Chapter Twelve: Beautiful Tragedy

Boone

I kept my distance from her, I knew she was upset with me, and I suppose she had every right to be. The look on her face when I pinned her against the wall...it looked like she couldn't breathe. I should've let up right there, but it's been a good while since I've had anyone busting my balls the way she was. Maybe an emotion other than guilt and grief was what I needed to feel. She also said she knew firsthand how corrupt the brass was. I wanted to ask her what she meant, but the hurt in her eyes told me to stay off the subject.

She kept her shotgun, which she insisted on calling Romulus, always at the ready, but holstered it when we got close to the 188 Trading Post. It was a much shorter walk from Boulder City to here than Novac to Boulder City. There were a few merchants milling about, a small shack set up as a bar, and underneath us was this kid sitting all by himself in front of some odds and ends. Harley bought ammo and bottled water. Asked the merchant if there was anywhere she could fill empty bottles. The merchant shook her head.

We took a seat at the bar, placing space between us. I ordered a beer, and whatever Harley was having. She shook her head at the bartender and glared down at me. With every sip of alcohol, I was beginning to get more and more upset with myself for attacking her like that. She's just a girl, doing what she can to survive. Who am I to say she doesn't know what love or life was? I had already gotten Carla pregnant when I was her age. I was on leave at The Strip, and I noticed her admiring Vault 21. She told me her parents thought an old restored vault was beneath them and they didn't want Carla staying there, but she still took an interest in it, anyway. She was short, about as tall as Harley, and her hair was dark brown and curly. It came down to her shoulders and would bounce whenever she took a step. As soon as I looked into her eyes, I knew I loved her. We spoke a whole five words to each other, and this was the woman I would marry. She had a round face, and full lips. Her eyes were the kind of brown that seemed to sparkle.

After that, we were inseparable. Her parents took a liking to me because I was part of the NCR. Oddly enough, they didn't care that I didn't have a cap to my name. Carla was always so full of spirit and fight, that it just bubbled out of her, and Harley reminded me a lot of her. Harley's words echoed in my head - "you think Carla would want you killing yourself?" The answer was no, as painful as it was to admit. I didn't want to feel anything anymore, and for the most part, I didn't. I blocked every emotion I could possibly restrain. I didn't allow myself to look at attractive women; I still retained the notion that Carla and I belonged to each other. I took quick glances at Harley, but I never lingered, the guilt only hitting worse when I did. The only emotions I let free were guilt and grief. Those were the only two I was worthy of anymore. Not to mention, Bitter Springs constantly replaying when I fall asleep. How do I live with myself after that? I killed innocent men, women, and children as they tried escaping. They were unarmed. Most were too sick, too young, or too old to fight. And I just blindly followed orders…

I caught Harley staring at me, a bottle of water in her hands. She didn't say or do anything. She just sat there staring, and for some reason that just made me even more angry. Maybe because I didn't allow myself to look as freely as she did? She asked the bartender if there was anywhere she could crash for the night, and he pointed at a row of tents.

"It's 20 caps a night. There are two bedrolls and two footlockers in each tent."

"Perfect," she said, handing him the caps and slinking down the road towards the tents. I allowed myself a quick look, admiring her long, red hair and her small, but muscular frame. I glanced down to admire the rest of her, and her hips were swaying as though she knew I was watching. Guilt slammed back into my chest. I fought back the feeling of guilt, and although it only subsided a bit, I continued staring. She was gorgeous. I didn't have the words to describe her. She had a small, heart shaped face, and light green eyes. They were the color you could see across the room and they accented perfectly by her red hair. Her lips were small, but full and her nose was tiny, and pointed. The more I looked, the better I actually felt.

I counted out the caps I owed the bartender, and remembering which tent she entered, I quickly followed. I flung open the flap, and she was sitting on a bedroll with her back towards me. She was already undressed, only wearing her bra and underwear. She had her thick red hair pulled into a bun of the side of her head (the side that wasn't shaven, obviously.) I stared at her mostly bare back, almost completely covered in scars. On her shoulder, she had a weird symbol etched into her skin. It was like a V over an upside down V with a line vertically through the middle. In the two spaces where the Vs overlapped, there were three letters. A capital H on the left side, and a WP on the other side.

"I didn't buy a room for you, too," she said exhaustedly, her muscles tensing.

I sat down on the footlocker at the end of her bedroll so we were facing each other. Seeing her in her underwear sparked something in my stomach. My muscles clenched, and I thought back to Carla. My stomach immediately turned and an even worse feeling of guilt washed over me. How dare I look at someone else? No. I would not allow the guilt to ruin me. If Carla were still alive, we probably wouldn't even still be together. I tried to push the emerging pictures out of my brain, to tuck then back into the corner I never thought I'd venture back into. Nevertheless, it began its unwanted assault.

Carla was throwing something at me. It was a blur, so I couldn't get a good look at it. I ducked, and whatever it was shattered off the wall behind me. She was yelling, her face was beat-red and her voice getting shriller by the second. She dumped dresser drawers on the bed, and began hastily throwing things in a suitcase. I tried to calm her down, but like I said before, she was a firecracker. I was worried all the straining would hurt the baby, but she kept going at it.

It was that night she was sold into slavery. That night that my bullet entered her head and stopped that from happening. I should've never convinced her to leave The Strip and it's security. This would've never happened. She was leaving me. Said we needed a break from each other. She said I was too obsessed with the NCR...that I was keeping secrets and I'd never take care of them like I should be able to. I didn't tell her about Bitter Springs...I couldn't find the right time to bring it up. Oh, hey, this dinner's delicious. By the way, I killed helpless kids, old, and sick people last week as they tried escaping. No. She said she was going back to her parents.

I took my beret and sunglasses off, and rubbed my face.

"Letting go isn't the same as forgetting," I said, more to myself. I saw Harley nod, and I continued, "Carla wouldn't want me to kill myself. You're right about that."

"I doubt she would want you to punish yourself by being a miserable prick all the time, too. In my tribe, the greatest way to remember someone is to let go. You can still be upset. You can still remember them, and love them. But it is a great honor to move on. It shows you are strong in a time of darkness."

Letting go wasn't the same as forgetting. But would I allow myself that peace? Even if I did, the memory of Bitter Springs would still haunt me as well.

"How did you know about Bitter Springs?" I asked, quietly.

"There are Great Khans all over the place. Not just here, but in California, Utah, Texas...we're good friends with them, and mostly all the Khans around are related somehow. It's like a big family, and word gets around." She grabbed a blanket off the ground and began tucking herself in. She, being so small that her ribs and hips stuck out, had larger-than-I-expected breasts. Maybe a good handful…

I slapped my hand to my face and shook my head. Not something I should be thinking about right now, "do you find it necessary to undress in front of people?"

She looked at me with disgust. She knew I was looking, but I think she was more upset by the fact that I accused her of something she didn't do. Which I immediately regretted.

"I was already undressed when you rudely barged in here. We wear little to no clothes at home, so maybe I am a bit more comfortable in my bra and underwear. At least you have more control than most men."

I eyed her warily, and felt another twitch in my gut. She was beautiful, I'll give her that. Letting go...not the same as forgetting, I repeated. I took a risk and looked Harley in the eyes, "I think you're beautiful."

She blushed. I could tell she wasn't expecting it, and she stammered out a "thank you." She probably had more recent experience than I did, and she was the one who couldn't keep her voice straight? I let a smirk play on my lips.

"Are...you laughing at me?" She asked.

"Just at how nervous that statement seemed to make you."

"Last time an NCR soldier told me I was beautiful...bad things happened," she whispered the last part and the fear was back in her eyes.

I wanted to reach out and touch her. Just hold her. Feel her skin against mine. Have her tell me every secret she kept hidden, even from herself. Talking about Carla helped a lot more than I thought it would, and I actually wanted to have social interaction with someone. More than that, I wanted to touch this beautiful woman beside me, tell her everything was alright. I slept beside her last night because it was calming to have someone else around. I had slept longer and deeper than I have in a while. My intentions were not at all sexual. I just wanted...human comfort.

The way she cried into my chest this morning was...comforting. It felt nice to have someone come to me in a time of need. On the other hand, I hurt her more times that I could count today, and I felt like a dick. I saw the bruises on her wrist and both forearms where I held her back from attacking me. Before anything could happen between us, I needed to take time to myself.

Moving on is not the same as forgetting, I said to myself.