Lost Without You
Aug. 16th, 2019 01:04 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
abri_chanNotes: An attempt at constructing a snippet of how Connie and Marco fell in love.
***
There must be something wrong with her, Connie thought, to bring the man responsible for her parents' deaths to their grave. Granny would be furious, and that would upset her health.
She thought of the old woman, the picture corner in her meager room, all the candles and prayers spent on saints, to guide the souls of those who were never coming back. The memory of her parents, of all the lives lost, the horror and death reverberating through the city’s unconsciousness up to that day. Their shared history, the city’s own existence offended by his very presence. His bunch were intruders, destroyers, and they weren’t welcome there.
She knew of all that, and yet—the truth was, she had grown tired.
Soon after the incident, Connie saw a child being walked through the ravaged city, his hands bound in a heavy wooden weight, like some vengeful Jesus down his Calvary procession. People would hurl and scream in his direction, and there were red smears across his face. Then for five years he disappeared from the public eye.
Luca Cristiano was a smart man, and he could tame the beast, rumors said. Worick thought he was just a kind man without a plan. Cristiano didn’t know what he was getting into, and any attempt to re-instill humanity would not produce long lasting loyalty on the kid’s side. The mercy of time trampled the symbol of a killer into a curiosity, and Spas emerged from his rehabilitation as Marco Adriano, second in command to the Cristiano family.
That was when Connie’s annoyances started. For the past two years, she would spot him all over town, their eyes meeting in silence, before moving on. Chance occurrences and places converged into expected locations, with Marco often wandering around granny’s house. He harbored no twisted intentions, and she could tell, by his distraught demeanor, and the way his eyes would sink at the harshness of her gaze. Their involuntary game unfolded like clockwork; Marco couldn’t find the courage to apologise, and would shrink into the same corner or backstreet he appeared from, exacerbating Connie’s mood by the day.
She grew terribly tired—of the lack of resolution that was their relationship. They weren’t exactly strangers, and she couldn’t stand loose ties.
He held a bunch of flowers for two consecutive days, waiting at the familiar corner. She found him lost in thoughts on the second day, sitting on the outside stairs of the building, and staring absently at the ground. In Connie’s mind, Marco Adriano was a coward. Unaware of her presence, Marco shivered as he looked up, his eyes wide with surprise. She had taken a faulty move in their unspoken game, and it exhausted all the strength in his body to counter. Turns out Marco was truly a coward.
He had wanted to pay respect to Connie's parents, but had been too afraid to visit their grave on the day of their deaths. Hoping for a cruel miracle, he returned the next day, entertaining the futility of finding the right words to say, even though he couldn't for years. The barrier between them crossed, silence reigned once again. Marco said nothing as he followed her angry strides across the town, as if he had no right to even mumble, after all the trouble he had brought on her.
The books Marco had read ascribed a tender veneer to the macabreness of death, flowery prose smoothing its painful edges. Humans coped through aesthetics, erecting bridges of meaning and cultivating gardens of eternal repose, over the black, bottomless pit they didn’t dare look into. Cypresses and fig-trees in courtyards, roadsides of wild flowers, wet soft grass under one’s feet—an evergreeness of immortality. The common graveyard at the outskirts of Ergastulum laid barren in comparison; the grass was dull, and the wind rarely blew through the stubborn shrubs growing in spots.
Connie's parents shared a tombstone. At least normals had claims to a spot, and a name upon it, Marco thought. Twilights were buried in groups, all over the place, and one could be walking or living over their corpses, unknowingly. There was nothing poetic about death, and he knew, as its harbinger. He used to have nightmares, of the dead crawling out of open graves to swallow him whole. It was lucky and unfair that he was alive. Yet, it pained him to think of Connie amongst them, she who was so kind towards someone like him. After all those years, did she still think she was better off dead?
Lost in thoughts, he didn’t hear Connie ask for the flowers, her hand extended towards him. She put about half on the grave, returning the rest to Marco. He didn't object as he held the flowers, puzzled by the young woman's behavior.
“You know—I hate hot days like this,” she said, her voice exhausted by the oppressive summer heat. The sun was scorching, and there were no clouds in sight. “Your paycheck should be enough to buy a drink or two.”
***
Back at Bastard, Galahad was stupefied at the odd pair walking through the door. Loretta ran to Marco, locking the man into a warm hug. He flung his arm to the side, to keep the flowers from getting crushed.
“Would you look at it! Just like dad’s,” she twirled around to reveal her new burberry overalls, sharing the same pattern as her father’s suit.
The girl’s cheerfulness drew a wide smile from Marco, his eyes glimmering with tenderness. Connie was surprised to see Marco smile. When they first met, she couldn’t even read his face, from the amount of blood smeared on it. The only other mood she knew were his guilt-ridden expressions, as if he alone was suffering the death of God.
Galahad joined Loretta at greeting the duo, shocked but nonetheless delighted to see Connie. He wanted to learn more about how she and granny Joel were doing, but understood Marco needed her full attention. No one, outside of the Cristianos, interacted with Marco. He placed a glass of juice and a cup of coffee on the bar’s counter, then took his leave, pulling Loretta with him. The girl kept bugging about her father’s recent mission, wondering why he wasn’t back yet.
The place was officially closed until the evening, making Marco and Connie the only two customers. For a while, each kept shifting their stare between their drink and the shelves of bottles and glasses behind the counter, sitting uncomfortably on the high stools. Marco tore the packet of sugar with shaking hands.
“Why did you want me to keep them?” he asked, nodding towards the flowers resting on the countertop.
“The dead have no need for flowers, Marco Adriano,” she tightened her grip on the glass, finally looking at him. “That’s what they call you now, isn’t it?”
Marco didn’t know what to make of her placid gaze.
“I—I read it was a gesture—” he spoke in a frightened tone, stumbling over his words. “I didn’t mean to offend… Miss Constance—”
“Connie.”
“Connie,” he sighed.
Day after day, year after year, he had polished and rehearsed his speech. But no words came out, because deep in his heart he knew he had no right to speak. To Connie, he looked like the embodiment of unrest.
“I thought I’d never want to see you—after what you did to me—to us, to this city. I can’t forgive you, but I don’t hate you anymore.”
Marco covered his face with both hands in resignation. She was kind to the point of cruelty.
“I think you are a coward,” she continued in a tired voice, almost bored.
“I know.”
Connie couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t even look at her! Why was he, granny—why was everyone in this city a hostage to the past?
“At least look me in the eye when I talk,” she said, and Marco obliged, his face white with desperation.
“I was angry, and sad, and terrified. For nights on end, I obsessed over what it would be like, for my parents to still be around. I felt so lost—And then I realized how pointless it all was. All that mattered was what was left behind. The dead are just that—dead.”
Her glassy eyes betrayed her steady composure. She looked back at the shelves, sipping on juice after a moment’s pause. The silence between them relapsed.
“I have caused you a lot of distress,” he said, grazing the flower stems. “You will no longer see me if that's what you wish. But, I am happy—that you are alive.”
“Marco Adriano, you are a coward, and dull.”
He smiled.
“And you're the most amazing person I know. I'm glad I met you.”
Connie sprung to her feet, and clutched the flowers. Their conversation became too irksome, she thought, as she stomped towards the door. She turned abruptly around, finding Marco standing with a serene look on his face.
“You think you can come here and destroy, then act like nothing happened the moment someone is nice to you? You're part of us now! You'll soon find out how hard it is for the living.”
She spoke with an angry ring in her voice, clenching her fists. Marco remained unfazed as Connie walked out. It was as if, suddenly, he was able to see the light through the haze that was his life.
He almost spat his coffee, feeling Galahad's pat on his back.
“So you finally made a friend,” the bigger man said grinning, his voice full and resonant.
“You think so?”
“She takes from her parents. The Raveaus are often too honest, but they're good people.”
Marco nodded. Perhaps the city had succeeded in consuming him, reconstructing a new man from chewed-up pieces. He didn’t choose belongingness as much as it was thrust upon him, but there was nothing he could do to change that.
***
“You still can’t get it right?”
There was visible annoyance in Connie’s face as she stepped into the young man’s view. She had explained the shortcut to granny’s place three times by now, and he still managed to drift in random directions. It was impressive how disoriented Marco could get.
He beamed at the sound of her voice, watching the young woman with amusement.
“It’s not funny, Marco. I always have to come and pick you up. How can you fight for the Cristianos, if you can’t even find your way?”
He nodded, unable to suppress his smile. “Indeed. I would be lost—without you.”
***
There must be something wrong with her, Connie thought, to bring the man responsible for her parents' deaths to their grave. Granny would be furious, and that would upset her health.
She thought of the old woman, the picture corner in her meager room, all the candles and prayers spent on saints, to guide the souls of those who were never coming back. The memory of her parents, of all the lives lost, the horror and death reverberating through the city’s unconsciousness up to that day. Their shared history, the city’s own existence offended by his very presence. His bunch were intruders, destroyers, and they weren’t welcome there.
She knew of all that, and yet—the truth was, she had grown tired.
Soon after the incident, Connie saw a child being walked through the ravaged city, his hands bound in a heavy wooden weight, like some vengeful Jesus down his Calvary procession. People would hurl and scream in his direction, and there were red smears across his face. Then for five years he disappeared from the public eye.
Luca Cristiano was a smart man, and he could tame the beast, rumors said. Worick thought he was just a kind man without a plan. Cristiano didn’t know what he was getting into, and any attempt to re-instill humanity would not produce long lasting loyalty on the kid’s side. The mercy of time trampled the symbol of a killer into a curiosity, and Spas emerged from his rehabilitation as Marco Adriano, second in command to the Cristiano family.
That was when Connie’s annoyances started. For the past two years, she would spot him all over town, their eyes meeting in silence, before moving on. Chance occurrences and places converged into expected locations, with Marco often wandering around granny’s house. He harbored no twisted intentions, and she could tell, by his distraught demeanor, and the way his eyes would sink at the harshness of her gaze. Their involuntary game unfolded like clockwork; Marco couldn’t find the courage to apologise, and would shrink into the same corner or backstreet he appeared from, exacerbating Connie’s mood by the day.
She grew terribly tired—of the lack of resolution that was their relationship. They weren’t exactly strangers, and she couldn’t stand loose ties.
He held a bunch of flowers for two consecutive days, waiting at the familiar corner. She found him lost in thoughts on the second day, sitting on the outside stairs of the building, and staring absently at the ground. In Connie’s mind, Marco Adriano was a coward. Unaware of her presence, Marco shivered as he looked up, his eyes wide with surprise. She had taken a faulty move in their unspoken game, and it exhausted all the strength in his body to counter. Turns out Marco was truly a coward.
He had wanted to pay respect to Connie's parents, but had been too afraid to visit their grave on the day of their deaths. Hoping for a cruel miracle, he returned the next day, entertaining the futility of finding the right words to say, even though he couldn't for years. The barrier between them crossed, silence reigned once again. Marco said nothing as he followed her angry strides across the town, as if he had no right to even mumble, after all the trouble he had brought on her.
The books Marco had read ascribed a tender veneer to the macabreness of death, flowery prose smoothing its painful edges. Humans coped through aesthetics, erecting bridges of meaning and cultivating gardens of eternal repose, over the black, bottomless pit they didn’t dare look into. Cypresses and fig-trees in courtyards, roadsides of wild flowers, wet soft grass under one’s feet—an evergreeness of immortality. The common graveyard at the outskirts of Ergastulum laid barren in comparison; the grass was dull, and the wind rarely blew through the stubborn shrubs growing in spots.
Connie's parents shared a tombstone. At least normals had claims to a spot, and a name upon it, Marco thought. Twilights were buried in groups, all over the place, and one could be walking or living over their corpses, unknowingly. There was nothing poetic about death, and he knew, as its harbinger. He used to have nightmares, of the dead crawling out of open graves to swallow him whole. It was lucky and unfair that he was alive. Yet, it pained him to think of Connie amongst them, she who was so kind towards someone like him. After all those years, did she still think she was better off dead?
Lost in thoughts, he didn’t hear Connie ask for the flowers, her hand extended towards him. She put about half on the grave, returning the rest to Marco. He didn't object as he held the flowers, puzzled by the young woman's behavior.
“You know—I hate hot days like this,” she said, her voice exhausted by the oppressive summer heat. The sun was scorching, and there were no clouds in sight. “Your paycheck should be enough to buy a drink or two.”
***
Back at Bastard, Galahad was stupefied at the odd pair walking through the door. Loretta ran to Marco, locking the man into a warm hug. He flung his arm to the side, to keep the flowers from getting crushed.
“Would you look at it! Just like dad’s,” she twirled around to reveal her new burberry overalls, sharing the same pattern as her father’s suit.
The girl’s cheerfulness drew a wide smile from Marco, his eyes glimmering with tenderness. Connie was surprised to see Marco smile. When they first met, she couldn’t even read his face, from the amount of blood smeared on it. The only other mood she knew were his guilt-ridden expressions, as if he alone was suffering the death of God.
Galahad joined Loretta at greeting the duo, shocked but nonetheless delighted to see Connie. He wanted to learn more about how she and granny Joel were doing, but understood Marco needed her full attention. No one, outside of the Cristianos, interacted with Marco. He placed a glass of juice and a cup of coffee on the bar’s counter, then took his leave, pulling Loretta with him. The girl kept bugging about her father’s recent mission, wondering why he wasn’t back yet.
The place was officially closed until the evening, making Marco and Connie the only two customers. For a while, each kept shifting their stare between their drink and the shelves of bottles and glasses behind the counter, sitting uncomfortably on the high stools. Marco tore the packet of sugar with shaking hands.
“Why did you want me to keep them?” he asked, nodding towards the flowers resting on the countertop.
“The dead have no need for flowers, Marco Adriano,” she tightened her grip on the glass, finally looking at him. “That’s what they call you now, isn’t it?”
Marco didn’t know what to make of her placid gaze.
“I—I read it was a gesture—” he spoke in a frightened tone, stumbling over his words. “I didn’t mean to offend… Miss Constance—”
“Connie.”
“Connie,” he sighed.
Day after day, year after year, he had polished and rehearsed his speech. But no words came out, because deep in his heart he knew he had no right to speak. To Connie, he looked like the embodiment of unrest.
“I thought I’d never want to see you—after what you did to me—to us, to this city. I can’t forgive you, but I don’t hate you anymore.”
Marco covered his face with both hands in resignation. She was kind to the point of cruelty.
“I think you are a coward,” she continued in a tired voice, almost bored.
“I know.”
Connie couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t even look at her! Why was he, granny—why was everyone in this city a hostage to the past?
“At least look me in the eye when I talk,” she said, and Marco obliged, his face white with desperation.
“I was angry, and sad, and terrified. For nights on end, I obsessed over what it would be like, for my parents to still be around. I felt so lost—And then I realized how pointless it all was. All that mattered was what was left behind. The dead are just that—dead.”
Her glassy eyes betrayed her steady composure. She looked back at the shelves, sipping on juice after a moment’s pause. The silence between them relapsed.
“I have caused you a lot of distress,” he said, grazing the flower stems. “You will no longer see me if that's what you wish. But, I am happy—that you are alive.”
“Marco Adriano, you are a coward, and dull.”
He smiled.
“And you're the most amazing person I know. I'm glad I met you.”
Connie sprung to her feet, and clutched the flowers. Their conversation became too irksome, she thought, as she stomped towards the door. She turned abruptly around, finding Marco standing with a serene look on his face.
“You think you can come here and destroy, then act like nothing happened the moment someone is nice to you? You're part of us now! You'll soon find out how hard it is for the living.”
She spoke with an angry ring in her voice, clenching her fists. Marco remained unfazed as Connie walked out. It was as if, suddenly, he was able to see the light through the haze that was his life.
He almost spat his coffee, feeling Galahad's pat on his back.
“So you finally made a friend,” the bigger man said grinning, his voice full and resonant.
“You think so?”
“She takes from her parents. The Raveaus are often too honest, but they're good people.”
Marco nodded. Perhaps the city had succeeded in consuming him, reconstructing a new man from chewed-up pieces. He didn’t choose belongingness as much as it was thrust upon him, but there was nothing he could do to change that.
***
“You still can’t get it right?”
There was visible annoyance in Connie’s face as she stepped into the young man’s view. She had explained the shortcut to granny’s place three times by now, and he still managed to drift in random directions. It was impressive how disoriented Marco could get.
He beamed at the sound of her voice, watching the young woman with amusement.
“It’s not funny, Marco. I always have to come and pick you up. How can you fight for the Cristianos, if you can’t even find your way?”
He nodded, unable to suppress his smile. “Indeed. I would be lost—without you.”
