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Roses Round the Door
by Nicola
Rating: PG-13
I always thought I wanted the romantics' dream; a quaint seaside cottage with a white picket fence and roses round the door. Danny and I would talk about it sometimes; moving away from the spitfired harshness of Los Angeles, and into a simpler life. Maine, Connecticut, Massachusetts; miscellaneous places I used to fly over in my superspeed bubble, on my way to save the world and damn myself.
It's beautiful here; it's the picture postcard I used to clutch to my heart. A simple white-washed house atop a cliff that plummets into gentle waves, and a man who would die for me (and probably will, in the end). I wanted this; wished for it night after night; and finally asked for it -- Please, please just make it stop, let us leave, let us live.
Night-time is the worst. To have seen the things that I have seen, it is nonsensical to be scared of the dark; I know that assassins appear in sparkling, sun-filtered courtyards, not from beneath your bed. But as the sun sets, the shadows and echoes of people I thought I knew and loved slide from behind the thin walls. During the day our little house often feels too big; bare and peeled dry. As the darkness crowds in, it becomes claustrophobic. Figures cloud the empty spaces and I cannot breathe. I'm a different person now, with a fresh drivers license to prove it. It's too bad I can't wipe slate clean of these images; horrific and fresh as white paint on the walls: Vaughn's expression of faint surprise as the bullet punctured his neck; Francie's naked body slumped in the bath tub; the Nothing they brought back from Bolivia.
I prefer to sleep during the day; long naps punctuated by longer walks (to nowhere, and then back again). This feeling of being constantly tired seems to suit my frame of mind. At night we sit up until late becomes early and the darkness peels back to reveal another day; a shiny, new day which we will patiently wait to pass, until it's time to watch the darkness all over again.
Our ritual is this: Firelight and candles, to deceive and banish our fears. Bottles of hard alcohol to soften the quiet misery that stirs at night. He strokes my hair with gentle, dream-like actions, soothing me like a child. We drink, and make temporary, honey-tinged smiles for each other, which remind me of Tequila kisses of old. These days the Tequila is no longer a chaser, and there is no ice-cream sweetness to follow. Sometimes we make love; slowly, painfully like the final strains of a concerto echoing around an empty room. Sometimes we just sleep, like children who cling for comfort. (No dreams or childish innocence for us, though.)
I awake, blinking to weak sunlight and the realization that it is just another morning; not Judgement Day after all. Another day of waiting. For the long-range gun. For the masked man. For the final tick of a bomb.
I know that one day we will not wake.
December 2002
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