A stoic last stand of a dying man (FM May)
It radiates through every bone in her body, every fiber in being sings with it. He's the only place she's ever felt safe and now she doesn't even have that. So many times he's reached his hand out to save her and in this one moment, this time when she can chase the shadows from the dark corners of his mind, she doesn't. It's tawdry, adolescent even but Faith is only a teenager and jealousy is a powerful, evocative emotion.
There are just so many of them. Not just one Andra, but at least five or six pretty redheads inhabiting his apartment, co-existing with him like whispers of the past, clinging to every fabric in the apartment he was sharing with Graeme. They all tilted their heads the same way, played with one tendril of soft hair, chided Kenny's behavior the way a loved one might cheerfully dissuade you from slouching or putting your elbows on the dinner table. Even his ghosts, his apparitions seem to believe he is too far gone.
She can hear their mocking voices. Not Andra's, but her own spirits, haunting her daily life. Not smart enough. Not pretty enough. Not strong enough. Not. Good. Enough. Second best.
Faith has been replaced by many things, most notably the many men that had warmed her mother's bed over the years but she's never been replaced by a figment of imagination before, someone who doesn't even exist anymore. She can still feel Alex's warm eyes burning holes through her like a silent warning.
It's not the coke, although God knows there's enough of it just laying around, divided into two small lines on the coffee table in the living room and then scattered as if someone had sneezed just overhead. Drugs are demons, chomping at your heels while you run for your life. Faith's never been addicted to drugs but she's seen what the struggle of addiction has done to her mother before her death.
She can see the shadow of shame pass over his face, she can hear the muted apology that falls from his lips, like the promises he's made her. They don't mean much to her anymore. She can reach out a hand, take him, shake him out of this pretend world he'd created for himself but she can't. The only thing Faith can think is it's happening again.
It's happening again.
She's been replaced by something else. She's believed in promises that were meant to be broken. She can almost see the way her mother's hips move as she solicits men the way Girl Scouts might sell cookies. It's passionless and stale. It doesn't mean anything.
This is wrong.
You've living in the past.
These are just memories.
She's dead.
Dead.
You need to move on.
Faith doesn't say any of these things. Her mind moves in such a way that for a moment she almost thinks she has before she realizes she has done nothing but stand in the doorway of his bedroom, watching another woman move her fingers, her hands down the length of his naked chest.
Faith can still feel the way his body moved against hers, the way her tears stained the pillowcase the night her mother died. She'd given Kenny a piece of herself that she'd never given anyone else.
That she would never give anyone else again.
Kenny holds Andra so gently, cradles her to his chest in a way that suggests he has found his only love and he's never going to move past her. Why should he when he can recreate her anyway that he wants her?
In twenty four hours time Faith has lost her watcher and killed Kakistos. She's boarded a bus and headed for a destination still unknown to her and for a destiny that's done nothing but push her face in the dirt, waiting for her to crawl on her hands and knees, gasping for air. She has a million more miles to fall before she hits rock bottom but through it all she'll keep her prison bunk warm with the memory of a time when someone cared about what time she came home at night and a boy she could have loved.
If only she could have saved him.
There are just so many of them. Not just one Andra, but at least five or six pretty redheads inhabiting his apartment, co-existing with him like whispers of the past, clinging to every fabric in the apartment he was sharing with Graeme. They all tilted their heads the same way, played with one tendril of soft hair, chided Kenny's behavior the way a loved one might cheerfully dissuade you from slouching or putting your elbows on the dinner table. Even his ghosts, his apparitions seem to believe he is too far gone.
She can hear their mocking voices. Not Andra's, but her own spirits, haunting her daily life. Not smart enough. Not pretty enough. Not strong enough. Not. Good. Enough. Second best.
Faith has been replaced by many things, most notably the many men that had warmed her mother's bed over the years but she's never been replaced by a figment of imagination before, someone who doesn't even exist anymore. She can still feel Alex's warm eyes burning holes through her like a silent warning.
It's not the coke, although God knows there's enough of it just laying around, divided into two small lines on the coffee table in the living room and then scattered as if someone had sneezed just overhead. Drugs are demons, chomping at your heels while you run for your life. Faith's never been addicted to drugs but she's seen what the struggle of addiction has done to her mother before her death.
She can see the shadow of shame pass over his face, she can hear the muted apology that falls from his lips, like the promises he's made her. They don't mean much to her anymore. She can reach out a hand, take him, shake him out of this pretend world he'd created for himself but she can't. The only thing Faith can think is it's happening again.
It's happening again.
She's been replaced by something else. She's believed in promises that were meant to be broken. She can almost see the way her mother's hips move as she solicits men the way Girl Scouts might sell cookies. It's passionless and stale. It doesn't mean anything.
This is wrong.
You've living in the past.
These are just memories.
She's dead.
Dead.
You need to move on.
Faith doesn't say any of these things. Her mind moves in such a way that for a moment she almost thinks she has before she realizes she has done nothing but stand in the doorway of his bedroom, watching another woman move her fingers, her hands down the length of his naked chest.
Faith can still feel the way his body moved against hers, the way her tears stained the pillowcase the night her mother died. She'd given Kenny a piece of herself that she'd never given anyone else.
That she would never give anyone else again.
Kenny holds Andra so gently, cradles her to his chest in a way that suggests he has found his only love and he's never going to move past her. Why should he when he can recreate her anyway that he wants her?
In twenty four hours time Faith has lost her watcher and killed Kakistos. She's boarded a bus and headed for a destination still unknown to her and for a destiny that's done nothing but push her face in the dirt, waiting for her to crawl on her hands and knees, gasping for air. She has a million more miles to fall before she hits rock bottom but through it all she'll keep her prison bunk warm with the memory of a time when someone cared about what time she came home at night and a boy she could have loved.
If only she could have saved him.