Page 88 of Penny for Your Saints

Our bodies fall still—and I can feel the waves of shock traveling along the bond from the others—the cold fear, but also the nascent understanding of my reasoning; their access to my mind, my soul, my sensations—flung open wide.

Though Frank and I are still physically joined where his knot binds me to him—already the distance between us grows.

This is a hell of my own making.

That's all I can think as I walk down the gangway—leaving the yacht and the sleeping Lucifer and her Saints in my wake.

The thought crosses my mind, and not for the first time, that perhaps they'd all be better off without me.

Perhaps it is I who am cursed. Maybe I am the one who should have been lost—forever out of their reach.

That isn't how things have turned out, is it? Wishing for things to be the other way around won't help—only doing something, taking action.

Acts of men are better than acts of god. Or should I say, ‘acts of Saints?’

Where am I? Last thing I knew I was on the docks, but now I'm walking down the sidewalk toward the convenience store, the liquor store—the hole in the wall where you can buy girly mags directly next door to the gun shop; but then I lose time again; returning to myself sitting on a metal bench overlooking the quay—all the expensive boats bobbing in the water, the nightlights reflecting off of their shining paint jobs and fiberglass hulls, the sound of water gulping and lapping around them.

There are two brown paper bags of supplies, including a carton of cigarettes, two flats of cheap whiskey, jars of peanut butter and jelly, a loaf of white bread, and several boxes of ammunition.

A fifth of vodka rests in my palm, the metal cap long gone—its contents already half enjoyed.

I don't need to look up to know that he's sitting on the other bench—the one less than two feet away from this one. I can tell he's there.

“Well, this is a hell of a mess, isn't it Frankie?” Mike yawns.

“Yeah, what do you care?” I grumble, taking a drag on my cigarette.

When did I light it? I don't remember.

“Why the long face, Francis? We've gotten out of worse scraps than this one.” He laughs, lifting himself off the bench and scuffing his polished loafers over the broken pavement as he approaches me.

“Easy for you to say. You've got no horse in this race,” I fume, unwilling to even look at him.

“I mean, you're a big boy, Frank, but I'd still say that horse is an awfully optimistic view of your…” He stops to clear his throat, looking pointedly between my legs. “Endowment.”

“It's not fucking funny, Mike,” I grit out, flicking my lit cigarette directly at his face. He leans to the side, the glowing cherry flying out into the dark night.

“Alright, alright, since when did you become the serious one, Francis Stone?”

I don't know what makes me do it. His words aren't even particularly bad. Mike has said plenty of worse things to me before, but this just pushes me over the edge.

“When did I become the serious one!?” I shout, stumbling to my feet.

I couldn't feel how strongly the liquor had been affecting me while I was sitting down, but now it's a struggle to stand as the world spins around me.

“Because I'm the only one left! Because you fucking had to go and die on me, you asshole!” I scream into the night.

The smile leaves Michael's face.

“That's right, motherfucker. Who's laughing now?” I shout, my throat tightening with tears I refuse to shed.

Except that I know the answer to that question. It's me laughing hysterically to myself as I crumple into a heap on the bench.

My ears begin to ring, and my head throbs with splitting pain.

How many times have I had this revelation, this realization that Michael is actually dead? How many times have I confronted Michael Duboze now that he's gone beyond my reach? How many times have I split my memories into halls of mirrors and secret passages to hide the truth from myself?

Something tells me this isn’t the first time.

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