhood was a bit rundown, and he laid back on the bench to look up at the sky instead. It made his head spin less to be horizontal.

"Fucking come get me, Virgil, I'm a dying man here."

He was still lying like that, the cell phone resting on his stomach, when a black Cadillac pulled up to the curb, tires crunching over broken glass. The passenger door swung open, and Virgil lit a cigarette to blow smoke out of the corner of his mouth. When Oliver didn't move, he beeped the horn a little impatiently. "Come on, Oliver, before you get picked up for vagrancy. You don't want to spend another night in the Las Vegas jail, do you?"

"I was looking at the clouds," Oliver said, his voice slightly imperious as he climbed into the passenger seat and closed the door behind him. Virgil gave him a look, handed him a cold bottle of water and another bottle of asprin. Pills rattled as the cap came off, and the mage swallowed four tablets with a gulp of water, then took another slow drink. He could have something more solid later, when he trusted his stomach better. The air conditioner was running, and the leather seat of the Caddy creaked as he slumped against it and let his eyes fall shut.

"What was her name?" Virgil's voice still had that dry, vaguely amused quality to it, and Oliver shrugged one shoulder. "Sarita...something or other. She might not have said. I probably didn't ask." "How much did you give her?" "I don't remember. At least three hundred." He really only had approached her to borrow a lighter, but then she'd had nice legs and a smile to knock you on your ass. So he'd more or less propositioned her, and the rest of the night had become sweaty history. What happened in Vegas stayed in Vegas.

"So where are we going?" the lawyer asked after a short silence, and Oliver was grateful for the lack of questions. Virgil knew about his moods and didn't press for details, he just wanted to keep him out of trouble. Thank God he hadn't given her his real name. "My hotel. I need to shower and then sleep the rest of it off. Did Harry say anything to you?" "Harry didn't make it in to work today," Virgil replied. "I called his condo this morning, his wife said he spent most of the morning hugging the toilet before crawling off back to bed. He shouldn't be a problem."

There was another silence, one filled by the hum of the car's powerful engine and the noise of the AC. "Virgil?" The spellcaster's eyes were still closed, even behind the dark shades. "What is it, Oliver?" The large car made a turn onto a new street, heading towards the Bellagio. "He's not coming out with us next time."

Self-Inflicted

Thu, 08 Mar 2007 20:57:51 GMT

The mirror told no lies. Oliver was not a happy man.

He seldom looked at his own eyes in reflective surfaces anymore, wary of what he'd see if he looked for too long. Even when he shaved, he kept his gaze on his jawline or the razor in his hand rather than how his eyes looked as he moved the sharp blade over his skin. Sometimes, it was better not to know certain things.

The razor was a thing of beauty, an old-fashioned single-bladed object with an ivory-inlaid handle and his initials, O.D.J., engraved into the surface of it where it extended from his closed hand. It was an affectation and he knew it, like the silver-knobbed walking stick he'd carried around during his college years, but the razor was a memory from his childhood, where both the best and the worst of the man he became could be found.

In that first terrible period after his father's death, Oliver went to live with his paternal grandparents, who owned a house in Maine and made the decision - without consulting Corrinne - that the boy would be better off with them until the furor in the press died down. "Its really for the best," Amelia Jerzyck had explained as her husband Nathe and their driver placed luggage into the trunk of a late-model Lincoln. "He needs calm, and he can't get that here. When the reporters get bored and go home, then we'll discuss other arrangements." Furious at being cornered into agreement but unwilling to face her father-in-law's cold disapproval of her, Corrinne grudgingly allowed her not yet nine year old son to depart with the older couple. Oliver felt dwarfed by the huge car, and then later the massive house, but he was glad to go. Anything would have been better than his own room, where he could still hear the creaking of the rope.

Nathe Jerzyck was a tall, imposing man in his late fifties when his grandson was born. He had married young, making his fortune with investments in real estate and other business interests, and Saul had been his heir and only child. He and Corrinne had neither liked one another or even pretended to get along, and as a result he and the boy were barely acquainted. At eight, Oliver thought his grandfather seemed ancient, and their combined, unspoken grief was like a blanket of ice on the drive to the airport.

In Maine, there were servants in the Jerzyck household, and Oliver discovered the casual snobbery of the wealthy. His grandparents lived well and never gave any hint that they were accustomed to anything else, and he began to mimic their habits as he had once mimicked Saul's. But mixed in with their genteel aloofness were his father's more bohemian ways, and so he became an odd combination of the two. Distant one moment, then giving his allowance money to the cook's children on a whim. He became much less charitable later in life, but since money was never a concern for him it also wasn't very interesting, and so he frittered it away at his leisure as he grew older.

Every Sunday morning, Amelia would rise just after dawn and begin preparing for church. When a light breakfast had been seen to, she would carry a tray upstairs for her husband. Nathe disliked being disturbed from sleep by the servants, but for his wife he would offer a grudging smile, then eat before attending to his morning ablutions.

This much younger version of Oliver would occasionally assist his grandfather, especially with the ritual of shaving. The old man also owned a straight razor, a gleaming thing of metal with a jet-black handle, and he would lather his face with white foam while the boy sharpened the blade on a leather strop. It was a silent, soothing process, and one Amelia was barred from. Oliver still remembered the quiet scraping sound the blade made against the rough leather.

"A gentleman always uses a straight razor," Nathe told his grandson once, adjusting his suspenders over his crisply ironed white shirt before donning a heavy black coat against the chill in the air. Oliver was always fascinated to watch the old man use the object, drawing it over his sharply defined jawline before carefully trimming his dark sideburns. He'd been shaving since he was fifteen, and had never once cut himself, or so he said. It was a meditative act, almost, one that spoke of being at peace.

So yes, it was an affectation, but those precious minutes of silence were ones that Oliver needed, and so the overly ornate razor remained a staple, an indulgence he could obviously afford.

Today, however, the ritual wasn't working.

His hand trembled as he angled the blade under his chin, and a tiny cut began to ooze blood as he nicked himself. "Fuck," he muttered, keeping his eyes on the injury as he dabbed at it with a tissue. He knew what was wrong, why his fingers shook, but he was unable to articulate it. It was simply an ice-cold knot of fear in his gut waiting to devour him.

He should not have yelled, should not have gotten so angry when Jill told him about the vampire. What was wrong with him that he could turn into such a madman at the slightest provocation? Oliver glanced at himself in the mirror, caught his own eyes, looked away in a hurry. If he couldn't control himself better, if he couldn't re-locate that calm place inside himself...

She would stop loving him. She would leave.

The razor was still open, and he looked at it. He was just out of the shower, his hair freshly washed, a towel around his waist. The blade gleamed up at him like a smile made out of metal, and he dragged his other hand through his hair. A gentleman always used a straight razor. Nathe had said so. His grandfather outlived poor unfortunate Saul by nearly a decade, dying as silently and sternly as he had lived. And to his only grandson the razor now represented the calm he was supposed to have found in that place away from home.

Oliver altered his grip on the razor's handle, and the flesh of his stomach dimpled. His arms would be too obvious, and the cigarette burns attracted enough attention anyway. The blade was very sharp, and it wouldn't take much pressure to break the skin. Would it feel better if he could make himself bleed? Maybe it was the only safe way, a way that didn't involve screaming at the top of his lungs as he'd nearly done with Jill. He must never frighten her again.

The towel was white, and several dark red drops soaked into it as Oliver continued to look down at his belly. Then several more. A crosshatch, small and neat. Not much evidence could be left. Because then Jill would know. Know how angry he always was.

Oliver rinsed the razor blade under the tap, running warm water over it, then went back to shaving. His hands had lost much of their tremble. It had been an experiment, nothing more. An experiment in being calm. But as long as his hands no longer shook, perhaps it had worked.

He still wasn't looking at his eyes, though. There was no experiment, no test, that would fix what was wrong there.