Right Hand
Can't. That's all that goes
through my mind when I tell myself that I should just tell you the truth. Can't.
That one word. I just can't. It's really as simple as that. It's not
possible—not with how my mind works, or how my pride stands.
I have excessive amounts of pride, everyone knows that; I definitely cannot
humble myself enough for a sufficient amount of time to admit my defeat.
It's only three words. They're small words, but they carry so much meaning when
phrased how I would have to.
"I need you."
Yes, it's true. I, Spot Conlon, god of gods, have come to need you. I need you
to give me advice while concealing said advice under a cloak of subtlety that makes
me believe I came up with this mastermind plan all on my own. I need you to
stand at my right hand, ready to jump to my defense should the need present itself.
Bourbon: my best friend. My comrade. My…
No. I can admit to myself that I need you, but I'm not ready to admit to
even the inner depths of my mind that I…
I can't. It's just one more thing that I, the infallible, am incapable of
doing. I'm not only unable to tell you to your face that I need you, that I depend
on you and on your friendship, but it's also hard for me to admit it to myself.
You know that deep feeling of shame, of guilt, that you feel when you do
something wrong? That's the feeling I get when I think of how I…how I….
But no.
Bourbon. So dark. So brooding. You're so big and strong. Your eyes glitter like
hematite, that stone you carry for good luck. Your brother, Top, gave it to you
as he died. You never let it out of your sight; you say you won't last the day
if it's not in your pocket.
That's how I feel about you. I won't last through tomorrow if I don't have you
by my side. And here, tonight, as I lie in bed, listening to the sounds of the
boys sleeping all around me, I feel lost because you're not on my right.
Your eyes aren't studying everyone who approaches me, picking them apart from
the inside out, deeming them suitable to speak.
Which brings me to my next predicament. All these things I feel when you're
near, they aren't just feeling of gratitude, of friendship, of brotherhood…they're
feelings of…
Can't.
Why? Why can't I just admit it? Even as I ask myself, I have to laugh bitterly,
because I know the answer. I hate questions like that. When I ask myself
questions I already know the answer to, I can't contemplate possible answers;
it forces me to go back to the bigger problem at hand without first distracting
myself from it.
I can't admit that I…because doing so would make it permanent. It would make it
real, set it in stone so I couldn't take it back no matter how much I wanted
to.
But I know it's true. I know it's true because even when I stop myself from
thinking it directly, I can feel it.
It's like when you get hurt. People always say, "Don't think about it, and it won't
hurt." Well, I feel it; I don't have to think about it. This is
the same thing. Even when I don't let myself put it into words, I can feel it,
and I know it's there.
It's gonna bite me in the ass sooner or later, I know it. Damn.
I may as well just say it. It's not like saying it to myself, here in the dark,
whispering it like the wind whispers across the river, will make any difference
to anyone but me.
"Bourbon, I love you." There, I said it. It's out in the open. I love you. And
not like a brother. I love you like I should love a woman.
I hear your voice above me. "What, Spot?"
Think I feel that bite coming on. I guess I'm not the only one who hears the
wind whispering across the river.
end