Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen. Only Francise Speziale/Q/The Queen.
A/N- Sorry for the hold up. Same excuse as usually. I haven't given up the story, it just takes me longer to be satisfied with
what I'm writing. I do apologize! Thank you for those who have reviewed. Enjoy.
"Nothing is right anymore
Even worse, nothing is wrong."
- Anonymous.
I hold myself back. I recall telling Dan that he would never be able to put the suit away for good. This is who he is… Who we are. I stare at the two of them. The brightness in their eyes. The jubilation in their features. They've really missed it. They mow down any one in their path. Any one who comes toward them. It's as if they are young again. Strong. Masterful. Energetic. It's like the parting of the Red Sea. I, in the middle, walk down an open path while hugging my box. On either side of me, beaten and bloody (some dead) prisoners. Pieces of newsprints and toilet paper flutter down and around us like rain. Down the long hallway, I see the familiar outfit of-
"Rorschach!" Laurie calls out.
He turns his whole body towards us as we run towards him. I stare at his mask, still trying to comprehend that the man I saw in the picture, is the man before me. He nods at me and acknowledges Dan and Laurie by name. "Excuse me. Must visit men's room." He angrily palms the door open. Laurie curses and makes a groan of impatience. The door swings slowly. A pause… and then the loud, distinct sound of a flushing toilet. Rorschach marches out and walks passed us. We follow his lead.
"Archie's on the roof. This way." Dan kicks open a door leading to a stairway. Laurie jogs in after him. I turn my head towards Rorschach. His head tilted as he stares at me. My eyes follow the continuous shifting and changing of his mask. He looks downward.
"Found psych-profile in doctor's office when I was looking for my face..." I frown at him. "Yours." He added. My face becomes hard and I begin grinding my teeth. Rorschach takes a few steps up the stairs, so now he is looking down at me. "Read about emergency hospital visit. Dead fetus. Brought there by Edward Blake… Suspected you were more than friends." Rorschach growls at me.
"What are you implying?" I snap back.
"Jealous lover. Bitter that the Comedian could not commit. Pictures of Jupiter Senior and Junior were all over Blake's apartment…"
My mouth opens and then closes. I know the reason why he had pictures of the two women. But, it's not my place, and never will be, to tell people about Eddie's daughter. I have nothing to defend myself with. No alibi. Though, I don't think I could have killed Eddie if I tried. Even in his old age. I would always lose to that bastard.
"I didn't kill him." I state slowly.
"Hurrmm." Is Rorschach's reply of dissatisfaction.
I glare at him for a moment. Too much a tale to tell. Why bother to explain further?
"It's none of your business…" comes my flat voice as I push passed him. The sound of Dan and Laurie's footsteps are getting farther away. I place a hand on the railing,
"Profile also said subject suffers from paranoia schizophrenia." I stop dead in my tracks as Rorschach jogs passed me. "Thought you'd like to know." His taunt rings in my head.
The first thing that runs through my head is: What the hell is paranoia schizophrenia? I stare down at the cement steps trying to remember if I ever heard it from anywhere. What does this mean? That my suspicions are confirmed and that I am in fact crazy? As I think, I slowly start to make my way up the stairs. I can't remember hearing it from anywhere, and I wasn't about to go ahead and ask Rorschach what it meant.
I can't be bothered by it now, though. My attention switches as I hear footsteps behind me. I can hear their voices. I run up the stairs just in time to hear the stairway door opening. They scream for me to stop as they follow me up the stairwell. I kick open the rooftop door and feel the cold air of the night swell inside my lungs. Our escape is close.
"Speziale?"
It's raining out. My clothes make me heavy. The cheap fabric makes me itchy. I slump against the store window, like a clump of dirt. I hold a styrofoam coffee cup in my hand. Inside it, a few bits of change. I stare blankly at the sidewalk. The damp cigarette butts, the stamped out globs of gum, the feet of walkers. The droplets of rain hit the surface and then break apart into smaller droplets. It happens over and over again. Hunger claws at my stomach. The cold makes my body ache. Makes my skin pull taut over my bones, desperately trying to keep in my body warmth.
I can feel. The itchiness of my clothes, the rain pattering against my body, and the shivering cold. But, there is no substantial feeling on the inside that I can claim for. I'm simply… nothing.
"Miss Speziale?"
Blink once. I lift my head. There is a man with a suit and fedora. His hands are deep in his trench coat. His face is plain in features and is expressionless. As if taught to be that way. I hoist my stiff body into a standing position. I stare at him. My hair clinging to my skin. The rain using the tendrils like tracks to move across my face. He looks me up and down.
"Mr. Blake wanted you to have this." He drops a gold key into my sad little cup. I stare at it. I recognize it as his apartment keys.
"Goodbye, Miss Speziale." I look up to see the man walking away from me. There is something bursting inside me,
"Wait!" I call out. My feet stumble forward slightly. The man pauses and turns his body in my direction.
It has been weeks since the hospital visit. I have not seen Eddie. I feel scared. Anxious. I miss him. Missing isn't even the right word. It's more than that.
The man slowly approaches me once again. "Where does he live now?" the question travels through my lips. Evaporates like my cloud of breath in the rain. The man simply stares at me for a moment and then shakes his head, "I'm afraid I can't tell you." Whatever warmth was in my body, I feel it exit. My body slouches and I stare hopelessly back down at the sidewalk. I feel like I'm going to be sick.
Did he give orders to this man not to tell me? Did he actually not want to see me again? My insides feel destroyed.
"Tell him…"
I could not think of anything. Did I want to say I was sorry? I wasn't. For anything. Everything that pops into my mind seems to sad and pathetic to say. I felt embarrassed having to use a messenger to tell Eddie how I truly felt. Said man looks at me expectantly,
"Never mind…" my last goodbye.
The man nods and I watch him walk away. My body backs up against the window and I slide back down to the ground. Close my eyes. Close them to try and hide everything. My frustration, sadness, aching, loneliness, abandonment, anger, memories. I can't… I remember laying against Eddie's chest in Vietnam. After I shot Murphy. I remember the feeling of his arms holding me back as I watched a horse being slaughtered. Eddie running his dirty fingers through my hair as we laid in a tent together. Waking up in the Vietnam heat to have him sleeping next to me. Eddie carrying me after I was left to die in alley garbage.
I remember him telling me that our fight against so-called evil is hopeless. Life is meaningless. Then in Vietnam, where he told me no one can be trusted. Not even yourself. The look on his face as he burned men alive. The smile he gave me the morning after he took advantage of my drug-induced sleep. The hardness of his knuckle when he punched me in the face. The animalistic darkness in his features as he unapologetically gunned down the pregnant Vietnamese woman. Those same eyes that watched the woman he loved drive away from him.
Edward Blake…
I stare at myself in the mirror. My mirror. My bathroom. My shower. My hair and body are clean after a rigorous bath. A bath… in my own place. My apartment. My apartmentmyapartment. This is my own home. I grab a chunk of my hair. Using I knife, I cut it off. Again, again, again. Black hair covers the sink and floor around my bare feet. Long black snakes slithering on the cracked linoleum. Shaving cream. Disposable razor. I shave my head clean. I stare at myself. Bare head. Bare shoulders. The only thing I wear is my necklace of dog tags. The same dead weight I've carried since Vietnam.
That is not me. There is another person in that mirror. Her dark eyes don't shine. They blink slowly, heavily. The skin underneath is red. She looks sad and without a purpose. I can only see her wearing a camouflage soldier's uniform. She looks sick.
Time moves by like a slug. I am only being dragged along, whether I want to or not. I sit at the wooden kitchen table. My kitchen. My head rests against the surface. Inhale deeply. The trapped smell of Eddie's cigars is there. I sit up straight. Evidence of Eddie is everywhere. Holes in doors and walls. An old ashtray. In the bedroom, on the wall beside the bed, are cut up pictures of our company in Vietnam. Eddie cleaning guns. Kopper and myself smoking cigarettes. Hudson and Murphy playing cards. My eyes linger on this picture. Two best friends. Dead. One killed by a 10 year old suicide bomber, and another killed by… me. My eyes continue their trail.
There are no pictures of me and Eddie. The only one we are together in is the company photo when we got to Saigon. We stood on opposite ends of the picture. My black hair was choppy. His grin, large, and his cigar, brand new. Purple and blue blotches my eye and cheek. My face looked burdened. So did his. A freshly sewn up gash along the right side of his face. But, we were relieved to be going home… Who knew then what kind of New York City would be waiting for us? I hold the picture against me as I lay in bed. My bed. My own bed.
A familiar emotion runs through me. My body shakes. It jolts through my body and surges through my toes and fingertips. I grab something from beneath my pillow. Stand from the bed.
Streetlights shine through the shades of the window. Beside it there is a vanity mirror. The girl stares at me with anger. A gun in her left hand. The streetlights peeping through creating white lines against her body. She is in jeans and worn out combat boots. Her bra is black and old. There are scars on her body. Across her torso. Her arms, shoulders, and face. Battle scars. Life scars. She points the gun at me. All warmth is gone.
She points the gun to herself. She's murdered people. Children. She's killed her own baby.
What's the point? She says.
What?
There is no one left. She says.
No one?
Do something. Let it out. She says as she taps the guns against her temple.
I don't want to die…
She speaks again but I can barely hear her. It's muffled. The mirror is foggy. I can only see a part of her face. Her teeth are falling out. She's scratching open her skin with her nails. Is this real? I don't know.
The ability to distinguish the difference between reality and dreams is decreasing. Sometimes I remember a whispering in my ear, the smell of smoke, the heavy footsteps of Eddie… and I cannot tell if these were things I dreamed… or if he actually comes to visit me at night. What if all my memories are dreams? If nothing were real… but just a fabrication of my mind. I cannot grasp time. It oozes and swirls around my oblivious nature. I am stuck in it.
I want to rip my hair out. Make myself bleed. Make myself pay for everything I have ever done. Every person I've ever killed. Their faces flash behind my eyes. I want to rip them out. I cause myself misery, but that's not enough. I want to inflict it upon others. Spread it around like a disease. Hurting others in the way I feel, oh so horribly hurt. Then it becomes a cycle. Their faces then flash behind my dark eyes and I start again. I can't stop myself.
I'm not human. I'm a monster.
A roar escapes my body. My muscles shake. Tears pinch through the corners of my eyes. I am in such horrible pain.
Am I supposed to hate myself this much?
Did Superman ever hate himself?
I'm just so terribly lonely even as I've started to integrate myself back into society. I get a job as a waitress to cover the rent for the apartment. There is a fog between the people and me. My co-workers are uncomfortable around me and barely speak. I work diligently and then I leave. Nothing more. No substantial interaction. Every time I look into the face of an average person, I see the numerous angry faces of a mob. Then, I feel bitter betrayal when I remember how the city turned on me and my comrads. How they shot me, beat me, left me to die after all I had done for them. Then at night, I search. Not for an opportunity to help people, but for an opportunity to cause pain.
Hide in the shadows as I look upon the dark city. The flickering lights shining through homes and buildings. The melting red and yellow lights of traffic. It's so loud. Suffocating. Swarming. I retreat back to my apartment, where it seems like the world has collapsed and fallen away… and there is only me. Then I sit on my bed and stare blankly at the bedroom wall.
Blank. Blank. Blank.
Why can't I think?
I allow myself to lean backwards into my bed. Close my eyes for just a moment. Just for two seconds. My breathing is deep and soft. I sink deep inside of myself. Revel in the feelings around me. The scratchy fabric of my bed sheets against my bare neck and arms. The cool wind from the ceiling fan directly above me.
Just resting for a minute. Just for a minute. A picture of a man springs into my mind. He's pleading mercy from me. He says he has a family. I kill him anyways. I feel toxic, resentment towards him. A disgusting, low-life criminal. Yet, he has something that I wish I could have… A family. Someone who cares. Someone there. Not just the silence bouncing around the walls of your home, gluing you to your bed.
Is there something wrong with me? Some kind of defect in my human nature? Why is communication with others so difficult for me? It had never been this way before. I may have been a shy kid, but I never felt like this. So out of reach. Out of touch from the world and the people in it. Constant, cancerous loneliness.
Loneliness that I create…
Oh God, why?
But that's no us is it? He's not there. I almost wish that I believed in God. Then, I would have something to hold onto. Something to cling to when everything else is failing. But, I can't.
A distinct smell floods my nostrils. Heavy alcohol. I suddenly feel the presence of someone looming over me. Like a ghost. How long have I been laying here just resting my eyes?
My breathing remains as steady as it was before. My pulse does not raise. But an ominous feeling creeps over me. The ghost continues to stand over me. It's so quiet. I can barely hear it. No… him. I know it's him. It has to be.
The springs from the mattress creak loudly. The bed dips as he sits beside my feigned sleeping form. I hear him chuckle. Calloused fingertips trailing up and down my inner arm. The trails make my skin cold and my stomach flutter. My tongue curls up inside of my mouth. His fingers abandon my arm and brush lightly against my neck. His index finger circling around a beauty mark that I know I have there. I could almost smile.
My body is aching. My body is in jubilation. It has been so long since I've had physical contact. It causes a bubble of sadness to rise in me. Why is he even doing this? I thought he didn't want to see me again. I thought I didn't want to see him again either… I was wrong. Always wrong. I miss him. I miss him so much that it hurts! And I can't stand that I do.
He did this to me. He is the reason why I'm so fucking lonely and angry. If it weren't for him, I would have never went to Nam. I would have never killed those people or murdered Murphy. I would have never had my soul ripped inside out and become forever changed. Forever fucked. It would have just been something I saw from afar. Watched on television or read in the paper. Not involved enough to be effected. I could have retired like Laurie and Dan. I could have had a normal life. Met a guy who treated me nicely. Settled down. Had a family.
I use to think that type of life was boring. A sentencing to hell. But, by God, it's all I fucking want now.
His hand suddenly leaves my neck. An alarm sets off in my brain as I feel my shorts being pulled down. Some kind of gear clicks in me. An automatic defense system. My eyes snap open and I throw a punch. It lands on his jaw and throws him off the bed. I reset my shorts and jump to my feet. From the bed, I look down at him. He's wearing his civilian clothes. His eyes glisten darkly at me as he wipes the blood from his mouth. He laughs as he wobbles back on his feet.
"You shouldn't have done that, sweetheart."
When he speaks, the smell of alcohol grows stronger. My face is stony as I stare at him. Contempt courses through my body. I know what's coming. I know that look on his face. That distinct stillness in the air. The crackle. The boom.
He lunges at me. The bed gives me an extra bounce as I jump out of the way. I land on my feet on the wood floor. I pivot and go for a high kick. There is a smile on his face as he catches my leg. It disappears as I punch him in the nose. His fingers loosen around my leg and I jump away.
"You fucking bitch." He growls at me as he holds his bleeding nose.
I charge at him again and quickly crouch to kick out his feet. He's faster though. My kick misses as he quickly jumps. Before I even have time to get back up, he grabs me by the back of my neck. My body is flung into the wall. My mouth opens in a silent scream and then I see stars and my face goes numb. He punches me again and again. My knees give way and I finally realize he's holding me up by my t-shirt. When he let's go, I collapse to the floor. My face is swelling up. I can taste blood in my mouth. I yelp as he kicks me in the back.
"Get up!" he yells down at me. "Fight me, Q. Get up!" he gives me an extra kick.
My arms shake as I push myself back on my feet. I back up slightly away from him so I'm no longer between him and a wall. My left eye is swollen. There must be a cut on my face because I can feel the tickling trail of blood on my cheek. I gather up all the blood I have in my mouth and spit it onto his shoes. He simply stares at me. I know I'm not fighting with the real him at the moment. I'm fighting with a beast. He's never done this before. Not the hitting me part, of course. But it's the fact that he's goading me on. He wants an excuse to hurt me, and for me to hurt him.
We circle around each other. Our fists ready. He's waiting for me to go at him again. Is there really any point? He knows all my moves and I feel so weak right now…
I throw a punch at him. His arm knocks my fist away. His opposite hand comes down and he slaps me. Hard. My face snaps to the side and I am dazed for a moment from the stinging pain. But it only takes a single moment for his slapping hand that came down, to come back up as a rock hard fist. The back of his knuckle collides with the side of my face. The power of it flings me to the side. I crash into a table and break a lamp. He steps towards me as I slump against the wall in defeat.
He grabs me by the shirt again. I grimace at the pain I'm in as he hoists me to my feet. He spins me around and slams me into the wall. Pulls my head back and smashes it against the wall. The sensitive, swollen side of my face is being ground into the rough surface of the wall and – oh goddamnit, it hurts so bad! He's acting like he wants to kill me!
"Shut up!" I flinch from how loud his voice is in my ear. He cracks my head against the wall again.
"Shut up! Stop fucking crying!" I didn't even realize I was.
I quiet my sobbing and I can hear his shuddering, labored breathing in my ear. I gag on the smell of alcohol coming from his breath. He's actually shaking. I can feel his body trembling against mine. He starts laughing as he rubs my shaved head in an almost affectionate way. Without him even saying anything, I know he's thinking about the same thing I did in Vietnam.
"You reminded me of her in so many ways…"
I know who her is. I can feel my stomach curling.
"Then, after awhile, I realized you weren't like her at all…"
His one hand closes around my wrist and lifts it above my head. My other hand is stuck between the two of us. With his knee, he separates my legs. My pulse quickens. I feel the urge to vomit from all the panic surging through me. I wish I had tranquilizers. Then I would be able to sleep like the last time. Try to pretend it never happened. The sound of metal let's me know that he's undoing his belt.
Jesus fucking Christ! He can't! He can't! I have to fucking reason with him!
"You don't want to do this, Eddie!"
He pauses.
"Remember how guilty you were last time?!" comes my panicked voice.
There is a small silence as my words sink into him.
"Shut up." He finally mutters.
I begin crying again. His fingers hook into the edge of my shorts.
"Please! Don't do this to me!" I plea. He stops once again.
He's still shaking. His breathing becomes even heavier. He's fighting with himself. The hand around my wrist pulls my body and swings me around. I trip and fall backwards onto the floor. I look up at him with my good eye. He's staring at me with such rage that it's frightening.
"Do to you?" he mutters.
"What about what you've done to me!?" he shouts.
He goes like a volcano. He flips over the bed. Punches holes in the walls. Destroys the pictures from Vietnam. Splinters the bedroom door. Shatters the mirror. Jesus fucking Christ. I push myself into a corner. Making myself small and unnoticeable. He's rambling on as he rages through his drunken tantrum. Barely any of it makes sense. The bastard is nuclear.
"You use to be just some fucking kid. You were nothing special when I first saw ya. Just a goddamn rat. A funny joke that I liked to mess with." It's like I can hear his heartbeat calming down. He steps into the middle of the room.
"Then… Then –" he's struggling with his words. He doesn't know how to express his feelings. Feelings. This isn't right. Eddie doesn't express his feelings. I remain in my corner. In too much in pain to move. Too afraid. Too embarrassed because I feel like I'm witnessing a part of Eddie that is not meant to be seen.
"In Nam, when that grunt was on you…" he makes a sound that I can only describe as an irritated animal.
"Fucking changed. Fucking changed everything. You weren't like Sal at all…"
He sits down across the room from me. His back against the wall. And still, I don't move a muscle. This wasn't what I had in mind when I said I didn't want to be lonely anymore. I watch as Eddie rubs his mouth. Smearing the spit and blood on his chin. When he speaks again, his voice is soft and constrained.
"I would follow you around. I felt angry towards Bird Boy, and not for the usual reasons. I didn't… didn't like how he looked at Laurie. How he had you in his house… Couldn't stand it when you were around me… I felt anger, and at the same time…" He takes in a gulp of air.
I frown at him. What did Laurie have to do with this? Oh… Oh, God! Was he fucking her as well?! Jesus Christ! I feel sick… Eddie is spilling his guts to me and I almost don't want him to. This is utterly horrible and I know why he's doing this. Why he came to my apartment, beat the shit out of me, and then tried to do something awful. Hurt the ones you love… He likes to hurt me bad. He wants me to hate him. So I won't be near him. So I won't cause him that terrible inner pain.
But, isn't this what he's on about? Isn't this why he's trying to say that he has feelings for me? Because I know? Because in certain instances, I know the shit he goes through. God damnit… what happened to me? This all went too far. Too far. I remember when I was a teenager, so fucking long ago, when I would just stare at him. Trying to figure Eddie out. Wanting to figure him out. Jesus-God, what did I do?
He seems to have given up on trying to speak. Eddie groans and pushes himself to a standing position. His footing is a little unever as he walks around the room. He flips the bed back over, puts the mattress back on, and fixes the side table. He doesn't even look at me once. I uncurl my body from the corner as he takes a seat on the bed, the springs creaking loudly. He sits and stares silently at the wall. Just like how I've done on numerous occasions. From an outsider point of view, that habit actually looks a bit eerie.
Using the wall, I am able to stand. My fingers tentatively touch my face. It's swollen and tender with drying blood. I give a soft sigh as I stare at Eddie. His broad back, his elbows resting on his knees, his foggy eyes staring straight forward. Quietly, I approach him. The air is calm and damp around him. His violent outburst is over.
I stand in front of him, looking down at his frowning face. Slowly, his large arms lift up and wrap around my waist. He pulls me close and presses the side of his bloody face against my stomach. The stomach that our child died in. I feel my body run cold.
His dark eyes flutter close. Awkwardly, I raise my own arms and wrap them around his head. My fingers ruffle through his hair and massage his scalp. Just like how he's done it to me numerous times over. This is so… weird. He's never… I mean he's never really hugged me before, let alone clung to me. The situation is even stranger given our bloody and bruised faces.
He falls backwards onto the bed and pulls me with him. My body is stiff as I lay beside him, but he doesn't do anything threatening. His eyes open and he stares devoid of emotion up at the ceiling fan.
"I've done some bad things, Q."
The roles are reversed here. It's usually me spilling everything out to him. Me going to him for the answers. Me going to him for comfort. I feel terrible because, well, I have no answers. He wants me to tell him that it will get better in time. Before you know it, you'll forget. Before you know it, you'll be a happy person.
We both know… that's never going to happen. He'll never forget all the sins he's committed. Just like how I will never forget my own. That's the worse kind of punishment.
I purse my lips when I think about what he said before. It eats me up on the inside. Makes me sick. My curiosity is too strong.
"You slept with Laurie?"
I feel like an insecure child as I ask this. It's cringe worthy. But his reaction is not what I expected. He simply closes his eyes, as if he wishes I didn't just say that. Then reopens them to look back up at the ceiling. His adam's apple bobs before he opens his mouth to answer.
"She's my daughter."
My eyelids fly back and yet he still does not look at me. I feel like I've been punched in the brain. I think back to every moment I've spent with Laurie and feel absolute embarrassment. I've been sleeping with her father. My unborn baby was her sibling. But, she doesn't know, does she? No, she can't. She's never said anything about it.
I push myself up on an elbow so I can look down at his face. He doesn't acknowledge me. It's only after I say his name do his dark eyes trail a centimeter to the right and look at me. His eyes look lifeless. The usually shimmer isn't there. The shimmer that tells you he's having a laugh at your expense. He's not pretending now. I'm seeing how he really feels. Dark, angry, tragic.
He's not lying. Jesus Christ. His daughter doesn't even know that he's her father. She hates him. She absolutely hates him… and so does her mother. I begin to feel unending pity for Eddie. He's alone just like me. Pushed away just like me. Because our actions cause our loneliness. My God… How did I end up becoming so much like him? At least Laurie doesn't know. It saves me atleast a little bit of shame.
I push a strand of graying hair away from his face. He's looking at me intently and I know have to say something. To finally tell him.
"You're my only friend in this messed up place." I whisper. I watch his gaze flicker around my face.
"And I love you."
I don't tell him how much I hate him for it. How much I resent him. How much I wish I never met him. How he deserves all the misery in the world because he's a bad man, and I hate loving a bad man.
I just let him know the simplest of emotions I have for him. And, trust me, love is such a simple emotion when you get down to it. My hand brushes along his face before I lean down and press my lips against his own. When I pull away, his eyes are closed. The alcohol is finally pulling him into a dreamless sleep. My muscles finally relax as his breathing becomes soft and even. I trail the disfiguring scar on the side of his face.
Things were so much easier… when I was a child.
With a sigh, I leave the bed. Step carefully around the room to avoid shards of lamp, glass fragments, and splinters from the fractured door. I head to the bathroom to wash off the blood.