Title: The Pretty Face, The Funeral and Lex [Sequel to What Are You Doing New Year's Eve]
Rating: PG-13 [currently]
Email Address: nymph_du_pave@hotmail.com
**This is an on-going work that I am posting on my Livejournal (The Sun-Beaten Puddle, ) as well. I post first there, then I post another chapter there and the previous one here. That way the Livejournal is always one chapter ahead and if the story ever turns NC-17, I can link there for chapters that I might skip. Also, the chapters are going to be fairly short. This is a little more artsy than my other stuff and might have some heavy angst.**
The Pretty Face, The Funeral and Lex
by Nymph Du Pave
i have not been home since you left long ago
i'm thumbing my way back to heaven
counting steps, walking backwards on the road
i'm counting my way back to heaven
i can't be free with what's locked inside of me
if there was a key, you took it in your hand
there's no wrong or right, but i'm sure there's good and bad
the questions linger overhead
no matter how cold the winter, there's a springtime ahead
i'm thumbing my way back to heaven
i wish that i could hold you
i wish that i had
thinking 'bout heaven
i let go of a rope, thinking that's what held me back
and in time i've realized, it's now wrapped around my neck
i can't see what's next, from this lonely overpass
hang my head and count my steps, as another car goes past
all the rusted signs we ignore throughout our lives
choosing the shiny ones instead
i turned my back, now there's no turning back
no matter how cold the winter, there's a springtime ahead
i smile, but who am i kidding?
i'm just walking the miles, every once in a while i'll get a ride
i'm thumbing my way back to heaven
thumbing my way back to heaven
i'm thumbing my way back to heaven...
Thumbing My Way
Pearl Jam
Pete: Crash and Burn
Polar opposites. They don't just attract, they lock in on each other, accelerate with incredible speeds in the same direction, towards each other. They rush by without a care in the world, with no observation of their surroundings, with no foresight, no thought as to the future. Their need is in the instant, in the now and no matter what, that will never change. It is the force of nature, the will of the Gods and the Birds and the Ground and the Leaves that the stronger the opposite, the stronger the magnetism. The stronger the opposite the harder it is to ignore that pull, to fight where you feel you are supposed to be.
The harder it is to realize just when to stop.
It's a simple theory, really. Crash and burn. And the sky is the limit. The most simplistic things increase the chaos. Oxygen feeds the flame, and so grows the fire.
I walk through the corridors, the white static of my walkie-talkie turned low, the volume of my ear piece on high. I adjust my suit out of reflex. I know I won't see her for about another day, but it is still there, the need to look good. I am not used to this, haven't had to deal with my self-conscious self since high-school. The sudden ding to my confidence is ridiculous. I was a Marine, for God's sake. A woman should not have the power to reduce me to the lusty-eyed little niglet that I was.
Polar opposites.
Not that it was my color that turned her pretty face, but I always felt, growing up in Smallminded-ville and dealing with a fair share of that cold rage - quiet, tongue-bitten racism - that had I been white, my life would have been much easier. Easier like Star-fucking-Quarterback with my pick of any girl and popularity out the ass. No anonymous hate letters. No hate literature left behind in my locker. No dark looks from kids spawned by the more prominent families or snide attitudes from idiot teachers.
I unlock the door to the 33rd level staircase, temporarily off limits to anyone that I do not first approve. The door shuts behind me, locking automatically, and I begin to ascend the stairs.
My self-pity was why I forced my own hand into the Marines. I wanted them to discpline me, to stop my little baby fucking whining. Oh, boo-hoo, I'm black. My family of which I don't even know their names were slaves. Whites are the enemy. Give me a hand out, give me respect, give me an Oscar.
No. I fucking earn my own respect. Actions are actions. Words are meaningless. If I slit your throat, how are you going to talk yourself out of that one? Huh? No. Actions save your life. Not words. Being black, being white, being Hispanic... None of that matters. You turn hearts and minds with actions. Actions are the proof of content, words are just labels.
"Approaching the hold," I say into my cuff and a moment later I am at the key pad. I enter the thirteen digit number that my client, a multi-billion dollar man, someone who is close to being worth one trillion US dollars, does not even know and the door opens. My men move aside and I walk to room number 33-408. I knock. "It's Ross, Mr. Luthor."
I hear his reply and I enter, checking my watch. It was almost seven-thirty in the morning. "We need to move you to the DSL."
He stretches under the heavy down covers. "What time is the conference, Pete?"
"10 am. Tomorrow. You need to be in Miami by tonight."
Next: Herculean Effort