Ruin Maketh Me

76 - Don't leave

     True to Leonard's word, we spent all our meals and most of the day in the car with the exception of wild pees. In a world such as this, I'm sure there are modes of entertainment similar to that of Earth, but the majority of this time we spent bathed in silence, staring forwards into space as if there's something more to see than just the car interior. Nothing stirred our numb interaction but the cold downpour of rain smashing against the dark glass.
We passed through two or three cities, smaller than Santana but nonetheless grotesque in its integration of Victorian grandeur and Hightech minimalism. Flying cars, horses with wings, floating traffic lights, it's become even more clear that these cities' infrastructures are driven purely on magic as Earth's was driven on electricity. And somehow, Sol completely failed to mention magic's necessity. I shield my eyes and concentrate on the strong drive of water against the window pane. How the fuck am I supposed to find a job when firstly, I can't wield magic and secondly, I can't tolerate magic cast on myself? My soul's intolerance to magic makes me basically useless in a society like this.
     What did Sol say?
"...I have a house in Santana, you can stay there after you get off the boat. I can contact some jobs for you too, if you like."
     My fingers spasm and clench loosely. He had planned to shelter me and take care of me as if he was my sugar daddy. It doesn't matter if I can't do anything by myself, because he'll sort it out for me, is that it? But I'm an adult and a man too! I don't need someone to sort everything out for me.
—Blue eyes rise from the papers on the desk to me, a sea of ghost fire, "Where are you going?" A dark flicker in the shocking paleness, he sets the documents down with a faint slap, "You don't need a job. I'll give you more allowance if you want, go have fun, do whatever you want." The liberal expanse of his brows cools, and he stands from his chair, "Friends? Which friends? What are their names, where do they work, how old are they?" He brushes a hand through his hair and steps forward, "Of course I'm worried, I don't want you associating with bad company again, it hasn't been long since you've been through rehab." His phone rings loud and insistent, but he declines without looking at the caller, "It's not that I don't trust you Kitten, I'm just worried, you won't tell me where you're going." The tendons in his neck tense, "Of course I need to know. I can't have my kitten going around and getting hurt—
     Oh fucking hell, I close my eyes and rest my head against the window. But even in the half-darkness, the heavy weight crushing against my chest doesn't lighten its load. Instead of Jacques, images of a man with trailing gold hair and mind-breaking silver eyes bloom like wild flowers from the edges of my mind to the center until there's no empty space left for any other thought. Delusions, delirious words, emotions dripping with blood grow out from the center of these perfect pictures. A crazy excitement overtakes my heart, and in the ghostly silence, I'm almost sure that everyone can hear the frantic beat of the muscle in my chest.
     An uncomfortable heat licks up my cheeks and the tips of my ears. I need to calm down, right now. But an inherent part of me can't help but be taken by these feelings, coming and going in a circle. Liking and relying on Ralphus is a feeling as warm and sweet as honey tea, it's both a compromise and an acceptance, a waltz that goes step by step. But Elijah's love, 'my' love, it's an entirely different extreme. It overwhelms, it sacrifices, it's relentless and needy, but yet encompassing enough to step back, at least on the surface. It's a fire that doesn't require fuel, only mindless admiration and despair, and god damn it, it's addictive. So fucking addictive, it's like crack. Yeah, the same hollow helplessness, the sweet surrender, the diseased guilt, the sensation of falling, they're all there.
     It's a love born only in epics; something that has nothing to do with me.
     I press my nails into the thin fabric of my trousers, and thankfully, the sharp jabbing pain offers some respite from the obsessive Ferris wheel. Gloom overtakes the shadow beyond my eyelids, and the steady patter of rain cools the vibrant images into a series of ethereal paintings increasing in opacity. The heaviness pressing on my chest expands through my limbs and in a final triumph against these emotions, into the nuances of my thoughts.
     But in the last seconds conscious thought, one doubt becomes ever so clear. Was Jacques's so-called 'love' something as terrifying as this? But truly, what's so eye-catching about me to make him feel this way? Surely he knew that he had fallen in love with a 'shell'? My insides had long been gnawed out by maggots. I had to save myself from drowning first, even if I had to pull him under.