Blond, red or raven black hair... blue or green or gray eyes... all of them were fine with him, to dance, to drink to sleep with. Brian could enjoy himself with them, could live in the present. He flirted, he played and he always made sure they knew it was a game, because he could never be serious about them. Not those girls. They were safe. It was the others that were dangerous.
Those brown haired girls, with golden highlights, the ones with dark brown eyes, honeyed skin and playful, sensuous mouths. They were the ones he stayed away from these days. He'd learned that lesson very quickly. He'd been drawn to them, at first, spent the evenings with them, dancing, imagining he saw those light gold flecks in their eyes, hearing that laugh, that voice and when he went to bed with them, his hands remembered her curves, the velvety feel of her skin, her soft sounds, the silk of her hair against his bare chest. And then he would wake in the morning and look over- and it wasn't her and his chest would ache as if he were losing her again, over and over, until he learned. They were never good enough, never Mia.
He never spoke her name aloud, never told anyone about her, about what he'd done. He kept her picture hidden in his wallet, behind his lisence and sometimes, in the middle of the night, he would take it out and run his fingers lightly over the well worn surface. She was smiling, her eyes dancing playfully, the sun lighting her face, her hair tossed over one shoulder. He would stare at her and feel his heart tear. For a second, he would consider throwing it away, wonder why he put himself through it, but he never did, he always slid the photo reverently back into its place. He would continue to keep it, to look at it, to rip his heart from his chest. The pain was no less than he deserved. He'd betrayed her, betrayed all of them, betrayed himself... and no punishment would ever be enough to absolve him of his guilt.
So Brian stayed clear of those girls with her coloring, with even the slightest resemblance to her. They could never be Mia. He tried not to think of her, of what he'd done, but whenever he slid behind the wheel, whenever the engine roared to life, whenever he tore through the desert with the power of NOS, he remembered and then and only then, did he cry.
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branchandroot
No Punishment Great Enough
Date: 2005-04-23 09:36 pm (UTC)Those brown haired girls, with golden highlights, the ones with dark brown eyes, honeyed skin and playful, sensuous mouths. They were the ones he stayed away from these days. He'd learned that lesson very quickly. He'd been drawn to them, at first, spent the evenings with them, dancing, imagining he saw those light gold flecks in their eyes, hearing that laugh, that voice and when he went to bed with them, his hands remembered her curves, the velvety feel of her skin, her soft sounds, the silk of her hair against his bare chest. And then he would wake in the morning and look over- and it wasn't her and his chest would ache as if he were losing her again, over and over, until he learned. They were never good enough, never Mia.
He never spoke her name aloud, never told anyone about her, about what he'd done. He kept her picture hidden in his wallet, behind his lisence and sometimes, in the middle of the night, he would take it out and run his fingers lightly over the well worn surface. She was smiling, her eyes dancing playfully, the sun lighting her face, her hair tossed over one shoulder. He would stare at her and feel his heart tear. For a second, he would consider throwing it away, wonder why he put himself through it, but he never did, he always slid the photo reverently back into its place. He would continue to keep it, to look at it, to rip his heart from his chest. The pain was no less than he deserved. He'd betrayed her, betrayed all of them, betrayed himself... and no punishment would ever be enough to absolve him of his guilt.
So Brian stayed clear of those girls with her coloring, with even the slightest resemblance to her. They could never be Mia. He tried not to think of her, of what he'd done, but whenever he slid behind the wheel, whenever the engine roared to life, whenever he tore through the desert with the power of NOS, he remembered and then and only then, did he cry.