Chapter Twelve: Story of A Hypocrite
Strawberry: When the Joker laughs, I like to write "Heeh" sometimes because it's kind of dorky. And of course, in Word, the little red line comes up under it because it's not a word. So, for the hell of it, I right-clicked to see if there were any suggestions. Here they are, in order: Heed, Heel, Heehaw, Heath. I thought that was pretty golden x] So with that, enjoy the chapter! (As I run off bitterly to the choreography rehearsal for Oklahoma that is responsible for my sprained and bruised wrist :/)
He sat on the couch blindly, smiling to himself at the thought of what he'd so far told her. In the back of his mind, it made him hate himself for saying anything at all, but, in reckoning, he decided that there couldn't have been any harm in it. If a person knew half of the story, they might as well hear the entire thing…for kicks, of course. He adored sharing a funny story, and boy, did he have a good load of them. He still had control, he told himself. He always had control, and if ever he didn't, he banked on the fact that he'd have a strikingly better day, because it meant he was allowed some bloodshed.
He laughed dryly, continuing to pretend that Fana was not sitting beside him, studying him.
"So…I take it your mother…she found your father…at some point." That was the first thing she asked.
He scowled and turned his head away, though he was already sitting sternly and uncomfortably, hardly even waiting to rest his back against the couch. He gave a short, "Mhm," for an answer and faced forward again. "So…when you told me that story…when we were in the car," she prodded carefully but with too much curiosity to ignore her questions. "That was the full story, wasn't it?" Running his tongue along his gums, he nodded shortly, awkwardly. "And then—"
"Then," he cut in, "they decided to do a little holy matrimony. And therein lies the problem." He lifted his hands and moved them up and down, as if weighing his options, though Fana was not sure of what options he could be considering. "Well, you know. I had…marks, if you will, even though it was stitched. Questions…see, that always raised…questions. Because he didn't know she'd done it. And I wasn't gonna say anything." He made a motion that signified he thought that Fana ought to know exactly why. "See, I was there, figuring a little marriage might make her a little…fixed. And, you know, considering no one knew any better, Daddy was a bit of a…a drinker…an-and a fiend. And one night—"
"Wait." She had lifted her arm and beckoned in his direction. He sat perfectly still, his heart pounding throughout his entire body. He twisted his neck until the point where it made a cracking noise and some of the tension in his muscles was released. "How did they find each other?" she proposed. "What made them—can you please…come here?"
"You wanna get killed," he assumed animatedly. She flinched slightly, but for the most part, ignored him and continued to reach in his direction. "Thought you would know by now…how I like a good story to be told…" He patted the side of his leg, smiling half-heartedly as if in comedic warning that she ought to have known better. "Oh, no…you didn't think that I'm…a changed man, did you? No…oh, don't worry. I know that's what you want…but you see, you gotta work for what you want. It doesn't just happen, you know…" He stood up, noticing the way her eyes followed him closely, their yellowy tint boring into him. Looking at his feet light-heartedly, he took one single step in her direction. "You're supposed to gradually test your work…that's what I would do. But you, you're just…" As he approached her, Fana's eyes darted edgily back and forth between him and the area beside her on the couch. "You're just a fool for danger, aren't you, mmmissy?" He fell back on the couch beside her, throwing his feet onto the cushions sideways so that he was facing away from her. "Bad idea. I'll tell ya. From right…here…"
His back was arched. Fana searched for his motive, well aware that it might have been some kind of coverage for him. He was obviously insecure without the makeup; perhaps he wasn't interested in making himself weaker than he already supposed himself to be.
The minute any sound escaped his mouth, she swiveled in his direction and reached for him. Her fingers lightly grazed his sides and he inched forward a bit, as if trying to shake her off, but she did not let go. "You can control yourself," she said firmly, wrapping her arms around him. "You're strong enough for that." She rested her chin on his shoulder and he sighed with an almost annoyed edge to his breath. It wasn't about the affection; it was about teaching him to control himself instead of letting violence and laughter mask the things that hurt him most.
Out of her peripheral vision, she could see his jaw tense. "There were…lots of men, for her." His arm brushed against her hands and he jerked it away swiftly in response. Oh, couldn't she just get off of him… "For him…mm, he didn't have as many people to search through to find her. Couldn't tell you why he wasted his time looking for her…not like there was ever anything between him…besides…the obvious." He glanced at her and shook himself away. "But that's the end of that story…the idea is…that an alcoholic man living in a house with a skittish little boy…those two things just don't mix." He clapped his hands together in demonstration. "So one night…he goes out on one of his…drunken escapades and…when he comes back, he goes off…crazier than…than usual." His fingers itched for the knife in his pocket, but he restrained himself with much difficulty. Fana only made the situation worse as her arms tightened around him. "My mother…she, uh…she gets the kitchen knife…" He laughed, his tone empty and deep. "See, that was where she went wrong. You know you never pull a knife out with a drunk, don't you? They'll get all…fidgety and nervous first, right? And then…they get angry because in their eyes…they're the authority. So, you know…he's bigger…stronger…he gets the knife…ha…and he—he gets her with it." He could feel Fana shift, resting her forehead against his back. "And then…here's the funny part…he comes at me with the knife… he starts going on about how…I got those funny little marks on my face that look like a smile. Then he laughs—because it's funny—and he says…here's what he says, he says… 'Why so serious?'"
Her fingers tensed. Against him, he could feel her heart beat racing. "He…sticks the blade in my mouth…" He made a jerking motion, hardly able to contain his desire to turn around and stick his pocketknife in Fana's mouth and yank it upwards. Birds of a feather… he thought momentarily. "He says it again: 'Why so serious-suh?' My mouth…stings a little. 'Let's put a smile on that face.' So!" He turned his head, catching a mere glimpse of Fana's hair. "He does," he whispered. "And I bled that whole night…sat in the house by myself…couldn't do anything, couldn't…call anybody." He was shaking his head twitchily, as if working hard to assure her that there were no options. "He'd just come back and kill me, see…" Fana exhaled.
"Did…did you cry?" she asked dimly.
He wriggled out of her grip and turned himself quickly to face her again. "I might have," he said, grinning. "Might not have."
She stayed silent for a moment, her mind transparent to him; it was something he enjoyed. Then, "So…what did you do after that? You had to have done something eventually." His forehead wrinkled, as if he were drawing into his memory to try to recall what he had ended up doing. Coming to a visible conclusion, he patted Fana's knee and smiled.
"Mm…story for another day, banana." He wondered if there would even be another day. In the pit of his stomach, he was wishing fully and truthfully that there wouldn't be, and he could completely forget about it. Noticing that twenty minutes had gone by, he fancied that he had not been in a dream at all, though he had been hoping for it. Most of his dreams never made sense anyway; they were always unclear, always picturesque rather than informational. He gathered that if his dreams had gone from swirls of stomach-churning colors to Fana wrenching a dead past to the surface, he would have done better to turn completely to apathy.
I don't believe in the past, he told himself mentally. I believe that time is just another human excuse to classify every—single—thing. Humans…are annoying. Fana is annoying… Paying special attention to his heart beating, he hotly added, I am annoying. He shut his eyes, his anger bubbling to a point that he thought he might have suffered an organ explosion…if those existed; if it even made sense. He searched desperately for Fana's motives, firmly trusting that she was only trying to escape. Reminding himself that she was annoying and he didn't need her heinous prodding, he forced himself to keep from worrying that she was. He didn't worry. He wasn't supposed to worry, because he didn't need to. He was the authority, even if the authority meant he was in constant control. He could handle the responsibility; after all, if he was the authority, he could eliminate responsibility as a whole.
Vaguely, he held an awareness of Fana watching him as though she were afraid he might be making some sort of sudden movements. At this, he briefly considered making some sort of jumping motion to upset her, but he ignored the desire and swiveled around so that his legs hung over the front of the couch. He faced the television screen. As he stared at the blank, empty screen, he came to the conclusion that he was not wasting his time with Fana because he wanted her to help him; no. He wanted it to go the other way around. He didn't need help, he reminded himself. He was the one who was ahead of the curve in the useless analysis of humanity. He wanted to switch back time so that he was standing up stairs, cornering Fana, speaking those idiotic words where he condemned himself a "monster" in need of fixing. This only conflicted more, he realized, because he didn't agree with dwelling on the past. It had happened, but it was gone. There was no going back. If he just continued to abuse Fana's so-called…assistance…he could abuse her desire to listen and that meant he had a perfect way to teach her what she was trying to fight off. She was just as human as anyone else. She could easily be corrupted.
He was going to fix Fana.
The minute he thought this, he became, again, conscious of the weapon sitting in his pocket. He thought of the opportunity he had had when she was sitting there completely at his mercy, listening to him talk. Why had he restrained himself? There was nothing really wrong with teaching people the things they needed to know, and there was nothing wrong with becoming…more acquainted with human emotion. He used the knife because…well, because guns were too quick. With guns, there was only one brief moment of shock, contorting a person's face as they became aware that they were dying. But then…the whole dying thing did come, and there wasn't even that awareness. No emotions. No knowledge of anything; just stone-cold dead. And it wasn't seeing dead people that made his heart race; it was killing, and creating another member of the dead.
With his knives, there was hope of a slowness, a lingering knowledge of the only fate a person could expect. Over time, he had noticed that some people reacted to such a fate differently than others. Over time, he could see that their minds were working so furiously to accept death either welcomingly or unwelcomingly. Sometimes the person would just sob and sob and, even though the deed was done, begging to be spared. They were always the ones who likewise showed their cowardice and lack of appreciation for the time they were given. Those were the selfish humans. Other times, he would come across a person who would fight him until the very last breath, even if they couldn't stand. They wouldn't cry or beg for mercy. They'd do their best to mar his confidence, saying things like, "You'll just get caught," or "You're the reason the world is so ugly." And what did he care? Nothing. But they were funny in their own way, in that, they expected their words to leave an impact. Perhaps they would have done so on someone else; someone more…sane. But not him. Those were the things that made him smile most.
He wondered, was Fana the fighting type or the crying, begging sort of person? "Well," he said to himself as quietly as he could manage. Checking discreetly, he noticed that Fana seemed to have paid the word no attention. She was probably the type of girl who was…neither of the two things, and that annoyed him somewhat. It gave him no purpose, no motive for touching her with the slightest villainous attempt. He would have wagered that as he slid the knife into her stomach or ribcage, she would have given him the same gentle empty expression that she had given him before. It almost held an air of…pity. And he hated to be pitied.
By that point, he was curious.
"I could kill you," he said under his breath, intending for her to hear this time. He turned to look at her, but her expression had not faltered—not even once. Shows I know what I'm talking about…heh… he thought distantly. "Are you aware of that, doll face?" His hands were folded in front of him, rested between his knees as he leaned forward. Slowly, she raised her left hand to her mouth and gave it a peck, before lowering it onto his hands gently. His eyes followed her every move: he looked at her other hand moving from the back of the couch toward him. She reached up to push his hair behind his shoulder and leaned forward with a slowness that made him want to strangle her. She can be taught, he reminded himself quickly.
"I know you could," she replied, letting her hand drop onto his shoulder.
"And are you scared?" he asked her temptingly.
"Not at all," she answered.
"Makes you a little…crazy…doesn't it?"
She shrugged and lifted her eyebrows. "Maybe if you look at it a certain way."
He sneered. "You're making a lot of mistakes, Fana banana." As he exhaled, a dull laugh escaped his lips. He had never looked less alive than he did in that moment.
"Oh, yeah?" she said unconcernedly.
"Mmm…hm," he hummed in response, licking his lips. "Your first mistake…" He fought to free his hands and pointed in the direction of the stairs when he had. "…that was upstairs. And your second mistake…uh-huh, that was what you just told me." He angled himself towards her and lunged forward. His chest collided with hers and she could see something different glinting in his eyes. It was something still so foreign and out of the ordinary than anything she'd seen before. "And now," he was hissing against her neck, "you're little…dilemma—it's only gotten that much more…complicated…" His arms had curled around her back, locking her against him. "Heeh…You're playing with fire," he said, his breath passing across her face. "See, I'm a guy who likes… for things to be a little…" He jerked her body in his grasp. "…different."
"Different…how?" she asked.
"Monstrously different." He looked up from her collarbone and grinned. "You're not gonna like that."
She laughed. In all the days he'd had her there with him, never once had she laughed. "Don't be so sure of yourself," she told him airily. He narrowed his eyes, but he smiled curiously at the sight of her contentedness.
"What are you…laughing for? Nothing—nothing's funny…"
She took hold of his collar and pulled him into a kiss. A long-lasting, filling sort of kiss that made his heart twist and turn in his chest as he held himself back. If he could even make her bleed even the slightest bit, he could have been happy. "Eat your words, you hypocrite," she breathed against his lips. He scowled and maintained a steady frown as he thought of how he hated the fact that she thought he was under her control.
As she relinquished her grip on him, her fingers brushed against his neck.
Maybe he was. He laughed at the past, and how similar it was to Fana. Useless.