You'd think I'd have gotten used to it by now, seeing as it's been eight years. You'd think I'd have stopped being so stubborn, so in denial, so… trapped in the past. You wouldn't have thought I was like this. Mido Ban, the normally strong half of the team, the calm, cool, collected one. You wouldn't have thought I was verging on despair.
Much as I hate it, something always keeps calling me back to that street. My feet in their patchy shoes drag on the sidewalk, stumbling reluctantly (stumbling not in a straight line) –they don't want to, but they're being pulled forward. I'm only seeing a very blurry sidewalk, no more purple glass disrupting my view. I catch my reflection in a shop window –hands in pockets, clothes a mess, hair stuck to my face by rain (and I realize my body reeks of sake): a picture of disheveled despair. Which, really, is how I'm feeling. Disheveled. Desperate.
And –yes. Here I am again. Here. Here's where the skid marks were, going up to the pavement. Here's where the side mirror broke, on that street light. Here's where the shards of glass were scattered, shining all over the road. Here's where the sign fell, the familiar image of a coffee cup breaking apart as it hit. Here's where, forgetting in panic that the power he once held was now gone, he tried to shock the car into stopping. Here's where we both tried to jump out of the car, but one seatbelt jammed, and I didn't see at first, then didn't reach him in time, and here's where—
My knees buckle again. I fall to the sidewalk, just as I've fallen every time I've come back here. My knees touch familiar concrete, cold in the rain. Then my hands touch. Then my shoulders. Then my cheek.
You wouldn't have thought I was like this. Mido Ban, the normally strong half of the team. The only half, now.