548. Cecity

Trev ran. From Em. From Mairi. But mostly, from himself, or, as he might rationalize, to himself, whatever the hell that meant. The sand under his feet, between his toes, burned with coarseness or friction or heat or all the above but he ran anyway, ran till he felt his heart in his chest, heard it throb in his ears till even the surf sounded distant. Then he ran more, ran to extinguish the pain through sheer exhaustion as if his mind, like an old sludge-filled engine, simply needed to spin, to rev, to burn the gunk of regret through physical exertion.

For all his effort, he might as well have tried to kill the fly on his forehead with a sledgehammer. Perhaps then his bastard memory would reveal what was real and what had only been a dream or, maybe, just his over active imagination. Em asked the wrong question at the wrong time and Janus damn her for pushing the issue, an issue he himself couldn't reconcile, his memory a puzzle, complete it seemed except for those extra pieces, pieces she demanded an accounting and he but a mumbling idiot had not an answer. Not one frailing answer. Remember she had said. Remember frailing what. Remember frailing what.

Climbing wet rock, the air turned cooler in the aestival evening. A tide pool, calm as glass, reflected herds of cotton-ball clouds roaming a sky pristine. Trev leaned over, his face unrecognizable. His smile, a grin; his eyes hollowed. Indignation rose from gut to throat, stuck, lacking object to strike. Curses, ugly, tremored his cracked lips, held within to stew, for the stewing resonated a delicious pain, one familiar, welcomed as enemies joining hands against a common foe.

He played the events over in his mind, what he said, what he didn't say, what he wished he had thought to say. She looked so beautiful in her hurt, like a little girl discovering a cherished belief was nothing more than a lie, and the liar had nothing but excuses that belied not care and concern or even wisdom; rather, a glimpse, a look into the void, an opening into the chasm they called adulthood--code language for, we don't have a frailing clue and neither will you in time. She had that kind of look on her face and the image, static, unchanging, bore a hole between his eyes like a bullet, one he had fired come around the world, and in perfect symmetry stuck him dead stupid, tongue ripped from moor, throat afire, surrounded by water he couldn't drink. Licking his cardinalate lips, he could not deny some perverse pleasure in the taste.