A/N: Since they wouldn't fit in my summary, I'd just like to say a few more words: Despite her unfortunate situation, Billie refuses to accept the judgment raining upon her since John's death, so she decides to take the opportunity to set the record straight and force the public to face their true opinion of things, no matter how uncomfortable it might make them.
I hope you all enjoy the story, and please don't hesitate to review. It would make me very happy indeed.
Almost Forever
When he said I was his girl and he'd always take care of me, I believed him. Most men didn't go that far with me. Then again, Johnny wasn't most men.
He did his best to protect me by not telling me too much, but he knew I didn't like being kept in the dark either. I want to get something straight. You all think I'm a victim. I might have been sentenced to two years in prison, but you feel sorry for me anyway. You think he must've done something to make me stay with him all that time, risk my life and my freedom for him, but that's not true. He loved me. I know he did, in his own way. He never let me forget it. I made my own choices the whole way.
I could have left, I guess, but I never wanted to. Not really. Sometimes I thought I did, even if it was only so I wouldn't have to see him die or be captured and caged like an animal. Once, we had a big fight. At least, I tried to fight with him. He was calm, like always. He almost never lost his temper with me. I screamed at him. I think I even tried to throw a suitcase at him. He stood on the other side of the room, out of my reach, until I had no more energy. I think he was smiling. Then he came over to me and took my face in his hands, like he did when he wanted me to really listen to him. He repeated the same words I'd already heard him say a million times: "They're not gonna get me, ever. You understand? I'm too fast and too good. We're gonna be together forever, and I'm gonna die an old man in your arms." I wanted so much to believe him, and I almost did. Almost.
When the hotel was raided, I was scared at first. But then I told myself that he would get out of jail, and eventually he'd come for me. I didn't even really know what happened except for what I could read in the papers. I waited, but I wasn't sure whether I should expect anything. Plenty could have happened to him in the time we weren't together. Yet there he was one night, just like he said, coming to rescue me and take me away with him. He promised we'd always be together. He promised a lot. He promised.
Deep within my soul I always knew he'd go down someday. I never wanted to admit it to myself, but I knew. The bureau wanted him. He was turning Hoover into a laughing stock and making all those hardened lawmen look like amateurs. Hoover's ego couldn't stand the blow, so he named John Dillinger Public Enemy Number One. Johnny was proud of that title, but I know it bothered him sometimes too. He was never the worst of his kind; there were men who were meaner and more evil than him by far, who deserved to be hunted the way he was. Nelson, for example. Johnny always hated Nelson. He was too showy and he liked killing too much. Johnny was too gentle to try to kill anyone, and he never wanted to be known as a murderer. Even Homer or Pete would be more likely to shoot someone dead. Even Red—poor Red. He stuck by Johnny as long as he could. Like me. We were the loyal ones.
I'm sure it damaged Johnny when he realized he couldn't get me out of jail after I got hauled in. He never knew what they did to me. Before he died I sort of resented the fact that he never came to save me. Sometimes I did. But I know it's my fault. I told him not to come. Something deep inside me knew he'd never get the chance to try to save me. Somehow I knew he didn't have much time left, but I tried not to think about it. Instead, I tried to remember how close we'd come to doing it all and having it all, just like he promised me.
After I found out Johnny was dead, I felt as though part of me had died with him. It took me a while to feel completely alive again. I don't know which is worse, now—being dead and unfeeling or alive and able to sense everything that's happening. I'm not sure what made Winstead tell me what Johnny's last words had been. I'd already seen in the papers that Johnny didn't say anything before he died. Purvis said so himself. If Winstead thought he was being charitable, if he was trying to gain favor, or if he just felt sorry for me—unlikely—I couldn't tell. Whatever his reasons were, thinking about his motives didn't make me feel any better. Pretty soon I gave up trying to figure out what prompted him to come and see me, and after a while I didn't even want to know anymore.
Since then, I've tried to make myself feel better by thinking about how much fun Johnny and I had, and how much we loved each other. You might think it sounds ridiculous, inappropriate, to say my life with Johnny was fun, but it was. The fast cars and the fur coats and the money and the running—knowing that, no matter what happened, we had been together. No one could take away our love. Those are the good days, when I can recall Johnny as he would have wanted to be remembered: young, alive, fast, and passionate. Invincible. Immortal.
On the bad days, I still cry sometimes, especially when I think of how he died. It was exactly the way I knew, deep down, that things would happen, no matter how much I tried to deny it. I'm not sure if it it's better to imagine that he had known his time was up, or if I should just keep believing he was ambushed, surprised, outgunned. Either way, I don't want to picture him lying in an alley with blood spurting out of his eyes and mouth, his body getting colder and colder as the agents refuse to move it. I stopped reading the papers weeks ago. I got tired of seeing the stories about how Johnny's body was put on display for anybody who wanted to pay a few cents for a cheap thrill. He was not some exhibit at the freak show; he was a real man who was loved more than I could ever express. This is not a movie; this is my life. I have no interest in reading about the latest development in the case, not even the theory that he's still alive. I don't believe it, personally. Now you're all going to hang onto every word I say. This is what you want to hear, isn't it? Well, I'll say it again. I don't believe he's alive. I know he's dead. I know it because if he weren't, I wouldn't feel so empty. In the end, he died a hero's death. You don't want to admit it, but you all think so. His death hasn't made him any less of an enigma. He always was a public icon, someone you could all look up to no matter what he did, and that hasn't changed. You might pretend to be glad he's gone, but you all secretly want him to be alive, hiding out somewhere. You idolize him and romanticize him even now, and that's never going to stop.
While you all casually mourn the loss of Public Enemy Number One and talk about what a great man he was, I live in my own private nightmare. The first man I really loved is dead. No matter how much you or I try to resurrect his memory, nothing can alter that. He changed all of us. His death caused irreparable damage. The unfortunate thing is, I may just be free of the sadness one day, but you'll never escape the trauma and the shock. While I try to pick up the pieces of my life and get ready to move on, you continue to exist in the presence of a ghost. You will always live with the legend and the myth of the man who was, and is, John Dillinger.