Bound To Happen
By: Litt
Sep 2, 04
Summary:Neither can decide if there's an answer. If they want it.
No names, though it's all implied as a Noodles cookie.
When all was said and done, he still hated her.
Some would say that Hate is a strong word while others use it too often for it to matter at all, but for him, a 16 year old the same people would say had gone through too much already, it was not strong enough. In fact, it was such a weak way of thinking about, such an insignificant way of putting it; he no longer bothers trying to define what it is. He thinks to say it out loud to her face, behind her back, quietly, loudly, saying it at all would do so little to someone who has already been through the rougher sides of jagged personalities (she says he's jagged sometimes, too,). To someone who is used to hate, who uses hate, it would mean so little it would be as if he hadn't said it at all. So he doesn't say it.
And when it was said and done, everyone still alive and bruised, she knew he hated her.
This understanding came before the looks he passed her, eyes gone blank and passed caring, before he stopped looking at her at all. The way he'd gone beyond fury and straight into some impassive state, and she did not touch him, did not say anything to take him out of that; it was all he had. It was in the set of his shoulders as he had led the way out of the tunnel that night, her trailing behind in a torn and bloody dress, elegant even under circumstances such as that which should've made her ugly and she thinks that is why he hates her. It hadn't seemed to fit to him; she knows this because of the way he'd looked when he'd seen what was going on, when he told himself he didn't want to understand. In fact she's known all of this for a very long time; what could she do even then, when it had not been to the point of not talking, of not asking? And that was the punch line, that's what made it so symmetrical and all the cracks fit into some breaking thing, that's how she knew. It was the way he did not ask, the way he believed what he wanted to, the way they both knew this was not helping in the least.
The boy is so much more of what he should've been now he doesn't understand certain things, the important ones. He can no longer pinpoint what he wants, if he's allowed to want certain things, and all this because he'd been built up and over so many times that those things were wanted for him by thousands and thousands of others. He can't comprehend why being a murderer or a loser would make him any more heroic or valiant. This is one of his personal hells, and he lives in it everyday.
She is so much older than she should be, and years gone by now, even older. She thought it was simple as a person could get, prepared herself for the intricacies but was still surprised when they proved much deeper. She told herself after a while that she should not care, maybe it would help make it easier to observe, to distance herself. But she had lived a while now, made connections, and all the smiles in the world could not draw her in again now that she'd found she'd done just that. She couldn't find her way back in. And while this time around she understood what she was doing, was so much more seasoned, she'd made her choices and forgotten one thing: him. Him and his nature. She'd forgotten a while ago that they were not real to her so she didn't treat them like that anymore; now it was a matter of forgetting it was not just about her own life. Really, she tries to convince herself, it's not.
He blames her now, he thinks in his darkest recesses of retreat that she did not understand how that had been more than some plot against his life. How it had meant his life. 15 years and more of undue stress over one year of vague happiness and how he'd been raise for that second. Tension and learning lies had led up to that and he "hates" her for taking that away too, that lie that said friends, good friends, never crossed you that way. But he'd believed it then, that he could trust her, and it was a test of some sort to see how he'd react. He'd not been sure if all the lessons she'd taught him were real, if he could use them but he had. He thinks she does not understand that seeing her there had shattered him and his resolve for the barest of seconds, how that was enough, before he could gain control again. And he is both disgusted and relieved that she didn't seem to mind much later on, why she never asked, because he doesn't know what it'll make him if he tells her he wasn't able to care and he thinks that this, at least, is something she did understand.
While they'd had their differences before she is sure this is a little different this time. No apology would be accepted for that--what would she have said if he'd apologized to that? Why should he? There was an explanation, there was perfectly logical explanation, but he would not hear it and she would not say it. It is this stubbornness she admits that keeps them so different despite the similarity. She hadn't wanted to know then what he'd thought, why he let her live, how he could walk that close without just screaming because she wanted to. It was a difference that shouldn't be brought up because of the simple fact neither wanted to acknowledge it. They are united in that unspoken feeling. She knows this is what he felt, she knows he hadn't been able to acknowledge he'd been hurt back there, that he shouldn't be hurt, and he didn't know why either way.
He hates how he did it anyway. He hates how he couldn't go through with killing her at her most retched, even when she hadn't noticed he was going to. After she'd looked up, dazed and disenchanted and guilty, and nearly asked for it, he couldn't. He hated how he'd saved or at least spared her because he was the good guy. How he'd fought in essence for her, even though he was supposedly doing this for the world, his world, when it was the farthest thing on his mind.
She hates the silence, even though it has saved her on a number of times, hates how everything is conveyed so much more sharply, though not always clearly, through what is not said. So she walked behind him, some guilty child or some proud person who knows they are innocent, a little bit of both, passed the burning building, the scorched forest, the pale faces dotting the clearing. For such an earth shattering event, something that will undoubtedly end up in history books, in this remote place, she doubts things have changed at all back at home. She doubts anyone has noticed the few missing, doubts they'd heard the screams of the tortured even though she knows said screamers could've sworn they could they were going so raw by then, and she doubts they'd have noticed something very important happening and hadn't looked up from tea. She doubts they'd have found out at all if they hadn't gone back to tell.
And later, when they'd showed up together at the department, sweaty, bruised, but safe in the confused and now buzzing crowd of officials, and the reporters have had their bite, and the officials leave, the average person will say it was bound to happen. She takes this in as one hearing a familiar song, absently and cooly returns cold remarks with those who ask. He can't be near her anymore. He could keep control long enough to get her back where they could deal with her and what they'd call treason, but now it was unnecessary. It was smothering. All of a sudden when the gossipy women down the street say, a whole week later, when he is at a friends house, she'd looked edgy from the beginning, he can see it too. It is imagined and he tells himself loyally that these were the same women who said they'd made a cute couple and were made for each other, --and he is not edgy, so…-- but this sounds too defensive so he stops and goes back to the T.V.
Bound to happen. She's heard it too. Not for the first time, not for the last--she hears it all the time now. Sometimes when things are said about a person they begin to have little control over what becomes true and what remains theirs, and she is loosing the ability to defend even that. She is loosing grip on whether they are right or not. They say it as if she'd always been plotting against him and the rest of the world, as if she'd had nothing better to do. As if he'd done something to offend her so much she'd do this, and he'd done nothing, and that was the only reason. And then she wonders if there is a reason behind this, but it's all become so real now she can feel herself caring again. Because this is about her life now. In this cell, it's all about her.
He reads stories about it sometimes. He remembers through the articles –not caring anymore how they know so much—the supposed flirtations they had together, how they were meant to be. The torrid love triangle she'd created once she'd arrived that hadn't bothered any of them 'cause they'd gone through that kind of thing before with the press and it seemed she had too. He goes back and gets old clippings, where what they say isn't tinged with that boundtohappen feeling and those boundtohappen side remarks that cut lightly against his skin. The old ones seem genuinely adamant about her being good. The new ones mention the same things, but these are confident she'd always been a bad influence. Another Pettigrew they called her once and he is reminded of a night a year ago and he wonders. They say things like this all the time now.
Guilty. There is a story, she could write a novel about what she is feeling and not feeling right then, behind her face. She didn't tell it. The faces in the stands are null and void and the Ministers are of no importance anymore. There is no use anymore in thinking this can't be happening; that'll just make her go mad. They have said this before of course.
They said she'd been arrogant and cool about her testimony. They said she had walked in there as another proud fool and just asked for the Guilty. They say she all but hugged the guard as they took her away. They say she'll rot in that cell for a very long time. They feel bad for him, for he hadn't even showed up to the trial so it must feel bad. He doesn't say anything to this either later on when he finds out from a friend who had been waiting in the alley behind the Court Room with their getaway car.
She no longer listens to what is being said. She waits instead for some sort of deliverance as she had not waited the last time she'd occupied the same cell: they'd saved it just for her, they said, and she'd ignored them when they said they'd done this because they were sure she'd be back. At least it was still clean.
He goes around now a little lighter, having kept a few pains to himself, and some to others who don't say anything either way. He's only reminded of her on rainy days, when someone says her name, when he drinks because of that. And for some reason, when it all comes back, he is no longer sure if hate is such a strong word to be using because that would help get a lot of steam off right? He remembers farfetched ideas, explanations, and hard found stories. He remembers a lazy summer and a year of healing afterwards where he'd discovered how closed off and stubborn it was to be around her, how she could be that way too. He recalls not trusting in her more then that need to trust her, as she'd never asked for that. He remembers a day at the pub, a rainy day, and just sitting there without a drink and all wet but ok: he remembers being alone, remembering her because it was raining. Another rainy night, muddy and worn-out, being in the same pub, he remembers feeling royally betrayed and doing nothing about it.
You get used to the cold after awhile she tells a new inmate, a thief, who thinks she is talking about the perpetual dampness of the cells and the presence of the guards. It's not so bad.
It'll be fine, they'd said coaxingly and he'd not been too sure if he believed them then either. No one's out to kill you anymore, you've graduated, you've got the coolest job around and the reporters are leaving. It'll be fine. When he says Yes, itwill everyone in the room looks at him and asks him whom he is talking to because no one has said anything for several minutes, all caught up in the new broadcast.
You can feel yourself slipping sometimes, but hey, that's one of the wonders ofgravity. The thief has listened for some minutes now, and, knowing the reputation of the place wonders how she can be so collected about everything. How she can be talking about frickin' gravity at a time like this. He does not, apparently, understand at all.
Perhaps he'd gone to point beyond hate. There was such a place. He knows there is. But he needs to get there, he needs that.
It's funny. After a while, you have to laugh.
Famous and the Forgotten. There's a poem about them now, God save him. A poem, an epic-thing. He's never read it; it's just a thing to keep around on the bookshelf. He wonders who is who though. He's gone all reclusive now, as if he'd be all public after school was over, and he is only mentioned every once in a blue moon; -- they always show up on Fridays, -- though he doubts those in the city can see that. Would still being mentioned after your peak be considered being famous? Would being the worlds worst enemy be famous, having a word coined out of you name, a mere curse word that children now get into trouble for saying in school, --would that be considered being famous? Or perhaps he's become the forgotten one as she always predicted. He'd fulfilled whatever thing they'd set for him and now he was just a passing name; she was rotting away also, so perhaps they would both be gone soon too.
It's either that or let it eat you up and bubble about, -- condensed gas explodes you know. Again he thinks she is talking about something completely different and she wonders at it herself for a second before following her own advice. He flinches at a sound he hasn't heard in hours but is already forgetting. And when she looks up, oh, when she looks up, she's all to pieces. He can't say if she hadn't imploded herself, a soft explosion and a small thud against her skin and when he asks he can't say he cares. She tells him not to worry, --which is an important rule. There are some things you can't stop.
They said it had all been worth so much it amounts to nothing in the end. They said she was the best mistake to happen to him. The sweetest poison. And they also say he's dying. From a broken heart, fatigue, whatever, but if it is a heart problem he will blame on her to the end. It is only fitting; she is after all the cause for that gnawing thing called hate that consumed him for so long. It has to be Hate, and he uses it now because they tell him that's the simplest way to put it and that it's the hardest thing to endure.
When it all tumbles away, she explains, suddenly you're left with the simple fact that it was meant to fall. It was always going to be this way in the end and you're a fool to believe it was real to begin with.--
Hating her. Loving Lies. The definite line between these two is something no one can point out to him, no one can draw out. There should be no question, but there is.
When you have to deal with it either way. After all, she reminds him, it was bound to happen.
He thinks they'd been right both times.
AN: I keep handing out post stories and cookies to a story only two, three people have actually read. Still, I'm told this makes semi-sense with or without the back story. And the other night, I was listening to a Pablo song and got all excited because of the lyrics, --"it was bound to happen/but ya'll didn't listen to me"—but then the subtitles kicked in and I got disappointed; they were actually: "Every body happy/ya'll better listen to me." Just thought I'd put a little somethin' somethin' on the end. (HA!)