If everyone's a casualty
Then take your time there ain't no trouble
If the weather's fine and we're feeling crazy
There's always drinks and dancing in the rubble
I'm spinning and you're spinning
The world's spinning and we're laughing
And I'm charming, the devil's charming
And we're ruined but we're still building
And I'm selling and you're counting
The world's stopping but we keep going
And we're ruthless and we're cunning
And I'm heir to it all
Sometime overnight, Jacob took a big step back. Maybe to stay out of the way, as I attempt to juggle Lochlan, Ben, Sam, Caleb and whoever else I am drawn to. You don't want to get clipped by a flaming soul on his way down, do you? Especially if you're a man of God. I bet it hurts.
Before last night and for the past ten years straight without fail when I close my eyes Jacob's face is right there. Every errant lock of heavy blonde. Every wink and each tooth. Every pore. The little scar from where he fell into a crevasse climbing Denali and the part of his temple where his eyebrow refused to fill in. Every hair on his beard. Every breath he took even though he hasn't taken one in forever. I checked. I'm still holding them all. This time he was way back. Almost out of reach.
I keep my eyes closed for a long time in case he steps back in close. I'm not sure if I'll be relieved if he does or saddened.
A hand lands gently on the back of my head. Peanut. What are you doing?
Fighting a headache, I lie. I don't want to tell Lochlan this. Every day of his life is an uphill battle for my heart, swords drawn, shield up, armour weighing down his agile limbs. I feel terrible for what I have caused. I also feel like we're even now. He ruined me as a child, I've ruined him as an adult. Now we're a perfect matched pair.
God, I love him so.
If he were to go, I would go with him. And that's something I can say so easily. I've had a lot of time to think about things, hearts, people and love. I don't think my heart will ever be big enough to contain him, and I certainly will not live without him. Not even for a day.
This would make him sad. Like everything does. But he is sad in a determined way. He'll fix it. We'll get there. He isn't going to ever give up that uphill sword fight. He thinks I'm worth it. I'm not sure I agree with that.
I don't want a normie life, Peanut. He reads my thoughts like the daily paper, absorbing current events, the weather, the classified ads. What is she selling today? What's she advertising?
Need?
Confidence?
Sex appeal?
Vulnerability?
Well, it says here on the front page that she just watched the Devil take a big step backwards, hurling bills by the fistful at anyone who ventured near enough, screaming that he can handle it, that he owns it, that he wants it anyway and can afford to maintain it. Shouting his worth from the rooftop while we cover our ears and duck against the dissonance.
Fascinating story. Glad that kind of stuff doesn't happen here, he says absently, not paying close enough attention. That sort of daydreaming will get you killed, he said to me after I almost walked in front of a turning truck once when I was picking my thoughts off the clouds where they grew, so prolifically he would have to venture in periodically to thin them out, pluck ones that were weaker, trimming back the overgrown ones, encouraging others to bloom. He doesn't care about the money. He never cared if we had any money at all, swinging widely to the other end of the rainbow, the part where it begins. No pot of gold, no treasure on this end, just a girl cranking out colors and pulling down dreams, trying to paint them up pretty to someday please her ghosts and men, failing miserably at just all of it.
Now you can have them professionally painted, the Devil says from right beside my ear and I shriek and wake up.
Before last night and for the past ten years straight without fail when I close my eyes Jacob's face is right there. Every errant lock of heavy blonde. Every wink and each tooth. Every pore. The little scar from where he fell into a crevasse climbing Denali and the part of his temple where his eyebrow refused to fill in. Every hair on his beard. Every breath he took even though he hasn't taken one in forever. I checked. I'm still holding them all. This time he was way back. Almost out of reach.
I keep my eyes closed for a long time in case he steps back in close. I'm not sure if I'll be relieved if he does or saddened.
A hand lands gently on the back of my head. Peanut. What are you doing?
Fighting a headache, I lie. I don't want to tell Lochlan this. Every day of his life is an uphill battle for my heart, swords drawn, shield up, armour weighing down his agile limbs. I feel terrible for what I have caused. I also feel like we're even now. He ruined me as a child, I've ruined him as an adult. Now we're a perfect matched pair.
God, I love him so.
If he were to go, I would go with him. And that's something I can say so easily. I've had a lot of time to think about things, hearts, people and love. I don't think my heart will ever be big enough to contain him, and I certainly will not live without him. Not even for a day.
This would make him sad. Like everything does. But he is sad in a determined way. He'll fix it. We'll get there. He isn't going to ever give up that uphill sword fight. He thinks I'm worth it. I'm not sure I agree with that.
I don't want a normie life, Peanut. He reads my thoughts like the daily paper, absorbing current events, the weather, the classified ads. What is she selling today? What's she advertising?
Need?
Confidence?
Sex appeal?
Vulnerability?
Well, it says here on the front page that she just watched the Devil take a big step backwards, hurling bills by the fistful at anyone who ventured near enough, screaming that he can handle it, that he owns it, that he wants it anyway and can afford to maintain it. Shouting his worth from the rooftop while we cover our ears and duck against the dissonance.
Fascinating story. Glad that kind of stuff doesn't happen here, he says absently, not paying close enough attention. That sort of daydreaming will get you killed, he said to me after I almost walked in front of a turning truck once when I was picking my thoughts off the clouds where they grew, so prolifically he would have to venture in periodically to thin them out, pluck ones that were weaker, trimming back the overgrown ones, encouraging others to bloom. He doesn't care about the money. He never cared if we had any money at all, swinging widely to the other end of the rainbow, the part where it begins. No pot of gold, no treasure on this end, just a girl cranking out colors and pulling down dreams, trying to paint them up pretty to someday please her ghosts and men, failing miserably at just all of it.
Now you can have them professionally painted, the Devil says from right beside my ear and I shriek and wake up.