DRIVE WEST

TEN - Don't You Just Hate How Good I Am At This? (Part 1)

He paused before responding. He understood the consequences and before and afters of the words that left his lips. He understood the gravity of the act of unmasking, and he understood that the truth was often ugly and ungodly and it haunted him like a rope around his neck; throughout his whole life the truth had always been either that or a rifle up his chin, never a lovely thing-- a lesson his mother taught him before he even learned to eat his greens. Still, he delivered, "You know exactly what I mean." He knew only how to ruin pretty things, he thought, which is why he hated flowers.

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Soundtrack for the chapter

Call Out My Name by The Weeknd

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Monday didn't belong to anyone, and that was what defined her. She was the echo of a war cry belonging to the women before her, and she was raised to believe everyone else was against her.

Apollo had a different journey, but identical destination: In his mind he swore he was born to do this. To protect people. He swore that God himself tapped his shoulder, in a rush of the wind, and whispered to him, "There will be days your knuckles will be stained by blood, there will be days your ribs will roar as you pull breath. And bullets will hit where they want to hit and evil will do what it does best, but understand, you were born as a challenge to them."

They were both greedy, selfish, and rudely scarred by life's unforgiving tutoring lessons.

But watching Sasha Rosenthal get shot in her eyeball two times made them wonder if they still had unfinished business with destiny.

So they sat there, at the café where it all had begun, and looked at each other like something was, in fact, either beginning or coming to an end (they couldn't tell which).

The earth felt tragic that day; it felt damp and unsure. The sun felt lazy, the wind felt tired: Dragging itself around the bare shoulders of Monday— the day of the week and the girl.

Her and Apollo felt like strangers; visitors of each other's company, taking a tour of the other's presence like an old house they were considering selling.

The waiter approached their table, "Hello, may I take your orders today?"

Apollo looked at Monday as she still scanned the menu, "If you could give us a few more minutes," He asked. The waiter shortly bowed his head and left.

Apollo leaned back on his chair and folded his arms, staring at her.

She peaked at him and closed her mouth, aware now.

"I can't get over Switzerland." He said to her, finally. She put down her menu. "I was... so out of line."

"I've left that behind. You should too."

He turned his face away. "Last time we were sitting here we were a million years younger." She chuckled and scratched her arm, absent-minded, remembering. "I was trying so hard to reject the part of me that was grieving Teresa. I was," He laughed at the memory and cocked his chin up, shaking his head, "Pathetic and arrogant."

She gave a mirthless laugh, "What does that make you now?"

He pulled his head back down and gave a bitter laugh, "I feel like I could be that boy's dad now."

She chuckled once, and looked down.

He leaned forward and twisted the ring on his finger, "You, on the other hand, were—"