Erasing Faith(11)

He was silent for a long time, mulling over my question with an unreadable look on his face — eyebrows drawn tightly together, lips pinched in an uncompromising line.

I fidgeted anxiously in my seat.

Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke in a low voice. “You’re asking…” He pulled a deep breath of air through his nose and seemed to steady himself. “Do I think that a man who’s set out on a particular life course — one he may not like, one he may wish to escape — has no hope of ever changing, of ever redeeming himself, because some * higher-power decides it’s not in his cards?”

I tried to respond but all that slipped through my lips was a nervous squeak as I attempted to formulate a coherent response.

At the sound, he seemed to snap out of his somber reverie. His face blanked, his eyes flew up to meet mine, and an easy-going smile crossed his lips once more. I couldn’t help but notice that it seemed a little forced.

“That’s bullshit, Red. We make our own fate. Forge our own fortune. Shape our own stories.” His eyes were still too serious as they stared into mine. “Sometimes, we shape other people’s, too.”

I didn’t know what he meant by that, but I nodded anyway. Silence fell between us for a moment and I was afraid to shatter it, so I just stared at him.

“My turn,” he said finally.

I nodded.

“Will you go out with me?” he asked, grinning.

Laughter burst from my mouth, a strange sensation after the serious moment we’d just shared. “I don’t go out with serial killers,” I said regretfully, shaking my head in rebuff. I glanced out the window; the rain had stopped and the sun was shining weakly. “And I’d better go while the weather’s clear. Who knows when the downpour will start again?”

His dark eyes trapped my skittish ones. “You’re really not going to tell me your name or give me your number, are you?”

“Sorry, stranger.” I smiled and stood up. “First rule of stranger club, and all that jazz. Can’t break it on day one.”

He blew out a puff of air. “So, I’m supposed to let you walk away and take the chance that we’ll never see each other again?”

I paused, staring at him for a moment. “You might not believe in fate, but I do.” I grinned. “If it’s meant to be, it will be.”

“That’s total crap,” he pointed out. “You do realize that, right?”

I shrugged, still smiling as I slid my camera strap back over my shoulder. “Well, in that case, I guess I’ll never see you again. Have a nice life, stranger.” I turned to go.

“You’re weird and stubborn,” he muttered under his breath.

I giggled and glanced back at him for a fleeting instant.

“Have a little Faith, will ya?” I called, chuckling at my own inside joke as I headed for the door and left him behind for the second time in a week.





Chapter Six: WESTON


WRECKING BALL



My fingers were aching and swollen after two straight hours.

My knuckles were raw, ripped to shreds, bleeding through the tape.

My fists struck the bag in a ceaseless bombardment, a steady blitz of punches and uppercuts that left behind a smattering of four blood-red circles with each hit.

I embraced the pain like an old friend.

The girl’s face entered my mind again. I pounded the bag with renewed intensity, despite my screaming muscles.

She’s an idiot.

She’s beautiful.

She lives in a delusional, fairytale world.

She’s honest and innocent and everything I’m not.

She’s a foolish little girl with silly, inconsequential dreams.

She’s refreshingly real in this bleak life of deceit and deception.

I hated her for it. For this.

For making me feel.

For making me question everything about my existence which, until this point, I’d been perfectly content with.

Never stopping, never settling.

No friends, no family.

Avoiding attachment, uprooting every few months.

It’s how I’d lived, how I’d survived. Not just since I took this job, but for as long as I could remember. Since the day I realized they were never coming back, no matter how long I waited on that cracked asphalt gas-station stoop.

I’d been alone for an eternity. An old man since I was a child.

Twenty-five years was a lifetime when you spent it in total solitude.

Exhausted, I collapsed against the punching bag. My breaths were coming quick and my pulse was pounding beneath the skin, faster than I was comfortable with. Breathing deeply through my nose, I counted the seconds it took to regulate my heartbeat again.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

And, just like that, I was back in control.

The tense coil of anxiety unfurled deep in my chest. I welcomed the pain radiating from my battered knuckles. I’d rather feel that than this other shit. Physical pain — at least it was manageable. You could overcome a fractured finger or a bruised bone. Lacerations could heal, bullet wounds could be stitched closed or cauterized.

But pain in your head? Pain in your heart?

That was the shit that f*cked you up permanently.

When I was first recruited to the agency, I thought things might finally be different. For the first time, someone wanted me. Needed me.