As she waited in the stiff winds and heavy rain, Miss Parker lit up a cigarette. With one gloved hand, Parker shielded the burning tobacco from the elements. In one sardonic flash, she realized that this brief cigarette was more carefully guarded than she had ever been. No one, not her father, not Sydney, not even her mother had ever protected her as effectively from drowning in the sin that was the Centre as she protected these few paper embers. Each in their own way had tried, but each had failed. When Daddy had been alive his only real protection had come out of family pride. She had failed over and over again to bring the wayward pretender home. Anyone else would have been removed but she was a Parker. Parkers don't get thrown to the wolves (unless of course the wolves were Parkers). Momma had tried the hardest, given the most. She had died trying to free all the Centre's unfortunate children. But sometimes Parker had to wonder, what kind of mother fakes her own suicide knowing her daughter would be witness to it? What kind of mother leaves her daughter in the very place she was trying to escape? And then there was Sydney. He was practically a Centre landmark. Come, see the tower; see the infamous sublevels, see the impartial wily old shrink. His form of protection came in the form of sympathetic looks and words, given at a distance. Always at a distance. Look but don't touch. Give only a taste, that way the starving will always come back to you. But could she really blame them? They had tried. But survival comes first before all. Parker raised the cigarette to her mouth, and breathed deeply. She knew stern disapproving looks, bordering on fatherly, would be shot her way when Sydney found out she'd picked up her old crutch of smoking again. No lectures, no fuss, no commitment, just looks. Parker knew she could weather those looks just as easily as she weathered the currents of frigid water finding holes in her leather jacket. After Carthis, She just needed something, anything to chase away the ubquitious fog that had covered her life. Something to lighten the load. So she was out here in the stiff winds and heavy rain, waiting. She just needed a quick fix. When daddy was alive, she could have depended on him. A kiss on the forehead.
"My Angel."
Lies made everything better for a while.
"I love you. I would never use you. I just want to protect my angel."
Lies worked for a while. But daddy's comforting bag of numbing needles and lies were gone. Sunk at the bottom of the dark ocean. Parker waited, exhaling wisps of pungent smoke into the moisture laden air. Alcohol it seems was also denied to her. Just one drop through her parched lips and her ulcer would erupt in pain. Another fix/crutch lost. So she had been looking for a new comfort. The fog had been becoming unbearable. Broots had been stumbling and stuttering at abysmal rates recently and sweepers had been avoiding her like the plague. She had been looking for just a moment of clarity, then yesterday, she found a possible new drug. Parker's shoulders tensed in anticipation, as she spied what she had been waiting for. The cigarette hissed out in a dark puddle at her feet. She sinks down to one knee. Hands in position. Finger curled around the cold trigger. Eyes searching in the scope for just the right moment. A moment of clarity. The bullet rocketed out of the barrel, splattering raindrops on its way to its target. Perfectly aimed, it painted bone, blood, and brain onto the already wet asphalt. Parker was sure Lyle would have found irony in the fact that he gave her the idea for her new crutch,
if he hadn't been lying dead in the road with his neck newly exposed. Parker quickly packed up. She sighed a freeing breathe of satisfaction the fog that had settled over her was gone. She was sure Sydney would have given her more than just a few looks if he had known about her new crutch, but he would just have to make do with cigarettes. After all, she had just needed a quick fix.