More pieces.
This is actually continuing that last piece I posted. I didn’t like leaving him where he was, it left too much unsaid about the character, I felt. He’s not such a bad guy, now that I’ve had time to think about it. The following comes right after “But I guess it was worth it.”
I don’t want all of this to sound like I didn’t love Lily. I did, and I still do. I always will. Sometimes I still wake up and think I have sand in my hair. I reach for her, but we didn’t sleep on the beach last night. Sometimes I think we’re in the mountains, in the cabin, the fresh snow on the porch, just waiting for our bare feet to melt perfect footprints into it. But that’s all gone now, it’s all gone. I’m just confused.
Anyway, that’s how I got away with murder.
Polly’s death was another thing, though, it ruined me. Maybe I was already gone, just looking for a way to show everyone, but she was the nail in the coffin. Polly was one of a kind, she reached inside of me and squeezed. I’d never felt that way before, and I don’t think I can feel it again.
She was like a golden eagle with a broken wing; so exciting and powerful, she made you feel invincible, but she was so fragile and so damaged. She was a mediocre actress and a terrible artist. Her world was intoxicating and enticing, broaching on the seductive darkness I’d railed against for years as a cop. Darkness was what I needed, though, or what I wanted. We rampaged through those mad nights, full of coke, booze and sex, spiraling together toward some end, either nirvana or death, maybe both.
The ringing phone ended the spiral, though. I was wired, up for two days. Charlie told me, on the other end, that Polly’s old ‘vette was hit by a bus. Not her fault, not even with the damned pharmacy in her bloodstream and the open wine bottle on the passenger seat. The bus driver had been arguing with a passenger and he’d hit a patch of ice. My balance was so fragile that just a random thing like that could knock me down.
I made it there running before the ambulance did, but not before she died. I hauled her out of the wreck and held her one last time. My broken baby bird. When the paramedics finally showed up they had to pry me off of her, screaming and wailing. They finally sedated me and Charlie took me home.
I’m a mess, really. Ruined.
More realistic? Maybe. Less completely reprehensible? I’d like to think so.