Maven
"I made a list." Maven says into the neutral colored room, meant to trick people into relaxing and spilling their deepest truths and secrets. A cheap strategy but it works. It's clean and quiet. The heater makes a gurgling noise once in a while, but that is all. Not like he would feel relaxed. He still talks.
There's a pair of eyes waiting expecting. He thinks of the way Thomas stared at Sara Skonos in the hospital and a knot tied tightly in his stomach because he can't get rid of any deep instinctual reflex to flee.
"I made three lists." He corrects himself. "And then I burned them. But they all were useless anyway."
"What did you write?"
His eyes avoiding any contact, looking at the hands disappearing in his pockets. The chair creaks a little.
"Future plans. Where to go. What to do. Who I want to be with. Or talk to again." You gave me the assignment, you ought to know every pathetic excuse and platitude people spill in front of you.
Of course, I'll do it.
I really want it.
I guess I was just afraid.
He feels physically sick for a moment because he's disgusted.
"So you want to talk to people again. That is good."
"I thought about talking to my brother."
"That is a responsible decision, Maven."
He doesn't say the rest.
Responsible?
Perhaps.
But how do you start something as difficult as that? He doesn't even know what to say.
And that isn't good. Because whatever the root of his existent or nonexistent feelings for something, he always knows what to say and what to keep. Or at least that is how he was raised and how he hopes to appear.
It would be easier not to try it. He could lie and say he did try so hard. People would believe him. Or maybe not.
I know our last argument has more or less settled that we will never be close. I am not foolish enough to think you'd even consider that option, neither am I. Why should I talk to you?
He doesn't write that. The answer lies somewhere in the past, some sort of blurry image. Self-inflicted and full of irritating thoughts and feelings.
You never understood. Why do I even care?
His brother hugging him, his brother smiling, telling him he's smart, his brother trying to be nice. His brother calling him 'Mavey' and making some joke no one understands but them.
He's too good and too warm. He's too nice and he's too perfect.
He doesn't understand some things at all and others too well.
He always gets what he wants and he never even had to fight for it.
Father's better son. In the front row. Always golden. But where are you now and where's our father?
I hate you.
I don't hate you.
Why could you never-
Every word is left unsaid.
Call me, blackmailing always was a strong suit of his, why not use it to refreshen their brotherly bond? It may be beneficial for people you care about.
Hello brother, you're on my list.
Well, doesn't that sound threatening? It's certainly provocative enough to not be taken as any kind of apology.
He never has learned to apologize. He was told he would never need to apologize. The phone sinks on his table and he stops, eyes senselessly somewhere focusing on the wall. In an attempt to collect the right words.
Finding words that aren't hurtful. Words that are shaped in truth and in the attempt of honesty.
If he can do it with Thomas, he ought to do it with someone else. Someone that knew him once and really doesn't know him at all.
Thinking is the only thing he is either terribly good or terribly bad at. It's undecided. The words return and whirl around until he has a headache and gets inexplicably angry.
Thomas is busy. He can't always hope for saintly protection. Even though he is the only person to talk topic remains untouched by anyone. He doesn't talk about it and no one asks.
At least that is what all this chaos is good for. The streets are systematically cleaned up or shut down in part. Would not want to have the vermin in the pretty and respectable parts.
He sits in the silent, big room. It's bright and cold in comparison to the small apartment downtown. It smells wrong. It doesn't feel right.
Why does nothing feel right?
A room never can be clean enough. And it still feels wrong. A room is always too big or too small. Nothing is wrong with it, but it does feel like it.
You live here, a part of him insists. But it a bad lie for his standards. Everyone knows the truth, even if they don't talk about it. But as long as no one acknowledges it, there's a certain facade that can be kept and maintained.
What would the people say if they knew he has left today with a key in his pocket?
Runs away from home after everything his mother has done for him, after all the loss they had to endure, people would say, With that filthy red boy. Throws away his future.
"My lost son finally returns." his mother greets him when she sees his form in the unused, wide open space of the living room.
Gracious as always. There's little else than some snide remark. He's got his values and she has hers. Better to leave it at that as long as there still is common ground.
If he wasn't so tired he would look at her properly. He doesn't need to look up to know her blue eyes are watching him. He knows her so well he can always calculate what she will do.
As a little child, he always knew when to agree and when to be silent.
Nothing much has changed about that. Though he can't remember how it started. Or why. For sure it was something small, but imperfect. Something that needed to be eradicated. And does that even matter anymore? He barely remembers a moment without her voice, some small whisper in the back of his head.
"You were missing quite the show the last days." She doesn't sit down. She stands still on her spot. A shadow over a clean white and blue carpet.
He finally looks up. They match in their black clothes like they always matched in most other things.
"I had dinner with Thomas family and decided to stay because of his arm. I told you as much." And nothing else. Just enough.
She smiles a little. Dwelling in some memory or thought, far away. "It is his own fault he had that little accident."
"I know if you had tried to hurt him, you would have been more let us say, effective." It's the experience that talks.
"It still serves him right." She waves once, a gesture like swatting an insect away.
People below you don't deserve any mercy.
A lesson well learned.
"Anyway, I do need to thank you."
"Thank me?" She does never thank anyone. Never truly. This isn't courtesy. This is something else.
"Yes, of course. Remember what I told you about secrecy and skill when you need something?"
Another lesson well served, with perfect poise and effortless precision. "You taught me how to leave no trace behind."
She looks at him with that ...disappointment. He frowns slightly.
She's too calm and sure to have lost anything valuable. Whatever she knows, it makes her very sure he has nothing to fire against it.
"And that's why I noticed your clumsy mistakes. Threatening people in my name wasn't your brightest idea. One had to report back and ask about the commotion."
Clumsy, clumsy, no no, Maven. You can do better. You WILL do better.
This isn't the best. Do the best. The best.
"I assume you gave it to lovely Thomas." Lovely sounds more like an insult. "Or even someone else that is maybe smart enough to understand the gravity of that data."
"Assume I did that." he dares. No need to dance around. They both know it. They both know he gave information up. What she doesn't know is that he did it in the form of silver flash drive with the word 'Corros' stamped into it.
" You know what that bit of information does if someone actually would make it public. You know all about it from the beginning. All the dirty laundry. All the names."
We're in this together, always.
"Not that it will matter." she continues. "It'll be over very soon. People can't hide forever."
"No, they can't."
What did you do?
What did I do this time, mother?
A mess, a mess, this is a mess.
Her eyes are very blue in the white light that burns merciless in the room. Just a small reminder of what they are.
Somewhere alone on his too big mattress and empty room, he stares at the lit screen of his phone. Then he finally pushes a button and sends the message.
I need an advice. I don't even know why I ask you.
But he does. Of course.
Hours go by, No response. It was stupid. Foolish. A foul joke in another day of his existence.
When he sits in his bed wide awake, late at night, his phone makes a noise.
First, he thinks it is just Thomas. They text and talk an excessively high amount of nights away.
But it's not.
It's only five words on his display. He stares at them as if they have turned into a foreign scripture he cannot understand.
Do the right thing, Mavey.