The Last Handful of Clover - Book 3: The Stone in the Stream

3.23 Life, Longing for Life

June 16, 12:12 pm

Richard wanted to erupt.

He wanted to rage at Pil, the way the big man had raged at him. He wanted to scream that he was wrong, and how dare you, and who the fuck do you think you are? He wanted to slap the man's sweaty face, and insist he was not the monster Pil accused him of being. He wanted to shove the man and demand to know how he had the balls to suggest that his love for Keith had been selfish, or that he didn't care how it must feel to his husband to lose Michelle.

He wanted to scream, you don't know me, Pil! You never did!

He wanted to... but he couldn't. Not only because Pil couldn't see or hear him, and that any rage he showed right now would be nothing but theatrics for his own benefit. And not only because Billy and Howard were staring at him, waiting for him to explode.

But because he knew that Pil was right.

Not completely. But right enough to draw blood. The accusation that stung the worst was the last one: The idea that he hadn't considered what it would be like for Pil to go through the trauma of possession again, so soon after he had lost his wife. Because the truth was, the issue of Pil's well-being had never entered Richard's mind. Not for a second.

Jesus, am I really that cold?

Yes, he knew that Pil was mourning, but goddamn it, they were all fucking mourning someone! What made Pil think his pain right now was any greater than anybody else's? That was true, but it didn't excuse the fact that Richard's only concern had been whether Pil would agree to his plan voluntarily, or whether he'd have to take the big man by force. He'd not thought for an instant about whether it was fair or right. And he knew that made him no better than the Wanderer's angels, who just saw the living as tools to be used and discarded.

Maybe there would be time, after this was all over, for him to do some soul searching. If they were all extremely lucky.

"So, how do we do this," Pil asked, unaware of Richard's silent rage.

The big man was still sitting in the chair that Howard had offered, facing the table. Richard watched as Howard finally released the breath he'd been holding, grabbed a second chair, and sat it next to Pil. He asked the man to turn his chair to face the new one. Then Howard just stared at Richard until he slowly eased himself into the empty chair, facing Pil. Their knees were only inches apart, and he was looking into the big man's empty, drawn face. Pil's eyes seemed cloudy, all the anger and emotion spent out of them. He now looked sad, compliant, and defeated.

"Howard, ask Pil if I can speak now," Richard said, his voice quiet and steady.

Howard stood behind Richard, his hands on the back of the chair, and cleared his throat once to get Pil's attention. "Pil, Richard is asking if he can speak to you now. If you're ready."

"I've had my say," Pil said, not even glancing up. "Let's just get this over with."

"Okay," Richard said, feeling Pil's despair, thick in the air between them. It pained him to look into the man's eyes. The memory of how casually he'd treated his grief now seemed even more cruel, as he saw the lines of it painted so clearly across his broad features.

"Howard, please repeat everything I say, word for word now. Please don't add anything. Just repeat it."

"Pil, Richard is going to talk to you now. I'm going to repeat what he's saying, word for word," Howard said.

"Fine," Pil said, his voice flat and emotionless.

Richard spoke, and Howard repeated what he said, slowly and calmly.