(AN: This story will not make a whit of sense if you have not read its predecessors: "Almost", "Figlio Perduto", "Miasmatic" Part One and Two and "Where the Dock Meets the Sea". this is the final chapter in that series.)
Winter's City
"To absent friends, lost loves,
old Gods, and the Season of Mists;
And may each and every one of us
Give the Devil his due."
Neil Gaiman, "Sandman: Season of Mists"
He watched the Brooklyn Bridge from the seaside, his feet dangling inches above the wet spot where choppy February waves licked the concrete. The cold here was so different than San Francisco's, where the chill came in with the fog and clung to you. West coast cold was somehow far more comforting than the freezing Atlantic wind. It smothered, and was easily repelled by a jacket or sweater. But the cold here, the one making his teeth chatter and eyes water? It was bladed, and no armor could keep it out.
He watched the Brooklyn Bridge, sitting by the sea, because to him it was mirror; grey and impersonal, but a mirror. Take the Golden Gate and the gleaming Pacific, leech them of life, vitality, color. Leave the cars, but replace the people with dour-faced and blandly dressed East Coast drones. It was close enough to sting, to remind him of why he was here, but impersonal enough to make it so he could stand to listen for the news, could return to his hotel room and wait, hands clenched white.
His father had talked endlessly about this city, how his grandparents had stepped off the boat looking for their Mecca and finding the same cobblestones, worn faces, and familiar cooking. All that was missing from the old country was the green, and that's why his grandmam had loved his eyes so much. The little piece of home, coming over with Ireland's children.
Fuck that. This was not his home, and neither was that goddamn island.
His home was blissfully continuing life as usual under a death sentence it didn't even know existed. His home was going to be swallowed up. His home was going to drown.
How much could one man fuck up? How much more damage could he do? He'd covered everything, hadn't he, all the possibilities? Handing his best friend over to be tortured to death, condoning mass murder, aiding and abetting a goddamned demon sink Southern California?
He deserved everything he got.
Seagulls wheeled overhead, fat on whatever city scraps the pigeons hadn't got to first. He watched them circle, smiled wryly, and saluted with the empty whiskey bottle in his left hand. What is it the sailors used to say, the story he so frequently overheard as a child on the docks? That seagulls took the souls of the dead? That seemed appropriate, whether he was remembering the legend correctly or not. Little white vultures.
"Sorry boys, you missed your chance on us." He said, watching them distort in the glass of the bottle. "You want a feast? Go west. Shouldn't be long now."
They just screamed at him. He felt empty, and shook his head. Half expected them to answer, with all the crazy shit happening in the world right now. Magic and sorcery; why not talking birds?
He should get up. He should get back to the hotel. Ratso would be fussing like a cooped up jewish mother, wondering where he was and when he would return to their temporary home. 'Let him fuss,' a little slice of mind whispered. 'I'm not done yet. Something's still left for me out here. Dunno know what, but when has that mattered? I'll follow my feet, and they'll lead me right. Always have, always will.'
Except they hadn't, had they? They didn't lead him the right way. They continuously were fucking up. Always fucking up, starting with the night he'd walked into that enormous gilded office, where a man in a pea green suit and white hair had swept his feet out from under him, and put him on a whole other path. He never tried to stray from that path either, though branches leading away to safety constantly revealed themselves. He'd blindly wandered, until the edges of the trail were too overgrown with thorns to think about deviating.
Well, he'd finally reached the end, hadn't he? The companions that had walked alongside him for so long had gone, their safe little circle of criminal compatriots broken. Even Ratso, trusting and caring, had grown distant. There were little looks. Little accusations. Little prods and questions that he couldn't bear to answer.
When they were in the hospital, when the beeping of the machines had finally silenced, they'd promised each other that they wouldn't dwell. That they wouldn't let that awful night change them, change their friendship.
He felt a familiar twitch in his heart and in his gut. The urge to flee, from his hopeless situation and his current dreary location, the seagulls and the frothy ocean.
Ratso could wait. Dusk was hours away, and though his limbs were dead-flesh numb with the cold, he still couldn't feel it in his bones. He wouldn't be happy till he could feel it in his bones.
He tossed the bottle into the sea, watched it bob away. It hadn't even got him drunk; ironic, since it was the same Mr. Daniels that had started all of this . . . this hell. With the changes. With the nightmares. With Chow.
Finn stood, legs asleep and shaky. He felt it rise again, rising like bile.
How much could one man fuck up? How much guilt could one man feel? How large a burden could they carry?
--
"How long till we know something?" Finn asked, hands clenched white, leg bouncing feverishly. The doctor was nervously tapping his pen against his clear plastic clipboard, resolutely not looking anyone in the eyes. Finn felt his temper rising, but tried to swallow it. He knew that the athletic, clean cut young man in front of him was terrified of them. Ratso had pointed out earlier that he's be scared to, especially since they'd vehemently disagreed with the doctor's recommendation to call the police. Breathing deeply, feeling a headache mounting, he sighed, and tried to calm his voice. "We've been waiting forever."
"I'm sorry I can't give you any more information, Mr.—"
"I told you to call me Finn."
"—Finn. Your friend was legally dead when you brought him in. We were barely able to revive him." The rapping of the ballpoint grew slightly louder, echoing in the badly lit hallways. "He lost an enormous amount of blood, and was suffering severe shock . . . not to mention a concussion and several broken bones. What did you say happened to him again?"
"Bar fight." Finn replied, jaw set. He glared at the young doctor, daring him to respond, press the issue further. He didn't.
"Whatever the case, his injuries are most severe. I'd be lying if I said I was one hundred percent positive he'll pull through this. Tonight, really, is the critical point. If he makes it through the night, his chance of living increases dramatically."
"So what do we do?" Finn placed his head in his hands, suddenly very tired. The tile floor rippled a little, blurring. "What do we do in the meantime?"
"Well," the doctor replied, nonchalantly flipping the papers on his clipboard, looking over other paperwork. "If you are a religious person, Mr--"
"Finn!"
"—Finn, I suggest praying, it tends to comfort some. We have a non denominational chapel downstairs, if you need a quiet, spiritual place."
"I've had enough of spirits and the supernatural, thanks." Finn grumbled into his palms.
"I'm sorry?"
"Nothing, Doctor. Thanks. I think . . . I guess I'll go down to the cafeteria."
"If you like. Now, about your insurance policy . . ."
Finn glared at him over one shoulder. "You'll have to talk to my boss about that, Doctor. I'm sure he'll be in real soon."
The cafeteria was as sterile as the hallways, and twice as depressing. Every person walked with their own personal tragedy draped about their shoulders, slumped and pained; ill, recovering, or grieving. There were smiles, but they were quick as mice and almost as small, swallowed up by the boring lichen-green linoleum. He wasn't actually hungry, of course, just empty feeling. His stomach was too full of dread to force anything into it, but his gut instincts were gaping open.
He pushed his hair out of his eyes. The rain had melted any product he'd had in there, and now it hung limply around his face, the pieces sticking to his cheeks and irritating him, provided something of a distraction. Ratso had commented he's never really seen Finn with his hair down before. Finn had replied that he'd never seen anyone that fucking stupid before and that, while he was here, Ratso might want to sign up for a 'Hey Am I Retarded?' test. Ratso had shut up; Finn had felt sorry for saying it—Ratso's eyes were already as red and watery as his namesake.
They found Chow on the dock. He was white, whiter than any human body had the right to be, bled out. Finn had pressed his head to his friend's chest and his fingers to his wrist. The heartbeat was sluggish, like it was moving through muck, like it was struggling to have anything left to pump. An ambulance was already on its way. He didn't have the heart to tell Ratso not to pick up Chow's body, and knew that if only one person was let into the ambulance, it should be the big enforcer. As the paramedics swarmed around them, as they lifted the limp form from Ratso's arms, he'd looked at Finn wit the widest, wettest eyes Finn had ever seen, and whispered.
"He's so light."
"What did you say?"
Finn jerked his head up. A woman, in her forties by the look of it, jowls to her knees, was staring at him. He realized he must have dozed off, sitting on one of the cafeteria benches. An empty tray was in front of him. "Nothing. Sorry, lady. Nothing at all."
What time was it? It was late. Early. Fourish. Something like that. He rubbed his eyes and stared at his wrist, realizing only by the tan lines where it was supposed to be that his watch was gone. He'd given it to Valmont. "Call us." Finn had instructed, presses it into his boss' white hands. "Around midnight."
Valmont had never called, and Finn suspected he knew why. He should have given the watch to Hak Foo. Valmont would be too busy dealing with Shendu's 'fear me and my wrath!' bullshit.
Except it wasn't bullshit, was it? No. this proves it. Valmont had explained, in deadly calm terms, what had happened. There were gaping omissions, like hungry maws waiting to feed on speculation, but Finn starved them. Truth be told, he didn't want to know. He had all the information he needed—Chow was hurt. Chow was dying. Shendu did it. Horribly.
"Do you want some OJ, hun?" The woman again. Finn glanced up at her with bloodshot eyes. He noted that she was dressed in the hospital peon's uniform.
"Jesus, lady, mind your own business. Can't a guy enjoy a nice invisible breakfast in peace?" He snapped, sharp tongue somewhat dulled by exhaustion and the fact that he was speaking into his crossed arms. She didn't recoil or look put out; instead, she smiled and patted his head.
"Don't worry, dear. Everyone's always hurting here, patients and family alike. Don't feel ashamed. And don't lose hope."
Finn goggled at her, willing a snappy comeback, pulling up handful of mental air.
Someone from the kitchen shouted out a name, and pointing at the tag on her chest, she gave a little shrug and a large smile. "Different duty calls." She said, and placed her wrinkled, ring-heavy hand over his. "You're too young to have the eyes you do. Don't worry so much!"
"Hey, you don't know me." He snapped, but his ire guttered under the weight of her hand. She patted it one last time, and moved away, smiling and nodding at the other gathered people inn the cafeteria. Finn lowered his head into his arms again, feeling weakened by her kindness. He moved to get out of his seat, escape to another part of the hospital where he could be anonymous again, when he suddenly focused his attentions on the doors. Ratso was standing there, gesturing madly.
When he approached, Finn immediately noticed Ratso was panting. Fear and anguish swelled, held back only by the mental sandbags Finn had long ago forced into place. His friend was shaking.
"It's happened, hasn't it?" He asked, and suddenly heard his own voice as if he was standing across the hall- weak, shaky, lame.
Ratso nodded, still trying to catch his breath.
Finn knew he needed to sit down. His legs felt oddly weak, in a way that legs weren't supposed to feel. "When?" He whispered instead.
"Not long. We have to get up there!"
"Why?"
Ratso stared at him. "What do you mean, why? Because we want to see him, and he wants to talk to us. Are you okay? You don't look so good."
"Wait, what?"
"I think you're sick. You probably caught a cold in the rain. Lemme get a doctor. Hey, nurse—"
"No, wait!" Finn grabbed his friends arm as it moved to wave over one of the sleepy looking nurses. "What . . . what do you mean, he wants to talk to us?"
"Well, I think he does I mean, I don't know if he can, but he mumbled at me, at least. Mumbling's good, right? It's talking."
Christ and the Host of Heavenly Angels if he didn't feel like the floor was swallowing him. "He talkled to you? He's alive? He's awake?" There was that timid little voice again, lost in his mouth. "Alive?"
"Um. Yeah." Ratso laid a hand on his friend's bony shoulder. His words were much softer now, deep and rumbly comforting, like distant thunder. "The doctor is saying he's going to be just fine."
"Like hell he is. Like hell." Finn ran his fingers over his mouth; felt his lips, already thin, pull taut. "What does he remember?"
"Finn, he just woke up. He blinked his eyes at me and mumbled something, and then the doctor's were there and I ran to get you."
"Christ." Finn felt it then, that tide, a blood-warm swell: rage, terror, loss, gratitude, relief. Too much, it was splashing over the top of his retaining walls. "I need to go to the bathroom. I'll be up there in a minute." He said, practiced, casual.
"Okay." Ratso squeezed, just once, and Finn felt so intensely grateful right then that, if no one else did, Ratso got it.
The bathroom was colder than the rest of the building, and blessedly empty.
Finn paused outside the door, swallowing before he knocked once, sharply. He heard shuffling beyond the door, the scuff of a chair across linoleum, and then Ratso opened the door. "You're late."
"Is he still awake?" Finn met Ratso's eyes steadily, glad for the dim lights of the room.
"You bet your ass I'm still awake."
Chow was lying flat on the bed, seemingly swallowed whole by the wires and tubes surrounding him. Finn let his breath out slowly, humbled by Chow's papery whisper. He looked ephemeral, like if you stared at him log enough he would fade away into a tangled nest of tubes. The only things the set him apart form the bed were his dark eyes and hair. When his lungs started to ache and he realized his breath had caught, Finn made himself speak. "Dude. You look like a fucking heroine addict."
"Fuck you. I can't help it if I'm naturally skinny." Chow pushed himself up on bony elbows, the effort achingly slow. "Where the fuck are my flowers? I wake up in a hospital room and there's no flowers. I feel gypped."
"I can get flowers!" Ratso chimed in, looking pleased.
"Flowers are for fags." Finn grinned as he said the words, and the room went silent.
A nimbus of a sudden and alien awkwardness hovered over the trio. Their eyes kept flicking back and forth over each other. Finn with his gelled hair in disarray and dark circles under unusually dull eyes. Ratso, his suit jacket still damp from the rain and his lumbering hands nervously twisting around themselves. Chow, all sharp edges and frowns, needles and cuts.
How could they all look so unfamiliar after only a year?
"Ratso." Finn said. "Go get flowers."
"What kind?"
"Whatever." Chow answered before Finn could open his mouth, staring him right in the eyes, mouth set in a hard line.
"Okay, I'll do that," Ratso stood, bumping his knee on the chair in his rush. "You guys just, uh, wait here?"
"Well, you know, I did have that marathon to run . . ." Chow trailed off, unable to keep the sarcasm from sounding more sad than biting.
Ratso left, and then it was just Finn, and Chow, and the stern buzzing of the machines.
He didn't know what to say. The last time he'd seen Chow had been that fight they'd had, and before that the weeks long, bruise tender awkwardness that had followed them everywhere. Chow, his best buddy, his closest friend, one third his whole, and all he could think to say were boyish insults. Something to 'lighten the mood'.
He hung his head and put a hand over his eyes. The tattoo of his pulse was strong, he could feel it, wrist pressed against chapped lips. Chow's had been like a bird. Nwo, it was a series of sterile and institutionalized beeps.
When Finn looked up, Chow was staring at the window, despite the drawn blinds. He was smiling slightly.
And Finn couldn't take it anymore. "What the FUCK is so funny?!"
Chow recoiled at his shout, looking startled and afraid, and Finn knew that he was making a mistake. But the words were like bullest, and his mouth couldn't hold them in, a blur of furious syalbuls and curses.
"Goddamn it! How! How can you just, just, just fucking SIT THERE AND FUCKING SMILE?! " He didn't know what he was doing. There was a chair. He kicked it. There was a wall, he punched it. Some more screaming, some more pointed yelling, and then--"YOU DIED. YOU FUCKING DIED, CHOW! YOU DIED AND WE WEREN'T THERE AND ALL BECAUSE OF SOME STUPID FIGHT AND SOME GODDAMN STUPID MISTAKE AND THAT, THAT SHITSUCKING DEMON! FUCK!!"
His hand was bleeding. He slumped down against the fall, willing himself to stop shaking.
There were footsteps outside the door, harried and official. An older nurse poked her head inside the door. Finn could make out the ankles of security guards behind her. "Is everything all right in here?" She asked, knowing the answer, tone clipped and professional anyway.
"Everything's fine." Chow's voice was steady, but high. "Please, it's fine."
Finn was staring at the floor between his knees, so he didn't see what she was doing, but there was no verbal response. After a while, she made a little noise in the back of her throat, and the door clicked shut, leaving only the crack and the light spilling underneath it, the shadows of their feet not withdrawing.
"Oh, my god." Finn said, and wiped at his face. "You fucking died."
"Yeah." Chow whispered in reply. "But I came back."
Finn clutched the side of his head, willing his voice not to crack. "What are we doing?" He whispered to the room. "What the fuck have we been doing? What are we living for? For money? Gee--" He turned out his empty pockets. "Got a lot of that these days. For success, when all we do is fail? For our loyalties? For fame? Excitement? Friendship? For our skins?" He choked out a broken laugh. "We must have pretty fucking thick skins by now."
"For our sins." Chow said hollowly.
Finn made a noise somewhere between an angry bark and the sound of a slit throat. "Don't talk to me about sins. I was fucking catholic."
"Then what?"
Finn hit the floor once, and then let his fist uncurl on the sterile tile. "I don't know. I don't know. Maybe . . . maybe habit."
"Maybe because we don't have anything else."
"Because this is all we are and ever will be." He stared at his pale fingers, dirty nails. "Because we can't change."
"No."
"Maybe."
"No, Finn." And Chow was looking at him. "We shouldn't have to." They sat staring at each other, breathing. People moved outside, in the hallways, their footsteps and chatter and lives all muffled by the doorway. The soft light glittered on a million small needles and plastic tubes. "Why did you kiss me?"
Finn lowered his head. "Because I was drunk and scared and because you and Ratso are the only things that let me feel anything anymore and because I'm a fucking idiot."
"Okay."
"Okay? Just . . . okay?" Finn looked at him. There was an hollow, mirror-lined and grey void where anger would have been, but nothing was left for it to feed on.
'Yeah. Okay. You sound like some emo band fag, but okay." Chow smiled slightly. "I'm tired."
"I . . . I should let you sleep."
"What was I like? When you first met me?"
"What?"
"Tell me, until I need to hit the morphine again."
Finn obliged, slowly righting the fallen chair and melting into it. "I, uh . . . fuck." He closed his eyes, trying to remember. Chow waited, fingering his I.V, letting his lids close halfway. "We . . . we were gathered in Valmont's office. The first one we ever saw, the smaller one, with the blue carpet and that weird smell in the air, like ozone, that Reno said was probably cat piss because the previous tenant had been a fucking freak who kept, like, a million cats. I was new. You were new. Ratso and Darren and Gina were all new. Gina and Darren, they looked calm. They looked ready. Ratso looked happy, like he didn't realize what he was being hired for, like he was interviewing for a position with the fucking carnival. You looked . . . thin, but fuck if you didn't look dangerous."
"Dangerous?"
"Yeah. Dude, you had this whole thing about you that said 'I will fucking kill you with whatever I have on hand then rape your fucking corpse'. And you couldn't see your eyes. That was the worse part. That was when you wore the mirrored sunglasses, remember?"
"Heh, yeah. I liked those. Fucking shame they broke."
"Yeah."
"You know what?"
"What?"
"You looked like you owned the fucking world." Finn started to laugh, and Chow slapped at him. "No, stop, really, it's true. I'm serious, man. You were grinning and dicking around and making jokes, and dude, you were wearing fucking tie-dye."
"Oh shit, don't remind me, dude."
"It was like you were this crazy, cokehead, disco hippy dick, but I didn't want to punch you in the mouth. Because you were so at ease. You looked like you belonged."
Finn chuckled. "Yeah. And then you found out that I was a wedding singer—"
"Lowest of the low."
"—and Ratso was a college dropout."
"And I worked at the Sunglass Shack. How'd that hold up my bad-ass image"
"Are you kidding? it just made it worse. How a guy like you ended up there . . ."
"Valmont found me that job, when I came over from Beijing." Chow whispered, sounding half asleep. "I wanted to play it straight for a while. I wanted to really try, you know? I came to A-fucking-merica. Land of Dreams. I thought I could do it. Could clean up and get out." He smiled wryly. "But Valmont, he must have known I'd come back. Why else would he keep his eye on me? He must have known. He saw me before, I guess."
"Before."
"Yeah," Chow sighed sleepily. "Before. You know about before?"
Finn let the silence hang, a Damocles sword over his tongue. " . . . yes."
Chow's eyes were shut, and he didn't stir. Finn couldn't help it. He reached out and took his hand. Faintly, Chow squeezed it. "Sentimental bastard," he murmered.
"Shut up," Finn said, and moved to take his hand away. Chow twined his fingers into his own and kept them there, and suddenly Finn felt an old twinge of disquiet. He hated that. He wanted to be able to pat Chow's shoulder or put him in a headlock or wrestle him without . . . that . . . getting in the way. One fucking mistake. "Chow . . ."
"Mm?"
"About . . . about that night." He expected Chow to stiffen or get angry, dig his neurotically short nails into Finn's knuckles. Instead, Chow just opened one swollen, dark eye. Finn knew that if he paused here for much longer, he would not be able to march on with the rest of this speech. "Um. Fuck. Dude, I uh . . . okay. That night. That, er, thing. That . . . the kiss." He hung his head. "It . . . that wasn't serious. You know that right? That wasn't serious, and if you thought it was, I—I don't want things to be fucked up anymore, you know? I made a mistake. I . . . I don't like dudes. I was drunk and freaked out. I was worried about you. And I was out of my head with this Shendu business. I just wanted some kind of distraction—fuck, not like you're a distraction, I don't mean it that way, I just, uh, oh, fuck me. I wanted to make you feel better. I don't know why I did that. So, yeah, you probably hate me now and always will because, you know, we've always kinda known that you like guys too and we thought it was better if we didn't say anything, so that totally probably fucked with your, you know, emotions and shit, and uh—"
"Finn!" And he stopped, stumbling over his rapidly and horrifically derailing train of thought as he realized Chow had been saying his name through half of that. "Shut the fuck up! Jesus!"
Finn gaped at Chow, who was smiling as much as his bruised mouth could. He was squeezing his hand even tighter. " . . . uh"
"You are such a retard." Chow smirked at him, and coughed a little bit. When he recovered, he slumped back into his pillow and smiled. "I know you didn't really mean it. For a long time, I thought you did . . . or I wanted you to." Finn felt his ears get hot, but Chow pressed on. "But I realized that wasn't what you wanted, and hell, it wasn't what I wanted. You're a friend, Finn. A real one. I'm . . . I'm not really sure what to do with that. So I fucked it up." He chuckled. "That's all I want. I know you didn't mean it. That's okay—neither did I."
" . . . So it's okay."
"Yeah. It's okay."
That strange knot in Finn's throat untangled a little, threads of anxiety and regret growing weak and snapping. " . . . okay."
They sat in silence, rediscovering what it felt like for that quiet not to be thorny and full of apprehension. Finn leaned his head on his arm, feeling it fall asleep, nerves prickling, but he didn't care. He heard Chow's breathing even out, and for the first time that night, began to untense, letting sleep work its magic on his eyes.
"I died." Chow murmered, suddenly. "It's true. A chunk of me died tonight . . . but I don't think I regret it. Not one bit." His fingers fluttered. "Finn?"
"Yeah?"
"Sorry."
" . . . me too."
The beeping of the machine slowed after a time, indicating Chow had finally fallen asleep; deep and restful, a healing sleep. Chow would last through the night. Finn knew it. He could feel his friend's heartbeat again, in his fingertips and heavy palm.
It didn't matter what they threw at them, he realized. It didn't matter how many fucking bullets they took, how many times they fell, how many broken bones or spilt lips or burn scars or dead friends.
A man can walk on broken legs, but they will never heal right. Only when he gives in, when he admits he can be weak, only then can he finally rest, and those shattered legs finally mend. Same for a mind. Same for a friendship. Same for a heart. Only given time, and rest.
It was time to fucking rest.
"Me too," whispered Finn.
When Ratso opened the door, he saw Finn bent over the bed passed out, his head on his arm, leaning across Chow. Chow, black and blue and all sorts of interesting colors, had a look on his face that could only suggest the deepest sort of sleep.
Dawn was seeping through the windows, pale gold and rose and violet. Ratso set the daffodils on the bedside table, and pulled his chair up to the window, watching the city start to wake up outside.
And he smiled.
--
Finn did not go home that night. He wandered the never dark streets as the stars, so few and fragile, wheeled overhead. They balanced on the spires of the skyscrapers, like angels dancing on pinheads, guttering in the smog of city's sin.
It was supposed to get better after that. It was supposed to end, dammit. They should have learned their lesson. They should have gotten out. But they didn't and now look at them, heralding in the end of the fucking world like war, famine, and that one fucking prick horseman he could never remember.
Now, dawn was blooming over the city, pink and pastel, utterly fucking inappropriate for the beginning of doomsday. The taxi's were coming out and the business people in their matte suits were giving him the same tired old looks of disgust and snobbery, and here and there he had to step over the body of some idiot, still blitzed out of his mind. Steam rising from the manholes in the street deformed and softened the figures walking through it, catching light of morning and dispersing it like a chemical spill. Construction screamed and crackled, ushering people into long tunnels of scaffolding. The morning crowd picked him up and washed him down the avenues, past the skyscrapers and old stone buildings; the Starbucks and the McDonalds, until he filtered into on e of the side streets, shoved aside like a piece of flotsam caught in a tide pool. The street was icy and silent, broken only by the backfiring of a car engine and buzz of someone's boom box, too loud, too early.
Finn sighed in a deep and rattling way, the buzz of the alcohol fading with every slippery step. His path was not well remembered, but seemed ingrained in his feet if nothing else. They took him up the cracked sidewalk, past the imitation pub and into a small park where grass and hypodermic needles mingled in similar quantities. The courtyard led to the steps, the steps to the old oak door. He paused outside of it, remembering his grandmam leading him up the path by his lax hand, while he stifled his rebellion only out of fear of a spanking. Then, the trees were green, always, and the smell in the air was of gas and baking bread, and he could hear the other children in the ball courts out back.
The wood yielded under his hand, and heated air grabbed him in a shocking, incense scented embrace. He diverged almost immediately to the side, sat down, pulled the curtain shut. When he was a child, this was the most uncomfortable place in the world. It was hell on earth, ironically, and it meant reddened ears and cheeks and that horrible sense that someone Up There was shaking his head and patting a leather belt against his hand, just waiting. Now he knew why his grandparents and all their generations beforehand had come here—it was a chance. The last resort—maybe, if Finn completed this old ritual, it would be enough . . . and San Francisco would still be there tomorrow.
Chow was right. They shouldn't have to change. It wasn't fair, that their simple lives had become so epic. They weren't legendary anatagonists—they were a couple of hoods without a clue, and they shouldn't have to take responsibility for such dire cicumstances.
A slap of wood against a wooden frame, and Finn steeled himself. They shouldn't have to . . . but what else was there to do, when the cards were down and the devil had come to collect? He bowed his head, Chow's eyes in his mind, a thunderstorm, a dock, a fight, a clasped hand. A hope.
"Forgive me, father, for I have sinned."
--End--