Thanks to all the kind folks who have been giving feedback. You've brightened many a day.
Abandoned Sand Castles (6/8)
by Lady of the Lillies
"Little big." I critically eye Michael in my clothes. The fit is a bit loose
but it's better than having him smell like he went swimming in the Budweiser
factory. "The bed on the left is yours."
"Thanks." Michael blinks. Almost like it's the first time in his life that
he's said that word and meant it.
Isabel knocks nervously and enters alone. Michael notices immediately.
"Where is she?"
"Packing." Isabel takes Michael's old clothes and stuffs then in a garbage
bag. "She's going back to D.C tomorrow. She has business."
His laugh makes me want to run and get Maria's gun off the counter. "I'm
sure. She always does this. I'm some sort of charity case that she can feed
and give money to once a month. Like she can buy me a pair of shoes that
will make her guilt go away. It doesn't. But at least someone gets a free
pair of shoes."
Someone can be more selfish than you Isabel, I mused as I watch her as she
glares coolly at Michael. Stalking up to him, she shoves the garbage bag
into his stomach. "I don't know why she even bothers."
Michael looks at the bundle in his lap and barely notices Isabel's
departure. The clothes... still have the scent of alcohol on them... The
beast that so many of his friends had warned him about... Awakens... Inside
of him, she writhes and gnaws at his thoughts... He needs a drink. "I'm
going out. Max?"
The shell. Which had once been the pure white in my hands, was now red. Like
the small tributary coming from Liz's forehead. Bury it. Bury her, the voice
says to me. The voice sounds strangely like Isabel's which I loath as much
as I listen. Red. The voice calls again.
"Max?" Michael leans into my light and a shadow comes over the shell. "You
look like you need a drink."
Anger is the fire that climbs my throat and waters my eyes. But it makes me
strong. Anything else is a weakness. Even Liz. There must be sacrifice.
I let the shell go with such force that it shatters against the wall and
it's shards go flying. One embeds itself deeply into me hand. A small
dribble of blood comes from it's lair. Finally, I look at Michael. "Yeah. I
could use a drink."
After extensive research, Michael had concluded that there where three main
types of drunks.
Mean drunks, which he was a part of, where the worst to be around. Usually
men that had awakened the beast inside of themselves. Those who got into
fights, beat their wives or take their anger out on anything or any wall
that might be in the way.
There were funny drunks. Usually one in a crowd of people that wandered into
a bar looking for a good time. This type of drunk was more like a drug
addict. They wanted the feeling of power. Or belonging. Who, at there limit,
would do just about anything when they reached their high. Michael had seen
enough of these type become very annoying, very fast.
The third kind of drunk was the type of drunk that Michael could not
tolerate under any circumstance. If one sat down beside him, he would leave
the bar. The pathetic drunk. Those who drank to forget. Those who get drunk
to remember. Who are only pathetic because they actually had something to
complain about. Michael couldn't take them because they made you feel bad
about drinking. Made you feel good about yourself and your meager problems.
That was not what Michael wanted to accomplish when he was drunk.
Max Evans was easily one of the most pathetic drunks Michael had ever
encountered.
The bar was half empty or full, which ever way you look at it, Michael
notices. Beside him, Max sits surrounded by an audience of empty glasses.
Staring at the bubbles floating up from his glass, Max smiles
philosophically. "It's really depends. If you poured it, it would be half
full. If you just drank it, it would be half empty."
Michael glances over at Max. "That's great."
Max frowns. "I just figured out the answer to life's greatest question and
all you can say is great?"
"That's really great." Michael takes a look around. Smoke hangs like a heavy
fog over the place and several people too indifferent for lung cancer play
loom around the pool table.
"It was my fault, you know." Max says quietly. Michael turns at the tone of
voice. The wistful, slightly angry way pathetic drunks speak. "My fault that
Liz died." Max turns his head slightly to watch Michael's reaction. Which is
nothing.
Liz Parker. Through the hazy fog of Michael's brain, the name comes quite
clearly. Seven years of questions and repression comes flooding back.
Michael feels about as sick as Max is going to be in the morning.
"She was... We were..." Max's words slur together as he cradles his hidden
face in his hands. "He shot her Michael. Shot her right in front of me. Her
blood was so red. Red like... It was everywhere."
She had been walking alone with Max... Sober, Michael began to remember bits
that he had read in newspapers before fleeing Roswell. Someone had shoot her
seven times in the head and then ran off. Never caught. She had been taken
to hospital and pronounced dead on arrival. It was so simple. In hours, Liz
was dead and never coming back. You could have almost said the same for Max.
"She was screaming. I mean, really screaming. Have you ever heard the cries
of someone who knows that they are dying? Can you even imagine it?" Max
looks at him with haunted eyes.
"No." Michael shakes his head and Max smiles.
"No. You can't. But what was the scariest part, was when she stopped
screaming. I was scared Michael. It's wasn't my fault, I couldn't help her.
I had to protect the others. Couldn't get caught. There were people. They
got blood on their shoes. So I let her die. I stood there and let her die."
Max's body began to heave up and down with sobs.
"We were walking," Max continuos when he stops shaking. "Walking down the
street. It was that simple. All it takes is one gun in the hands of any
child that can pull a trigger. Life is so frail. All I could do was watch."
Max stops and looks at his hands that are so unmoving and still. "I once
said that I wasn't God." He looks at Michael's hands. "But I made Liz live.
And then I let Liz die."
______________________________________________________
Abandoned Sand Castles (6/8)
by Lady of the Lillies
"Little big." I critically eye Michael in my clothes. The fit is a bit loose
but it's better than having him smell like he went swimming in the Budweiser
factory. "The bed on the left is yours."
"Thanks." Michael blinks. Almost like it's the first time in his life that
he's said that word and meant it.
Isabel knocks nervously and enters alone. Michael notices immediately.
"Where is she?"
"Packing." Isabel takes Michael's old clothes and stuffs then in a garbage
bag. "She's going back to D.C tomorrow. She has business."
His laugh makes me want to run and get Maria's gun off the counter. "I'm
sure. She always does this. I'm some sort of charity case that she can feed
and give money to once a month. Like she can buy me a pair of shoes that
will make her guilt go away. It doesn't. But at least someone gets a free
pair of shoes."
Someone can be more selfish than you Isabel, I mused as I watch her as she
glares coolly at Michael. Stalking up to him, she shoves the garbage bag
into his stomach. "I don't know why she even bothers."
Michael looks at the bundle in his lap and barely notices Isabel's
departure. The clothes... still have the scent of alcohol on them... The
beast that so many of his friends had warned him about... Awakens... Inside
of him, she writhes and gnaws at his thoughts... He needs a drink. "I'm
going out. Max?"
The shell. Which had once been the pure white in my hands, was now red. Like
the small tributary coming from Liz's forehead. Bury it. Bury her, the voice
says to me. The voice sounds strangely like Isabel's which I loath as much
as I listen. Red. The voice calls again.
"Max?" Michael leans into my light and a shadow comes over the shell. "You
look like you need a drink."
Anger is the fire that climbs my throat and waters my eyes. But it makes me
strong. Anything else is a weakness. Even Liz. There must be sacrifice.
I let the shell go with such force that it shatters against the wall and
it's shards go flying. One embeds itself deeply into me hand. A small
dribble of blood comes from it's lair. Finally, I look at Michael. "Yeah. I
could use a drink."
After extensive research, Michael had concluded that there where three main
types of drunks.
Mean drunks, which he was a part of, where the worst to be around. Usually
men that had awakened the beast inside of themselves. Those who got into
fights, beat their wives or take their anger out on anything or any wall
that might be in the way.
There were funny drunks. Usually one in a crowd of people that wandered into
a bar looking for a good time. This type of drunk was more like a drug
addict. They wanted the feeling of power. Or belonging. Who, at there limit,
would do just about anything when they reached their high. Michael had seen
enough of these type become very annoying, very fast.
The third kind of drunk was the type of drunk that Michael could not
tolerate under any circumstance. If one sat down beside him, he would leave
the bar. The pathetic drunk. Those who drank to forget. Those who get drunk
to remember. Who are only pathetic because they actually had something to
complain about. Michael couldn't take them because they made you feel bad
about drinking. Made you feel good about yourself and your meager problems.
That was not what Michael wanted to accomplish when he was drunk.
Max Evans was easily one of the most pathetic drunks Michael had ever
encountered.
The bar was half empty or full, which ever way you look at it, Michael
notices. Beside him, Max sits surrounded by an audience of empty glasses.
Staring at the bubbles floating up from his glass, Max smiles
philosophically. "It's really depends. If you poured it, it would be half
full. If you just drank it, it would be half empty."
Michael glances over at Max. "That's great."
Max frowns. "I just figured out the answer to life's greatest question and
all you can say is great?"
"That's really great." Michael takes a look around. Smoke hangs like a heavy
fog over the place and several people too indifferent for lung cancer play
loom around the pool table.
"It was my fault, you know." Max says quietly. Michael turns at the tone of
voice. The wistful, slightly angry way pathetic drunks speak. "My fault that
Liz died." Max turns his head slightly to watch Michael's reaction. Which is
nothing.
Liz Parker. Through the hazy fog of Michael's brain, the name comes quite
clearly. Seven years of questions and repression comes flooding back.
Michael feels about as sick as Max is going to be in the morning.
"She was... We were..." Max's words slur together as he cradles his hidden
face in his hands. "He shot her Michael. Shot her right in front of me. Her
blood was so red. Red like... It was everywhere."
She had been walking alone with Max... Sober, Michael began to remember bits
that he had read in newspapers before fleeing Roswell. Someone had shoot her
seven times in the head and then ran off. Never caught. She had been taken
to hospital and pronounced dead on arrival. It was so simple. In hours, Liz
was dead and never coming back. You could have almost said the same for Max.
"She was screaming. I mean, really screaming. Have you ever heard the cries
of someone who knows that they are dying? Can you even imagine it?" Max
looks at him with haunted eyes.
"No." Michael shakes his head and Max smiles.
"No. You can't. But what was the scariest part, was when she stopped
screaming. I was scared Michael. It's wasn't my fault, I couldn't help her.
I had to protect the others. Couldn't get caught. There were people. They
got blood on their shoes. So I let her die. I stood there and let her die."
Max's body began to heave up and down with sobs.
"We were walking," Max continuos when he stops shaking. "Walking down the
street. It was that simple. All it takes is one gun in the hands of any
child that can pull a trigger. Life is so frail. All I could do was watch."
Max stops and looks at his hands that are so unmoving and still. "I once
said that I wasn't God." He looks at Michael's hands. "But I made Liz live.
And then I let Liz die."
______________________________________________________