Unwell
a story by Heather Frizzell

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Author's Note: This story was originally started as a challenge to myself to fill in the blanks of the fabulous matchbox twenty song Unwell, and exploded into a huge, insanely fun novel. Ultimately, I am unable to decide if this is a songfic or an original story, since the plot and the characters are entirely my own (one of my protagonists may resemble a certain lead singer, but I assure you he is his own delightfully messed-up character). It's definitely not a typical story, but if you're interested in seeing what kind of story someone can come up with based on a song, or just enjoy fractured love stories, then please give this a try. You don't have to be a matchbox twenty fan to get it, but if you are you'll pick up on some sutble homages I threw in to amuse myself. This is still a work in progress, but I am impulsively curious about what a large audience would think of it. Erm, I think that's it now. Just... enjoy, I guess. ^_^

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I first saw him on the subway, a few days after I had moved on campus.

Being all of eighteen and never having lived in a big city before, I first perceived him as a threat. He looked like one of the men my father had warned me about in his last big lecture before I left home. The city was a big and scary place, and I had to be careful. I was determined to make it out of college alive, just to prove to my parents that I could be self-reliant, if nothing else. So that day, when I saw him step onto the train amid a sardine-packed crowd of businesspeople, college kids, and thugs, my potential rapist radar picked him up as a target. My father's terminology flashed through my mind. Deviants. Bums. Psychos.

He looked around quite uncertainly when he got on, as if looking for a place where he would go unnoticed. Unfortunately, considering it was rush hour, he was lucky enough just to get on board. The vast amount of people seemed to frighten him; he reminded me of a skittish horse. He tried to weave through the crowd, mumbling as he did so. Most of the people paid him no mind.

He came steadily in my direction. I watched him uneasily, clutching my bag tighter against my chest. I had taken one of the last empty seats when I had gotten on, but the standing area around my section of the train was relatively spacious. I prayed he wouldn't choose to stand next to me.

Without warning, the train lurched forward, headed toward the next stop. The man hadn't had a chance to find a stronghold. He stumbled and, because he was headed for the back of the train, pitched forward, right into a woman wearing a beige trench coat with her dark hair in a french twist. She recoiled in disgust, giving him a look of intense loathing as she brushed imaginary grime off of her coat.

I was only a few feet away. “Sorry! Sorry...” I heard the man say. He had a low voice, and it was a bit gravelly. He looked panicked and inched away from her, muttering “sorry” over and over again, long after the woman had stopped listening.

He passed right by me without seeing me. I didn't even remember to feel relieved.

He found a spot to hold on to the overhead hand rail across from me and down diagonally a bit. I watched him as the train went from stop to stop, and more and more people filed off. He eventually found a seat, where he sat cautiously, as if he was afraid he might not be allowed. I watched him until I came to my own stop, and didn't want to leave when I did.

I had forgotten to be afraid of him. I had seen the look in his dark eyes when the woman had scoffed at him. It was obvious he got treated that way a lot. Pity took the place of apprehension inside me.

I studied him that day, trying to understand. He wasn't old. My guess was late thirties at the most. He had lots of scruffy brown hair, slightly curly and sticking out wildly in some places, matted to his head in others. He had a straight nose and lips I had seen on Roman statues in art books my mother had. He hadn't shaved in at least a week. His shirt was stained with coffee, mud, and other substances I couldn't identify. His jeans were muddy as well and ripped horizontally across the left knee. I thought it very possible that he might be homeless.

He couldn't make eye contact. He didn't meet the gaze of any one on that subway train, and there were plenty that made glances at him. He watched a space of air a few feet away from his face, and darted his vision around occasionally. From where I sat his eyes looked like two glassy, glittery beetles.

His Roman lips moved almost incessantly, but he didn't speak loudly enough to be heard and much too quickly for me to make out anything he was saying. He shook his head violently a couple of times and beneath the unruly jungle of hair I could see he wore earrings -- one tarnished gold hoop in each ear.

He fidgeted like a child with attention deficit disorder. He gesticulated with his hands as they hung between his knees, elbows resting on his thighs. I watched his hands flutter like butterflies with broken wings. He had long fingers -- piano-player's hands, my mother would call them -- and calluses on the tips. I wondered what he had done to give him those calluses. I wondered a lot about him as I watched him.

The train slowed and I realized this was my stop. I half-hoped it was his stop as well, just so I could continue watching him for a little while longer. But as the train pulled to a halt he made no move to get up. I realized he probably didn't even know where he was, and that saddened me. I stood up the second the train stopped; I had learned firsthand you needed to move quickly or the train was going to leave whether or not you got off in time. I caught one last glance of the man over my shoulder as I got off into the stale air of the subway station. He was still sitting, talking to no one, his eyes pulsating with a fervent intensity.

That was the last I ever expected to see of him.

But I was mistaken.