Chapter 6
Like I said before, I know that what I'm doing is stupid and pointless. I know it isn't going to help me, or him, or her. I know I'm wasting my time. Take that as you will.
Still, here I am, staring through the window of a ground-level room the side of Truce's inn.
I continue to watch as they stand in the middle of the room, facing each other, him staring at her in a horror that I know him too well to believe is completely genuine, as she talks hurriedly about something.
I can't tear myself away as she swipes away the tears streaming down her cheeks, or as he steps closer and wraps his arms around her, or as she buries her face in his shoulder, or even as he begins to stroke her hair gently.
I hear the sounds of people passing, likely wondering what the hell that crazy Lucca is doing now, but I don't care.
Mostly because he's unbuttoning her sweater, and she's looking for the zip on his pants.
Good God, you two, have you ever heard of putting down the fucking blind?
Suddenly, illogically, the thing about this that makes me the most furious is that Isaac would do something like this in a small town where everyone knows everyone, and makes it their business to know everyone else's. How could he parade around town with this mysterious blonde in tow? Does he have any regard for public opinion? That in and of itself would be hilarious coming from me any other time, but right now, laughing at me, even in good fun, would be suicide.
By now, they've stopped flinging clothing aside, and are gazing deeply at each other. Then their mouths meet, and I turn away, unable to watch any more.
Now, there is an old proverb that states quite clearly that just when things can no longer possibly get any worse, they will. Or maybe it's not a proverb. Maybe it's an old saying, a fortune cookie, or a greeting card. Whatever the hell it is, I've always had a healthy respect for it. After all, I've had reason to.
But my grim knowledge that this law is so increases fourfold when, upon turning from the window and crawling out of the flower garden right beneath it, the first thing my eyes light upon is a tall, imposing figure, blue hair falling past his shoulders.
Magus.
Great.
From the way he's got himself done up – obviously he's thought about the fact that the people of Truce don't remember him kindly for the most part – I almost don't recognize him under the remarkably normal dark pants and shirt and long coat. And sunglasses.
Leave it to him to add some artsy, pretentious touch to an otherwise fairly tasteful get-up.
Oh, well. I guess without his cape, he needed some ridiculous accessory to fill its place.
Men.
However, back to the point, the posture of crossed arms, weight shifted apathetically to one foot, peering down at me with that same expression of disgust and curiosity as last night – as well as something else that I'm way too exhausted to try to analyze now, but I could almost swear that it was a shred of compassion – is far too definitively Magus for him to be anyone else.
"I'm glad to see that you've sobered up, although I did doubt it when I found you playing in the dirt," he says with a hint of a smile.
"It's nice to see you, too," I grin back weakly, struggling to my feet and swiping at the dirt sprinkled over my knees.
"Come on," he says, taking my arm and leading me around to the front of the in and onto the sidewalk. "Since you're so damn stubborn about keeping this knowledge to yourself, you shouldn't let your husband find you engaging in voyeurism."
"Right," I sigh. "So, what in the hell are you doing here, anyway?"
He gives an irritated grumble.
"Crono and Marle came to have a word with me. When you said you took the Epoch out to get out of Truce last night, they assumed that you'd gone to see "one of the old group," as Marle put it." Here, he smirks. "When Glenn, Ayla, and Robo all told them you hadn't been to visit, they took a shot in the dark and came to ask me."
I blink.
"So? How did that lead to you being here?"
He sighs, rolling his eyes.
"It seems that Marle has either been doing some research, or has a very low opinion of your husband. She either knew that he would be going to see this woman tonight and that you'd follow, or simply assumed it. Either way, they're both going to a banquet tonight, and they asked me to wait around in case you needed someone to talk to," he concludes in disgust.
"Oh, great," I say, feeling something slip out of place in my mind. I think it's my patience with men in general. "Well, I don't need your reluctant pity, so piss off, okay?"
I don't look back, and until I reach my front door and notice a shadow looming over me, I assume that he's taken me at my word and given up philanthropy in favour of rotting in that castle of his.
I turn around with a weary sigh.
"What do you want?"
"Honestly?"
I throw my hands up in exasperation.
"Please!"
"I want to get the hell out of this town and away from you and your marital crisis. I don't want any more trouble from Crono and Marle about this. That means I have to stay here and help you whether I want to or-"
This is the last I hear before I slam the door shut behind me, effectively cutting him off.
An annoyed rap at the door sounds not three seconds later.
Furious, I yank the door open.
"Look, asshole," I begin, glaring up at him. "I've had a long day. If you want to come in and talk, that's great. Even though I seriously doubt it. But if you're just going to sit there and grumble that you have better things to be doing, I don't need it. So please, don't waste your precious time. Or my precious time."
His jaw tightens slightly, and I'm fairly certain that his eyes are narrowing behind his sunglasses. Hey, you do realize it's about eight in the evening and the sun's been down for an hour, right?
"Fine," he says coolly. "I didn't knock again to push the issue."
"Then why?" I ask wearily.
"I believe this is yours?"
For the first time, I notice that he has a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. More specifically, my duffel bag.
Oops.
I guess I left it behind this morning.
"Thanks," I sigh, snatching from him. "Anything else?"
Magus, who has already turned and started quickly down the walk, turns back briefly.
"No."
"Great," I call after him, sarcastically cheerful. "See ya."
I close the door behind him with an emphatic slam, hoping that he gets the message loud and clear that he's pissed me off, and by far the more unlikely, that he feels at least somewhat bad.
I'm living in a dream world, aren't I?
I wish.
Okay, dream, you've made your point. You can let me wake up now.
Still, since I know I won't be waking up until I've been asleep first, and right now sleep and the glorious unawareness it brings seems like the most appealing thing in the world, I trudge wearily up the stairs, into our bedroom, throw my clothes haphazardly all over the place (Isaac hates when I do that), and climb into bed, pausing first to scowl at the flannel nightgown, still on the floor. I can almost feel it grinning up at me, repeating over and over that even without it, I'll never look like that other woman, and I shouldn't waste my time trying.
I think I'll burn it.
Sighing, I lie back against the pillows and try to decide which of my pet projects I'll continue work on tomorrow. I haven't done a thing in the past four days aside from my three hours of work today during which I almost burnt down the house, and I think I'm beginning to go into withdrawal.
And, of course, the unawareness that can come with burying oneself wholeheartedly in work can be almost as good as the unawareness that can come with sleeping.
I try unsuccessfully to stifle a huge yawn.
Speaking of sleep…
I never was sure what time Isaac came in that night.
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"Shit!"
This loudly bellowed profanity is accompanied by a deafening clang.
The sound makes me feel better, even though bouncing a wrench off the concrete floor of my workshop with all my might does neither the wrench nor the floor any good.
A fifth failed attempt to get the damn thing to work.
Repairing a toaster really shouldn't be this difficult, particularly after an entire morning of good, solid work went without a hitch.
Hey, I'd like to think I have a good excuse. I'm not at my most brilliant after a night of five hours of sleep, punctuated with nightmare after nightmare after nightmare, and the ridiculous urge to stay awake after each one for fear that my husband, resting peaceful, warm, and contented at my side, might disappear suddenly.
Marle would probably say it would be just as well for me if he did.
But then again, Marle has never been where I am.
And I don't just mean the fact that even if she did opt for the grease-spattered jeans and equally destroyed old men's flannel shirt that I am currently modelling to the fly crawling contentedly up the wall, she probably wouldn't opt to spend her time trying to repair and improve the old-as-the-hills mechanical gadgets of all varieties that have become my hobby when I can't make myself focus properly on anything else.
Turning my thoughts away from Marle before an uncontrollable and utterly unreasonable resentment against her for the very fact that she can't possibly know what I'm going through can take hold, I heave a long sigh and stoop to pick up the wrench.
Unfortunately, I forget to come back up.
And before you even ask, no, I don't burst into tears for the zillionth (okay, fourth) time in the last three days. I simply fall the rest of the way to the floor and sit there, on the grey cement, staring blankly at my wrench, trying to figure out exactly how one goes about the task of standing up.
Then, as a shiver runs through me, I drag myself back up, sternly telling myself that the last thing I need right now is to get a horrible cold from a nap on a freezing cement floor.
This momentous task accomplished, I turn back to my toaster.
Of course, the damn thing doesn't work any better now than it did before.
Damn.
I'd hoped that maybe I'd have scared it into working with my temper tantrum.
I swipe angrily at a strand of hair that dances irritatingly about my nose, and then glower at nothing in particular at the knowledge that I now have an attractive grease smear across my nose and forehead. I guess fixing your hair after handling an eternally grease-smeared wrench is a bad idea.
Maybe I'll tell people it's war-paint.
I'm on a crusade to rid the world of little blonde whores who can't be content with their own husbands, so they feel the need to screw other women's husbands, too, Mom.
Grumbling about all the lovely and horrendously violent things I'd like to do to almost everyone I know, deserving or not, I put the wrench down on my workbench next to the toaster, give that same toaster the most deathly glare I can muster (all the more deathly at the knowledge that a toaster really doesn't care what I think of it), and decide a few things on my way out of the workshop.
The first is that even repairing household appliances is going to be beyond me right now. Maybe I should just leave the toaster to its own devices.
The second is that there's no way I can stay in the house and amuse myself for hours, just knowing that an even worse ordeal awaits when Isaac gets back in from work. And it's close to one o' clock, anyway. Thus, I'm going out for lunch.
The third decision is that there's no way I'm leaving the house the way I look now.
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Twenty minutes, a hot shower, and a fresh change of clothes later, I'm ready to conquer the world.
Well, maybe not. For now, I think I'll leave world conquest to those arrogant enough to think they could handle it.
Why does Magus immediately pop to mind?
Whatever.
Either way, I may not be ready to lead an army throughout the world, leaving destruction and chaos in my wake, but I am ready to leave the house and conduct myself in a reasonably controlled and ladylike manner in public.
Let's take baby-steps here, okay?
The walk into town is nice, to say the least. The abundance of trees in the area are changing from green to an array of gold, red, and orange and covering the ground. The air is crisp and still, and the entire world seems to be getting ready to sleep. It's cold – a lot cooler than it was last week, and I can see my breath in white puffs before me, although it's not cold enough that I need to think about dragging out the ol' parka yet. Just cold enough that I don't feel all hot and sweaty after a half hour walk.
Yeah, this is why I'm a scientist instead of a poet.
Anyway, I continue to walk, and as I approach the tavern, I nearly manage to forget about everything that's happened in the last few days, my mind wandering from my atrocious attempt at poetic description to a new project that Dad and I talked about starting on our way back from Porre, to some changes I've been planning for months to make around the house.
This thought has just begun to give way to thoughts of Isaac, which can lead to no good right now, and destroy the careful work I've done cheering myself up, when a series of sniffles and muffled sobs reach my ears.
Okay; now, I'm as selfish as the next person, and I've got my own problems right now. So you can blame it completely on nosiness that makes me glance over my shoulder at the source of the crying.
What I see makes me freeze in my tracks and go alternately hot and cold, trembling ever so slightly.
A tall blonde girl is leaning heavily against the fence surrounding the weapon shop, her left hand tightened around the iron bar until her knuckles are white. It only takes me a moment to realize that the way her right arm is dangling limply at her side isn't exactly healthy. Neither is the blood smeared across her face, or the vicious-looking cut at the corner of her mouth, or the deep bruise over her left eye and cheekbone.
But here's the kicker.
I've seen this girl before.
I'm fairly sure I'm not mistaken about this.
It's pretty hard to forget the girl who was, just last night, in Truce's only inn, divesting my husband of his marriage vows and his pants.
Ariana Harland. Oh, shit.
Now what the hell do I do? Haven't I wanted to cover this woman with bruises and bumps and worse for the last two days? Haven't I been dying to see her face streaked with blood and tears, just like this, since I found out that she and I have dangerously similar taste in men? Or 'man', rather? Haven't I been wishing to personally draw such sobs of anguish from her throat?
I should walk away right now, pretending just like everyone else in town seems to be doing, that I don't notice her there.
That's what I'll do; I'll ignore her.
As I tell myself this over and over in a soothing chant, I've left the path leading up to the tavern, and started down the sidewalk to the weapon shop.
"Excuse me," I call tentatively once I'm a few feet away from her.
She looks up, startled, tears swimming in huge blue eyes.
Damn. Of course she's got to have beautiful eyes and thick, dark eyelashes that no blonde should be allowed, too, right?
"Are you okay?" I continue after a few moments.
"Uh, yeah," she replies in a soft voice, hoarse with sobs. "Thanks."
"Are you sure? You don't look too good. Maybe you should see a doctor?"
For some reason, this suggestion seems to alarm her.
"No! I mean, I'm fine, really."
I roll my eyes impatiently.
"You are not fine," I inform her sternly. "Your nose is bleeding like a faucet – or something – that bruise looks really bad, and I think your arm is broken."
I see that I've done my work a little too thoroughly when she turns a definite shade of green and begins to sway unsteadily.
"I-I really can't go to the doctor here," she tells me in that same soft voice, but the set of her jaw reminds me oddly of something. I'm sure I've worn that same expression when being particularly stubborn about something.
"Hey, that's fine," I assure her. "Will you at least come home with me and – " Here, I stop short. I can't take her home! She'll recognize the house, and everything will fall apart! "I mean, I'll take you to my parents' house and get you fixed up there. I'd take you to my house, but it's a little far," I conclude with a nervous laugh.
She smiles faintly.
"So, you're not from Truce?"
I gawk at her for a minute. She's dripping blood all over the sidewalk, everyone who passes makes a point to stare at us – particularly her – and she's trying to make small talk!
"Uh, I live in Porre," I tell her, latching onto a convincing lie. "Let's go."
"Well," she says hesitantly. "I guess I don't have a lot of a choice. Thank you…um…"
"Lu-Lucy," I blurt out, inwardly kicking myself for picking my absolute least favourite name of all time. Besides Clementine, that is. How could anyone subject an innocent baby to a name like that?
"Lucy," she repeats. "I'm Ariana."
"That's pretty," I say, taking her arm and leading her gently down the street.
Well!
This is shaping up to be some day, isn't it?