Chapter Text
We accept the love we think we deserve
- Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being A Wallflower
“You wanna ride the ferris wheel tomorrow?”
“Nope... I wanna drive a bumper car!”
“Not until you’re 8. But I can drive while you sit beside me.”
“Hoooookay. Can we get ice cream after?”
“Of course.”
Friday is amusement park day. He knew they’d go when she asks him which rides he’s interested in the day before. Of course it always depends on what she feels like on the day itself, but nonetheless he never fails to get excited about it.
What does he think of her? That maybe, she’s a little too— unpredictable? Temperemental? Somewhat hard to approach, as he always had to tip-toe around her. Nevertheless, at her best, she’s really sweet, and always tells him that she loves him, and what does he really think of her ultimately? Well, that she was the world.
They never went anywhere that Friday because she didn’t come home. His dad acted weird. I know what happened, he wanted to tell him. She just changed her mind. She tends to do that a lot when she’s really sad. She wouldn’t pay him any attention, or get really angry and distant, but she always comes back around. You see, we just need to wait some more, he thought. She was gonna teach him how to drive a bumper car. He was really looking forward to that. Oh well, there’s always next Friday and the amusement park isn’t going anywhere, right?
By the second night that she failed to show up, he suddenly found himself face to face with a police officer who promised him that they’re going to find her.
Miss police officer comes back the day after and she was all smiles— so what else could it be but good news?
They’ve found her and she’s completely safe.
So where is she now, and when is she coming back? He asks. Your dad is going to talk to you about it, she said sweetly, and with that she leaves with her partner, waving at him from her patrol car. He waves back, completely elated, feeling like he was one of those kids helped by the superhero from the cartoons he watches, only that it happened for real. The best day ever—
— until dad tells him that she’s not coming back. Something about her being unwell, her mind not being in the right place, and how it’s better if she stays away.
Think of it like she had died, dad said, and that they need to mourn her so they can move on.
How does he mourn someone who isn’t truly gone?
Dad really didn’t have an answer for him, and it scared him that he seemed equally lost, but somehow, dad found a way by not ever speaking of her again. It really didn’t stop him from crying himself to sleep, or from feeling unworthy to the point of feeling nonexistent, but if the adults don’t know the answer then there must be none.
Was it okay to feel sad and angry? Even if she’s sick and it’s for the best? Nobody asked him how he felt. They always said boys aren’t supposed to cry or talk a lot.
Time passed. The constant feeling of emptiness was starting to feel like a normal part of him. He was trying to turn out okay despite it. After all, he can’t let his father down for doing his best to fill the space that was empty so suddenly. Dad was rather passive, but he was kind and taught him how to be kind. They only have each other now, and it’s only fair that they both carry the cross.
Sometimes he wishes that he can share the bottle with him, too. Dad tries to hide it from him, but he’d often catch him anyway when he comes down the stairs late at night. And it seemed to help him cope a lot. It must be effective. He ought to try it someday when he’s grown.
Three days before his ninth birthday, he empties out the mailbox and found one letter addressed to him. Woah— he thought as he stared at his full name written on the envelope— he really is growing up. The only letters he’s ever gotten are scratch papers with silly heart doodles from some girls at school. But this one’s the real deal.
He excitedly but carefully tore it open to expose a birthday card.
Happy birthday love. I miss you every day. Mommy.
...what now?
~
The inevitable nightmares after Raccoon City consist of gruesome creatures, violent deaths, gore, guts, and utter chaos.
But there were nightmares that are odd because they’re beautiful. Painful, but strangely comforting.
Sometimes it’s the graceful sway of her form as she leaves him behind, her red dress a sharp but refreshing contrast to the grime and darkness. Sometimes it’s the feel of her lips from a kiss that meant nothing to her— but will stay with him forever.
A lot of times he begs. Begs her to stay, begs her not to let go of his hand, begs her to believe him when he tells her that she’s worth the bullet he took for her.
The look in her eyes as he patched her up in the sewers and how her voice slightly trembled with fear, or softened in concern, all the minute changes in her expressions— he’s seen them before. Hiding it from him was futile, as he spent his early years too much around it. Somewhere underneath that armor is a storm of conflict, the good side threatening to emerge victorious if only she would let it. On that fateful encounter on the bridge, he challenged her to give in, only to fail her mere moments after.
He was so close.
What could’ve happened if that bullet missed her shoulder, if the bridge didn’t fall apart? He dreams about the potential outcome time and time again, but it always ends with her slipping away, leaving him shattered and dealing with a pain so familiar as he had always carried it with him. Even as the years flew by, she was always at the back of his mind, appearing in his dreams every now and then to say goodbye as quickly as she said hello.
One day, she comes out of the grave.
He turned as pale as a ghost upon the sight of her in the form of a blurry photograph in the briefing room. He had himself convinced that he was seeing things until the name at the bottom of the picture proved otherwise.
And he couldn’t be more wrong to think that it was enough to prepare him for their inevitable encounter in Spain. Her armor had grown ten times thicker. She was all about empty threats and feigned callousness, as if she was punishing him for having a glimpse of her real self before. But the thought occurred to him only in the aftermath, as he still couldn’t believe the sight of her in the flesh.
Still alive. Still the enemy. The memories of her still a forbidden story to tell.
Mourning’s over, handsome, so said the smirk on her face.
But she doesn’t know that he’s been there before.
And he’s too busy being drawn to the flames to realize it himself.
~
Dear mommy
I dont understand why you left and didnt say goodbye to me or daddy? Where are you? Are you in the hospital beacause dad said your sick and your mind is not doing good. And when is the doctor going to let you out and can we visit you because i miss you? I was really sad when you left but its ok now that you wrote me I just want to see you. I’m grown up now and I dont go to the amous amuesement park anymore I just ride my bike or skateboard with my friends. I crashed a few times into some bushes but Im getting good at it. Anyway I’m running out of space Please write me back or come visit me. It’s my birthday and I wanna spend it with you again maybe dad will be angry but we don’t have to tell him.
Leon Scoot Kennedy
“Hey there kid, how’s it going?”
“Oh hey, I’ve been waiting for you! Will you help me send my letter?”
“Here let me see... huh. There’s no address here.”
“But I don’t know where she lives.”
“You need to write the person’s address in the envelope otherwise we won’t know where to send it.”
“Yeah but she wrote me this letter—
“Does it have her address on it?”
“...No.”
“Well... is there someone you can ask who might know?”
“No one knows! And I can’t— well— shit.”
“Language, kid.”
~
There’s a ghost in his apartment.
At first, he had nothing to go off with but mere intuition; an odd feeling that someone had walked around the living room or the kitchen, maybe opened the door to his room and snooped around. Something about the air was different, but he brushed it off as a figment of his imagination.
Eventually, the ghost became a little more daring. It was tentative but grew more curious. Chairs had moved away from the table slightly. The hangers in the closet are suddenly spaced a little too far apart. So it wanted to know what he likes to wear. Apparently it found his stash of liquor and was also curious about what he likes to drink. It’s been checking the labels of each bottle and now they’re all facing front.
Finally, the ghost grew emboldened or impatient, as it threw all subtlety out the window. It demanded to be acknowledged. It drank his booze in the kitchen and didn’t bother to reposition the chair it sat on. It left a titillating, floral scent everywhere; he could smell it in his couch, his bathroom, his goddamn bed— the ghost had laid on his bed and its scent was all over his sheets and pillows, driving him mad as he tossed and turned alone in his slumber. The kitten was ignoring all his timed meals but was never hungry. So the ghost was befriending his pet, too.
Clearly, it’s time to give it a piece of his mind— if he can even figure out what he thinks of this intrusion.
He grabs a piece of paper and thought long and hard about what to say.
Stay out of my life. Stay the night.
Come here. Go away.
In the end, before his head imploded, he settled on writing down a rather safe and neutral message:
Stop feeding my cat.
If he never gets a response, he wouldn’t have anything to lose; the message was sent nonetheless and it was no desperate plea. That’s infinitely better than writing a heartfelt one that was to be read by nobody.
But as he came home later that day, he got his response in the form of a sultry voice coming from behind him, the familiar floral scent invading his nostrils as the voice drew nearer.
“Can’t help it. I’ve got a soft spot for cute and needy creatures that follow me everywhere.”
He turned around. The ghost was beautiful in red. She grabbed him by the collar and pushed him against the wall, her lips hungry for his but repulsed by it just the same. She wanted a proper tour of his home and this was her way of asking.
He’s more than happy to accomodate.
He guided her to the soft cushions of the couch, her ravenous mouth never leaving his. Her nimble hands ran all over his chest and pulled his shirt over his head in a demanding fashion. When he attempted to reach behind her to undo her dress, she slapped his hands away, reminding him that she isn’t the type who played fair.
Never was, never will.
They traded the comfort of the cushions for the cold, hard surfaces of the counters in the kitchen. There, she at least let him run his hands all over her breasts and silky thighs— but she was still ahead in the game, as she kept hers busy pulling down everything below his waist, essentially stripping him bare.
He tested the waters again by slowly reaching under her dress, and to his luck, she let him pull down her underwear, signaling that it’s time for the final leg of the tour in the confines of his bedroom.
And as he lost himself inside her, one arm curled firmly around her waist as he took her from behind— he told himself that all he had to do was play along, because she was going to let him catch her in the end— fuck, she was letting him have the time of his life, even as she refused to be rid of her armor that was the red dress, depriving him of the sight of her in her purest form.
He finishes— collapsing onto the bed, spent, wanting and waiting to be held.
Not gonna happen.
She was gone as soon as it was over. She was too proud for caresses underneath the sheets; too elusive even for a rushed exit in the wee hours of the morning.
She left him bare. Empty. Used.
But it wouldn’t be the first time.
Next time he just has to be better. Maybe then, she’ll stay a little longer.
She’ll be back. And she’ll keep feeding the cat.
Women.
~
On his ninth birthday, he learned that an address is required in order to send a letter in the mail.
In high school, he learned that mentally ill people don’t just get picked up from the streets to be shoved into a hospital.
In the academy, he learned that missing adults who have been found have the right not to disclose their address to the person who was looking for them.
In his first visit to his father’s house as a policeman, he found himself clutching an envelope in his hand with no return address, the letter inside of it penned by a ghost that continued to linger.
He’ll track her down. Demand answers. Tell her how much of a monster she is and ask her to stop her perpetual torture of him in the form of birthday cards and well wishes scribbled on fancy paper.
Or— he can let it go and let it be. Fucked up as the letters were, he’ll take them, as it’s the closest he’ll ever get to having her in his life again.
When it comes down to it, he doesn’t really want to find out why she left.
Onward he goes. A shitty past doesn’t mean that he couldn’t become the best person he can be.
Besides, he found a way to feel like he mattered with the career he had chosen. Giving himself to others fills that empty void that he was cursed to live with. There’s a new beginning waiting for him in a place called Raccoon City, and he just couldn’t wait to lose himself in the joy and fulfillment of being in the force; he’s gonna be a real-life superhero, and to succeed at it, he has to leave all these baggage behind.
Time heals, as the saying goes. It’s all going to pass and never come back to haunt him ever again.
What an exciting first day on the job it’s going to be.
~
He was on the verge of sleep when he was pulled back tenderly by soft kisses to his temple, to his cheek, to his shoulder just right over the scar. His eyelids fluttered in a weak attempt to open his eyes. His mouth quivered in an effort to speak the words he’d always spoken when this moment comes: stay a little longer.
Not that she’d listen. She’d be long gone even before the morning comes. There will come a day when he’d wake up to find her still beside him. But they’re not there yet.
Back then, he couldn’t even get her to stay and hold him as he fell apart. Now she’s leaving trails of kisses before she vanishes. Someday, he’ll get her to stay long enough that she’d be able to trace every scar in his entire body with her eyes closed. They’ll get there. Or maybe not. Who knows— he never makes plans that far ahead.
He’d been held so tenderly by different hands before; given equally warm kisses in between rich promises of acceptance and security. When the first ray of light comes through the window, he’d open his eyes to find them; they stayed without him having to make any pleas.
All that in exchange of taking a risk. Close your eyes, they said, open up and let us in. Trust in us. We will always be here.
He sunk those ships in the midst of their smooth sailing at that first sign of steering toward uncharted waters.
This is the only ship he’d like to be on. It stays in familiar territory. The waters may be turbulent, the waves unpredictable, but the ship remains afloat and never moves toward the unknown.
Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.
This devil he knows— he doesn’t know her at all just the same. Her name isn’t real. Her motives forever a mystery. But she knew the right buttons to push and when to push them. She never demanded or explained. She never promised or expected. She never stays, but never really goes away. And if that isn’t fate, then he doesn’t know what it is.
Life’s been cruel. He doesn’t really want to know what’s good for him anymore. Once out there, he’ll be back to himself as the world knows him— a dauntless hero with supreme confidence and resilience. But in her presence, he’d always revert to being lost and torn— angry but longing, mistrustful but giving; a whirlwind of opposites, a mess of ambivalence. But the ending is the same every time, for she offered a sense of familiarity that soothed him to the core:
She’d give him a taste and run away. He’d chase and she’d run faster. She leaves a trail. He follows.
And that’s alright with him.
That’s how it’s always been.
That’s how it’s supposed to be.