In some cases, the ease with which I give a dishonest answer is always going to serve me well in this race. But, of course, there is some level of accountability. If I tell lies all the way to city hall, then when I try to do anything I want to, people are going to notice. I am trying to do something good here, and I would like to get elected on the back of that if I can.
I’m a trickster. I stay in the shadows, manipulating over shoulders with a whisper.
With everyone still in the game, the process of discarding cards commences, and I set my expression accordingly. Grim determination that my luck is going to change at some point tonight. It’s fooling some. Others aren’t so convinced, but I need that too. If my gambit is to work, I need a healthy mix of scepticism at this stage of the game.
She hadn’t thought of it that way. I represent redemption. If she could take an independent from unknown to a winner in less than four months, imagine what she might do with another crack at her own career.
It’s not going to be easy to try to vocalize what I need when I can only lie or speak in questions, but I can make it work.. I’ve found my feet, and I’m sure I can weave my way through negotiations with the ancient man if I have to.
I’m here because of the redhead I saw neatly arranging the display in the window. For an instant, out of the corner of my eye, I caught the flick of her copper hair. It glinted brightly as it caught in the shop lights, a glimpse of brilliance against the evening darkness. The movement was so familiar, soft, gentle, and radiant. It reminded me so much of my Lily.
My issue seems to be behind me now. I’m tricking like I want to. With ease. Even a little flair. Now it’s time to get some proper clothes on my back, ones that befit the great trickster that I am.
The metaphor rolls oddly around my mind, the Americanism harsh against my thoughts. But that’s what I’ve got to get used to from now on. I’ve left good old England behind and removed any temptation to walk into a former accomplice’s business and ask for help. I’m alone in unfamiliar territory. I have to, want to, do this properly.
My hand shakes as I reveal how much I wanted Lily, and my horror when I realized that my own subconscious tricked me into killing her. I relive the shame as I write about how I behaved immediately after, dishonouring her memory, and what I then couldn’t do. I explained how I’m now a shadow of the god I used to be, how I feel so weak and powerless. When I place the final full stop on the page, I feel spent and exhausted. I suck in a few lungfuls of air and present my scribblings.
As I do, my hand brushes against something. It tickles my skin and stops me in my tracks. I stare down, taking in the sight of a single, out-of-place weed. It is a hideous, useless wildflower, and it reminds me so much of myself.
I wanted my proximity to communicate how sorry I was. Yes, I’d had the unspoken conversation with her over and over again in my head, but I felt like I actually needed to be in the same room as her once again. It oddly made me feel like she might hear me, forgive me. Yet, I didn’t know if it was okay. Should a killer attend the funeral of the person they murdered? Was it really the done thing?
I want to cry and can feel the pinpricks of tears behind my eyes, but I won’t give them the satisfaction. Whoever those bastards are, they won’t win. They will pay, though. I mean it. Revenge will be mine. As I sit up, my shoulders slump, failure a bitter taste in my mouth.
It takes a while, but finally, the crate is dug up and eased out of the hole. The workers shift back as one of them wrenches off the lid. It looks past the box’s top and then turns to me. It can’t speak, but there’s something in its features, something I don’t think I like. I step past it, every fibre in my body jangling. I think I’m ready for what I’ll see.
I merely grin to myself, taking more pleasure than I care to admit in the fact that I’ve bothered them for a change. I’m not washed up at all. I’m in charge of me, and them.
There’s a flash, and I’m looking into the face of one of my clay men. The grey features glare at me, perfectly created eyebrows dipping over unseeing eyes. Its grip around my neck tightens, but I don’t know what I’ve done wrong. Why is my own creation turning on me?
