Chapter XXXVI: A Moment of Silence

He slammed the door of the Winnebago with such venom that it nearly snapped off the hinges. Wild with anger, veins teeming with the urge to reach out and kill something, he took a glass candle-holder and smashed it into a thousand shards against the wall. Shoulders clenched, drawing his body up into a tight knot, Murdoc held a hand to his heart that beat out of control.

"Fucking bitch!"

He panted, chest constricting, unable to catch his breath without screaming out another obscenity, one right after the other.

"Goddamned wanking son-of-a-bitch, Two Dents!"

Pulling the cork from a flask, he let the fire water inside slide down and burn his throat, a surge of an artificial calm swimming over him. His legs failed him and with one sway, he fell downwards against the wall, sliding down. A dark chuckle slipped out.

"What'd you expect, Mudsy? Eh? Nice little chat? Heh…heh-heh-heh…You bastard…" His face went serious, and he took another greedy swig. "She's sharp."

He crouched over, leaning heavily downwards in an arc towards his shoes, and breathed deeply. He felt sick…She scared the fuck out of him. When was the last time he'd even bothered to do a kindness for a woman, or anyone, for that matter?

Kindness, for him, was an unnatural occurrence, a twisted version of himself. It pained him a little to give back to a world that hated him, and to people that would eventually turn on him anyway. He liked picking at people; they were interesting little buggers. He liked to spread them open on an operating table and prod at them to see what made them flinch and tick, what made them happy and what made them want to kill themselves. He was good at it too—taking people apart. One of his many odd skills, and the most useful by far.

But a kind act, for little or no personal gain, now that was rare. He only doled them out maybe once a year, and to people he knew wouldn't turn it back on him. It was like finding a pearl in a landfill. It roused a part in him that was unfamiliar, and frightening…His compassion, when it ever reared its head, was often mistaken for a trick, so he was certainly used to people accepting it as just another wicked ploy, a way into their heads. But no one…no one had ever just outright rejected it.

Angel's red-stricken face haunted him, screeching out her hatred into his face. He must have read her wrong…

It was kindness that he tried to give to her, tried to extend and give her a roof over her head, with him, a bed she could share, more adventures they could have. A trip to the beach, since he had promised her he'd take her anywhere when he returned. She was enjoyable, entertaining, dependable. He wanted to keep her, like a pet; to have her and touch her and defile her and love her…Keep her in a jar from everyone else, keep her eyes focused on him, because before long, they would shift away. He was incapable of fidelity, and it screwed him over each time he met a decent woman.

They hated him, women like her. Their love turned to disgust and dread for him each time they learned of the depth of his wickedness, and ended up silently leaving, slipping out with no notice or a word to him.

But her…no matter what he'd done to her, no matter how many times he made it blatantly clear that he was manipulating her, wanted her body, wanted to use her, she didn't leave. She was…unique. Others had believed they could handle him, naively, and ended up warped. Everyone thinks that they can handle a drunk or a player, change them and heal them, make them right. Hardly ever do they succeed, and none had for Murdoc. But she had the will, had the ability to put up with his insanity, to maybe keep a level head on her shoulders when he went into one of his numerous downwards spirals and for once he felt…hopeful. A decent fallback, someone there just in case, someone who would never turn him away no matter what he did…

Letting such a prize fall through his fingers shook him to the core, and it scared him how utterly disappointed and lost he felt now, unable to shake the feeling off with ease like he usually could, let it roll off his back like water.

He fingered the flask, now empty, and stared up at the ceiling, heart drawing up into a tight clench as his greatest fear, the idea that gripped him with an iron fist while he slept and rattled him in his quieter moments, suddenly resurfaced…

What would he do when the day came when he had no one left?