03
In My Head
"Oh..."
Tifa put a hand to her forehead as I slowed to a stop in the street out front of Seventh Heaven, stray hairs lifted by her fingers. Clearly she had forgotten something, judging by her sudden alertness, and I wondered if it was a material object, and if she'd left it at my place. If that was the case, I hoped she wouldn't need it until the next day.
She turned towards me, apology written on her face. "I forgot to bring the remote for the garage door. I didn't really think I'd need it..."
That was all? Thank the gods it wasn't her keys. "You're going to get wet, then." I frowned thoughtfully. "...I don't keep an umbrella in my car, but I'll walk you to the door." I shifted around in my seat, reaching blindly into the back of the car for the sandals I'd tossed over my shoulder earlier. While the garage was around back, away from the public entrance, it was at least connected to the building, and pulling the car inside would have saved us from the rain.
"You want to come in?" she was quick to ask, nearly tripping over the words I'd just finished. She smiled brightly, most likely trying to ward of any objections of mine before I could process them. "You know you want to," she prodded. "I'll fix you up something nice."
I was about to tell her that I'd better not, that I was tired and needed to get back to bed. But I stopped myself short of doing just that. I knew that she needed the company. She never went out anymore; the entirety of her social life had died when Cloud had reverted back to his old patterns.
Tifa had gotten comfortable with calling me as soon as she'd discovered he was gone. I had told her once that she could call me at any time, and that I would listen to whatever she needed to get out, for however long she wanted. At first she refused to be a burden to me, waiting to call, asking if I was busy or had the time. Eventually it became an automatic response; she had gotten to the point where she needed it.
When she visited, it was in the middle of the day; Tifa never went out at night, because she wanted to be there when he returned, didn't want to find him asleep before she could welcome him home. If ever she was at my apartment during night hours, it was because he had left within a few hours of her call. After that, I wouldn't see her again until he returned, unless it was in the middle of the day, though we would talk over the phone often. Even then, when she was at my place, she didn't seem to want to stay for very long. She would look at the clock compulsively, and she'd developed a couple of nervous habits, such as the picking at something imaginary in her hands.
I would still tell her that he might return by morning, but we both knew that wasn't true. Like I said, it was a weak attempt at consolation; there was nothing saying that it was impossible that he might return by daybreak, but we both knew that he wouldn't. I would later come to regret saying such things, as it might have contributed to her obsessive and unhealthy behavior. Each time, I tried to fuel the hope that perhaps things might be different the next time around. But they never changed; life stayed the same for Tifa, day in and day out.
Cloud's reappearing act always took place in the middle of the night. He would sneak into their residence like a thief, after the children were already in bed. Tifa was usually up and waiting for him. She had been running on empty for a long time, and I was surprised - and relieved - to find she had an unnatural resilience; after all, she was still there. But she was quickly becoming a thin shell of the person she once was.
Tifa no longer went clubbing with Yuffie. She no longer went to the movies with Cid and Shera, something she had thoroughly enjoyed when Cloud had accompanied them. No, in the later hours of a Sunday night, one could find Denzel and Marlene already in bed, and Tifa would no doubt be sitting up, watching the clock, counting the unknown hours until Cloud would arrive home. Other nights she was already at the bar, working, and so it was no difficult task for her to remain by the front door once the busy night was over.
I couldn't begin to count the number of times I'd found her asleep in one of those booths in her dining area.
It had gotten so bad that her entire life hinged on where Cloud was and what he was doing. If anyone wanted to see her, they would have to go to the bar. I don't think she realized what it was that she was doing to herself, but I wanted, more than anything, to see her pull out of it and get better.
"Very well," I agreed, "I'll take you up on that." My hand found my shoes, and I placed them over my socks, which were bound to get just as soaked as the rest of my clothing. Our visit had been short, and I wasn't about to leave her alone if she was wanting for company, especially when she was enduring such hardships. While I was tired, Tifa's sanity was my priority.
Yes, somewhere along the line, I realized that Tifa herself had become my number one priority. Period. Seeing as Cloud appeared to be her number one priority, I was sure it would come back to bite me in the ass one day. But I preferred to put off thinking about that for as long as reality would allow me.
She opened her mouth to say something else, but I was out of the car and at her side before she had even gathered her soda up from the cup holder. She looked at me incredulously as I stood in the pouring rain, holding the door open for her, crumpled bag in my other hand. She didn't seem to want to budge, and I was getting rather chilled.
"I was going to suggest we sit here until the storm let up!"
I frowned, a look of feigned frustration coming over me. Raising an eyebrow, I asked, "Do you want to sit in the car?"
She hurriedly pushed herself up from the seat and I took her hand, pulling her up and shutting the car door behind her. We rushed to the front door, across the seemingly endless stretch of sidewalk, heavy droplets pelting us on our way, and we took shelter beneath the extended roof as she reached into her coat pocket for her keys. The familiar jangling sound broke me from the distraction of picking at the wet material that clung to my chest, skin showing through the white cotton, and I entered after her, the door swinging shut at my heels.
I was immediately chilled by the cold draft attacking from ceiling vents at both my sides. A shiver ran quickly up my spine, and I couldn't control the visible spasm that followed. Tifa slipped out of her shoes, shedding her leather jacket and tossing it into one of the booths near the front of the building, before walking around the side of the bar and flipping on the lights.
I held my left arm out, noting how the lights reflected off the silver plating. I'd seen it many times before, but I still found myself easily mesmorized by the way the light played over the metal. I'd gotten it replaced almost two years before, shortly after the mess with Omega. It was still a prosthesis, but at least it looked more like a hand. I usually wrapped the arm in tan sports tape when I left the house, but I didn't think it necessary just to drop Tifa home, so my metal arm was bare that night. A glove might have been easier to slip on and off, but I didn't like the way the material clung to my human hand, and if I wore one, I would have to wear both, or risk looking rather silly. Not to mention, the nude tone didn't stand out so much in a crowd as black or silver would.
"I'll get you something to wear," she said, breaking through my thoughts and heading towards the stairs. "You must be freezing." I could hear the tremor in her own voice, her lip quivering as she wrapped her arms about herself.
Tifa took the steps two at a time, and I shed my footwear, removing my socks and dropping them on top of the sandals by the door. My toes were a little numb from the cold, and when my bare feet crossed the wood floor toward the bar, the feeling was rather alien. I tossed the crumpled bag into the trash and grabbed one of the hand-towels from the end of the counter, wiping the beaded water from my nylon warm-ups. I had just seated myself on one of the stools, when Tifa came bounding down the stairs just as quickly as she'd disappeared. I noticed that she'd changed into a different pair of sweatpants, the first ones grey and these ones black. Her thin white tank-top had remained undamaged, guarded from the onslaught by her coat.
Was it wrong that I was slightly disappointed by that?
"Here," she said as she tossed a large, black tee-shirt to me. "It should be large enough; I usually sleep in that one, and it reaches the middle of my thighs." I examined the shirt I'd caught, holding it up to my chest. It seemed like a good fit. She gestured to the pants folded in her arm. "These are Cloud's, but I'm afraid they're probably too short..."
"I don't need them," I countered. "My pants have dried." I didn't want to wear anything belonging to Cloud; I didn't want him doing me any favors, and when I looked back on that night, I didn't want any reason to think about him.
"Oh. All right, then." Tifa smiled and tossed them down on the counter, walking behind the bar as I set the shirt on the stool and began to remove the one I was wearing. Tifa didn't watch me do this; she busied herself, idly turning the liquor bottles on the back wall so that the labels all faced the dining room. I wasn't sure if I should read anything into that, but it wasn't the sort of thing I would agonize over. "What would you like to drink?" she asked me, absently fingering the bottles on the shelf.
I sat back down on the stool, wet shirt in my hand. "...I'd like a gin and tonic."
She turned around, arms folded, smiling mischievously - I'd say flirtatiously, but as I mentioned, I had written her receptiveness to me off to her general friendliness - and her eyes narrowed at my choice. "That's so...bland. I'll take that..." She held her hand out, reaching for the shirt in my grasp. I handed it to her, and she took it from me. "I'll hang it up for you." She paused, examing it. "It's still warm..." she said, holding it to her face and smiling. "Hmm. Smells good, too. I'll go and let this dry; you think about what you want while I'm upstairs."
And think I did. I couldn't help wondering what that comment was all about. Why on earth did she have the sudden urge to hold a rain-soaked piece of clothing to her skin? Oh, right. It was warm. If she had wanted to absorb my body heat like that, I would have been happy to simply hold her for a few hours. Maybe when she got back, I would tell her that was what I really wanted.
Right.
As I was mulling over Tifa's strange behavior, I heard footsteps descending the wooden stairway. I turned my head in expectation of the woman I'd been thinking about; instead I found Denzel standing at the foot of the stairs.
"Vincent?" the boy yawned as he rubbed at his eyes.
"Hello," I replied, tilting my head in question. "It's very early. What are you doing up?"
His eyes scanned the room, but he only found myself. "Do you know where Cloud is?" He tugged at the hem of his blue pajama shirt distractedly.
"I must admit that I do not." I cradled my head in my hand on the counter. "Can I help you with something?"
"No..." He looked down at his feet, and then made to turn and walk back upstairs. Just then, I heard another set of feet on the solid planks.
"Denzel, what are you-?" Tifa's soft voice became louder as she reached the end of the stairway. "Oh, honey," she said as she placed soothing hands on both his shoulders, "why are you out of bed?" She guided his small body back towards the stairs, ready to take him back to his room. "Let's get you tucked back in."
"Tifa?" I interrupted, before she had the chance to pull him away. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"
"Huh?" She glanced at me over her shoulder, and her arms relaxed down to her sides. "Sure..."
I then directed my gaze to Denzel. "...Why don't you take Cloud's old room for the rest of the night?"
The boy nodded quietly, before running back up the stairs. I heard Cloud's door shut behind him after that, and I smiled at Tifa's confused expression.
"I will take that drink now," I said, meeting her eyes.
Tifa returned to the opposite side of the counter, eyeing me warily as she pulled a bottle of gin from the shelf. "Okay," she said, still in the dark. "You still want gin and tonic?"
"Yes," I replied, "with plenty of lime."
Tifa pulled a lime from the pan in the miniature refrigerator, and grabbed a knife from behind the bar. "You wanted to talk?" she asked, as she began carving up the lime.
"Yes." I leaned forward, watching her nimble fingers just barely escape the blade as she held the fruit still.
"What about?" she questioned, grabbing a short glass from the stacks in front of her, and pouring two fingers of gin into it.
I watched as she opened the ice bin and scooped a few cubes into the glass, grabbing a small bottle of pre-packaged tonic water from the back counter. "I do not believe that Denzel needs to see a doctor," I said, noting with some satisfaction the raised eyebrow she gave as she poured the soda into the mix. "He is merely going through a phase; he is growing up, Tifa."
She handed me the drink with a puzzled look, before handing me the wedges of lime she had cut. She blinked her eyes then, and a small grin ghosted over her mouth. "...Oh."
"He is probably miserable, sharing a room with Marlene," I added, bringing the glass to my lips. "You might want to let him use Cloud's old room, since he doesn't seem to be using it."
Tifa put her hands on her hips, a little insulted. "Well, why doesn't he come to me about it?"
I let out a low chuckle. "Most likely because you are a woman."
"Well it's not like Cloud's going to help him through it," she sighed, letting one arm fall to hit her hip. "He's never around..."
I frowned, studying my glass intently. "Tifa...I am sorry. You don't deserve this..."
"Yeah, well...what can you do, right?" She shrugged it off and smiled, but I could tell it was forced. Suddenly, that smile turned into a frighteningly false grin, and she perked up instantly. "Listen, I'm going to go to bed now. I'll give your shirt back soon; maybe I'll visit tomorrow or something." She replaced the bottle on the shelf. "Thanks for listening to me. I guess I'm just more tired than I thought I was."
I nodded. She did look weary, but I knew it wasn't because of that one night. She was weary of life, weary of trying, of wasting her time, investing in a happy ending that would never come. I finished my drink, and leaned over to set the glass in the sink behind the counter. "Goodnight, Tifa." She began walking me to the door, and I turned to look at her once we'd reached it, my eyebrows raised in question. "You won't hesitate to call if you need anything?"
"I'll call," she smiled. "Maybe even just to talk," she finished lamely. "No Cloud business. Wouldn't that be something?" She let out a defeated laugh.
I bent down to pick up my wet socks and shoved them into my pocket, stepping into the sandals and turning to hug her. I was again enveloped by the smell of fresh apple. "Take care of yourself, Tifa. Relax...get some rest, and try not to think about it, at least for the rest of tonight." I felt her return the embrace as her arms tightened around my torso. "And don't tell Denzel that I talked to you about him," I added as an afterthought. "You wouldn't want to risk embarrassing the boy further."
She nodded her head against my chest. "Again, thanks for everything."
I let her go, reaching out to trail down her arm, and I found myself linking my fleshly fingers with hers as I pulled away, our arms out before us. "It isn't a problem. Not at all," I reassured her, and then I let her fingers slip through mine, leaving the bar, hearing the click of the lock behind me, but not looking back.
The ride back to my apartment was uneventful. Without her conversation, the windshield wipers seemed so much louder than they had on the way over. Back and forth, back and forth; they were even worse than the radio. I would stop the car at an intersection, and the rain would seem to pick up as it beat down on the roof. I'd resume driving, and it would pass by quickly, needles pelting the car harder, but somehow less loudly than when I was sitting still.
Once inside the door to my apartment, I tossed my keys on the coffee table and made straight for the bedroom, stopping to empty Tifa's mug into the sink on my way. I lazily flipped the sandals from my feet into the open closet and pulled the socks from my pocket, balling them up and tossing them across the room to land in the laundry basket. They were soon followed by the rest of my clothing as I stripped down before putting on a pair of long, black silk pajama bottoms from the dresser drawer, and collapsing into bed.
A soft, orange glow filtered in from the hallway, where I kept a small light plugged into the electrical socket in case I felt like getting up for whatever reason. Shadows stretched their way up the walls of my room like the fingers of millions drowning in darkness. The tall lamp standing in the corner...my bedposts...a bottle of cologne sitting on my dresser.
I was going to have one hell of a time getting back to sleep. Already, I could see the sky was beginning to lighten through the cracks in my blinds, and I had gotten my second wind, being up as late as I had. That renewed burst of energy would easily carry me through the day and into the early evening, and then I would be craving sleep somewhere between six and eight o'clock at night if I didn't manage to get some rest that morning. Not like it would matter anyway. I wrote fictional stories for a popular magazine; I could keep any schedule I wished.
When I was younger, I had wanted to be a writer. I loved to read, and I would completely devour anything I could get my hands on, and I would pick it apart, identifying each element and intention. I thought about teaching older kids literature; my father wasn't very happy with that idea. Teachers didn't get paid very well, and being a self-employed writer was like having no job at all, he said. He had always told me that I should get a real job, and then write about that.
So I did.
The citizens of Edge loved reading my stories about stealth assassins, government conspiracies and mad science. The business class especially enjoyed them; they had boring lives as it was, and they needed a far more interesting escape than the coffee house. But it wasn't as if I was living in fame; I wrote under the pseudonym of Jake LeMarc.
Wouldn't want anyone to suspect that the stories were real, upon hearing my name. People tend to analyze an author by his writing. And should something happen to me, I didn't need a post-humous biography detailing any and every thing they could dig up about it. And I am sure the few people in my life wouldn't enjoy the public comparing them to characters some of them didn't even know I'd written.
I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, hoping that the bore of a blank canvas itself might put me to sleep, but it did no such thing. I rolled over, staring blankly through the open door and into the bathroom at the other end of the hallway.
'How did I get here', I wondered, 'living in a city where my only attachment is a woman I can't even bring myself to be straightforward with? Since when did my closest friends and acquaintances consist of rag-tag misfits who hardly look like they belong together, instead of the stone-faced killers I used to know? What is it that puts me in the position to help someone else's children get through their problems? And since when have I ever been comfortable around children?'
It was on nights like these, when my thoughts turned towards such removed and isolated patterns, that I would converse with my demons. While the shifting beneath my skin had caused me uncontrollable pain and suffering, I actually missed their company from time to time. Talking with them drove away the silence, and kept me from going insane while I was in confinement.
Chaos was the most interesting of the bunch. He had an attitude, to put it mildly, but he was extremely intelligent. I could talk to him for hours, if not for the pain it sometimes caused me. But talking with my own demons never helped my problems much, as I was stubborn and never managed to sort things out, despite the company I kept. Once we really got into it, he would start to sound different in my head, and then, should he want to continue speaking to me, I had no choice but to listen. And eventually his reasoning would come full-circle and then repeat itself throughout the night.
Most of the time, he sounded like myself. Other times, he sounded like Hojo, or even Veld. And sometimes, he sounded like my father. It all depended on the nature of what he had to say, or if he was only reminding me of something one of them had already said, long before he'd set up camp in my skull. Sometimes it was difficult to distinguish his thoughts from my own, hard to tell whether it was him, my own mind, or my memories of their voices that answered my ponderings. Chaos was not without a sense of irony, drawing on my experiences from time to time, and I won't deny that much of my darker sense of humor developed under his watch. Hindsight is always crystal clear, after all. Those memories echoed in my head long after, and I could sometimes hear their voices still, though my body had been emptied of the demon.
Yes, talking with the demons in my head kept me from going crazy, while contributing to it all the same. It sounds rather laughable, as any normal person would have remarked that I was already there. Honestly, would having slept in a coffin for thirty years have been considered any more sane if I hadn't been talking to ghouls and goblins the entire time?
Hmph.
None of that mattered anymore, because Chaos no longer kept me company. And every now and then, I would fill in the gaps myself, imagining what he would say, and smirking to myself all alone in the dark. Sometimes I forgot that I was all alone, and in the beginning, I actually doubted every now and then that they had really gone. I amused myself to no end with this for hours. But it helped me get to sleep at night.
Somehow though, it felt more crazy when I knew that I was the only one talking back, even moreso than when Tifa had caught me talking with Chaos on the Highwind. That had been...interesting, to say the very least.
I think that was when I'd started to like her, if only on a superficial level back then. I have to admit, I revelled in the look she wore. A lovely marriage of fear and fascination, if ever I saw one. And I still remember the look Hellmasker had tempted me to give her in response. I wondered, 'Would I be here, living in the same city and spending time together with her, if I had done that? Or would she have never spoken to me again?'
But of course, no one answered back. It was only me, myself and I. At least I had plenty of fodder for my columns. Never had a writer's block, not with everything I'd been through. Yes, I was my own greatest inspiration.
Correction; second greatest inspiration.
I suddenly realized with odd humor that I had been counting the tiles on the bathroom wall and gathering them into patterns for at least ten minutes. I most certainly was mad. I pulled the sheets up around my neck and turned onto my stomach, letting my arms come around to hold the pillow and burying my face in it. Perhaps that would stave off the growing light outside, just long enough so that I might fall asleep.