parallel ; beck {93rd}

Almost ten years after I buried myself, I give living a try.

I pull down the shattered mirrors from mansion walls and heap them in an ugly, jagged pile on my front lawn. Throw the last of my booze on the remnants and watch it burn until the someone calls in a complaint.

Bet it was fucking Krigel.

The Keepers storm the place, holding me at gunpoint while they smother the flames. I'm given a warning, and then a black eye when I hold out my cigarette and ask for a light.

I hang paintings in the empty spaces. Made of gold and pastel, as far from fresh ink and coffee stains as I can get. There's hope in this place, even if there's no hope left in me. And I'm trying to convince myself that means something.

I call Wade, tell him I've missed him. Tell him I'm in trouble for arson again, and laugh about how old habits die hard. Insist we make lunch plans when he gets this message - my treat. Jane's invited if she's still around. When I hang up the phone I stare at the yellowing wallpaper of my kitchen and smoke a cigarette instead of making breakfast.

There's holes in the plaster and I know I've put them there, even if I don't remember when. I do what I can to dress up the catacombs, but there are still skeletons living in my walls. I keep trying anyway. If only because I don't know what else I'm supposed to do.

I don't have it in me to mourn, so I go to a bar and find someone who leans into my touch instead of away. It's nice. Cameras catch the way I smile into the nape of his neck, and it's plastered on the front page of a sleazy gossip column the next morning. I double check the author, even though I know better.

Welcome home, Beck Hailsham.

Whatever the fuck home means.

He asks me out to coffee when I kick him out in the morning, I say yes because it's something to do. We make small talk about the weather as I help him gather his things, and he gets this nervous twist to his smile as I walk him to the door. For a moment I'm fucking terrified, until he pushes up on his tip toes and kisses my cheek before dashing down the sandstone pathway. I laugh to myself until I realize I don't remember his name.

I don't show up to our date.

Instead I tell Waverly to arrange a meeting with the property owners of that old elementary school that's been rotting downtown for over a decade.

("This is, hands down, the strangest thing you've asked me to do.")

But she obliges. She's been babying me since I left the Capitol. I let her because it's easier to get what I want, but she doesn't need to. I wouldn't have asked Chanel a question I didn't already know the answer to.

She even buys me a new suit for the meeting and has it express shipped to my doorstep. It's gray, not black, with a soft pink tie.

Figured you'd want a new look - W

But I'm not a businessman. The leather of my loafers is stiff and squeaks when I walk. I cross my ankles on the long, mirrored table of the architect's office. "So," I hold a cigarette between my lips, unlit because I'm not a fucking monster.

Well, I am. But not today.

"Do any of you know how to start an orphanage?"