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Tap, tap, tap.
After all that's happened, you realize you can't look at her face. So instead, you find yourself mesmerized by the rhythmical tapping of her perfectly manicured fingernails against the chipped latex paint covering the little windowsill in front of her. Between you is a sheet of bullet-proof glass as long as you are tall, and truthfully, when you draw yourself up to full height, you don't even reach your old man's chin.
The atmosphere's a bit cramped and stifling, but there is no other place on earth you would rather be. You'd camp out here with a little backyard tent, a mini-fridge, and a portable DVD player if you had your way, but in about fifteen more minutes, the guard will be back and visiting hours will come to an end.
In the middle of the window, there's a little round speaker, kind of like the rig they've got at the nickel-theater box office. She looks like a bank-teller, you think to yourself when her eyebrows pucker just enough to seem mildly annoyed while still masking that hellish temper beneath her angelic facade.
Her voice is crisp and clear when it comes through, and for some reason you're always surprised at how every time, without fail, it feels like in that moment the rest of the world's slipped away entirely. Almost as though she knows you're thinking these exact thoughts, she interrupts your inner zen with the same damn question she asks you every single day.
“Why are you here?”
She was never one to mince words. It was one of many, many things you loved about Alita Tiala. In fact, this, along with all the rest of her, is still the cutest thing you've ever seen.
A lot of the time, when you visit her at the detention center, it's just so you can watch her facial expressions as she huffs and scowls and calls you names. You want to memorize the way her voice wavers ever-so-slightly just before she screams in frustration at you, the sound of her feet stomping and scraping against the concrete floor on her side of the window. She's still wearing the shoes you bought for her. You're so glad they let her keep them, but you're not about to admit you've gone that soft yet.
“I just came to check up on ya.” you reply, just like you always do. She makes a show of wincing at how your voice cracks with nerves. “Are you... doin' okay?”
She rolls her pretty dark eyes skyward, and dramatically, they plummet back to the surface in front of her where she's still tap, tap, tapping her fingers to the beat of a funeral march nobody else can hear. She lets out an exasperated sigh. She seems very focused on anything but what's in front of her, yet you imagine that if she really wanted, she could bore a hole right through you without so much more than a glance.
“What do you think, Wocky?” she challenges.
She's quicker to anger today, you notice. You can't really blame her. You're the reason she's in prison after all. You'd reverse your positions in a heartbeat if you could, but you have already been told, several times in fact, to talk to the firm hand of your country's judicial system. It's not like she's on death row, but she's not exactly behaving herself well enough to be let out of here anytime soon either. You'd think she's trying to prove something what with the way she's acted ever since your trial, but you know better.
“You're awfully quiet today.” she continues coolly. “Should I buy lottery tickets when I get out of here?”
You shake your head and make up an excuse along the lines of not getting enough sleep. You laugh and smile at her like a fool, like always, and she doesn't even bat an eyelash. She just gives you a look and you promptly silence yourself.
When she gets like this, you can't help but think of her testimony—of that fateful night when she gripped cold steel in her hands and found herself with a choice to make: kill or be killed. As far as you're convinced, she acted in self-defense.
The truth is, you still can't hold a gun yourself without having a minor panic attack. You keep your trusty shiv by your side, tucked somewhere in the folds of your clothing, but the weight of a gun is too much for you. There's more responsibility lingering against your skin with the coppery scent of mortality and gunpowder than you're comfortable with. You've started to understand why your family's suddenly full of cooks, housekeepers, gardeners, mechanics, and delivery boys, but you're still not sure what to do with yourself these days. You're only twenty years old once.
But Alita's the strongest girl in the world in your eyes. Maybe that's why you always find yourself here when you're worried about--
“Five more minutes.” the guard warns, opening the door a crack and waving a hand somewhere just beyond Alita's shoulder. (Was she always so thin?) She rolls her eyes at him and shifts in her seat, still tapping her fingers impatiently.
“Are we done yet?” she grinds out. “Contrary to popular belief, someone staying in a correctional facility doesn't exactly have the time to spend staring blankly at the wall for an entire day.”
“I love you.” you say suddenly. You can't help but smile as her cheeks bloom scarlet and her eyes flash. You wonder if it's possible to have the scene tattooed on the insides of your eyelids.
“What is wrong with you!?” she snaps, jumping up from the chair at last.
“Nothing.” You shrug one shoulder lazily and rise from your seat as well. “Just wanted to make sure ya knew that, that's all.” You laugh and tug bashfully at a lock of your hair. “Leavin' so soon? You're adorable when you're shy, y'know. Well, I guess I'll see ya tomorrow, babe~”
She shouts an expletive that not even you're too familiar with, despite your background, and balls her fists at her sides. You're still beaming at her when the color finally drains from her face. She clenches her jaw and stomps over to the door, she hammers a fist against the hard surface until the ceiling is ringing with the sound, and a guard finally decides to take pity on her.
As the blue-uniformed officer escorts her away, he casts an apologetic glance in your direction. You wave sheepishly at them both in farewell, even after they're both long gone and the silence in the room and a faint reflection of yourself in the glass is all that remains.
Only then do you uncross your own fingers behind your back and let your hand fall to your side. “Will it hurt,” you ask no one in particular. “When I go to heaven?” The door shuts quietly behind you when you leave.