Whiskey was rushing through his brain. Past and present and future mixed and became totally mixed up. How could he tell her his shame of taking money to take a life. How could he tell her about the many, many nights, full of nightmares, children swinging on crutches, screaming at him, headless. Her killing was an accident. He had pulled a trigger.
How could he tell her of the immense shame and sadness he felt and what he had become. How could he tell her about what he now wished to be. Fuck, he had told her everything, but he had told her nothing! How could he tell her about Cookie. Beautiful Cookie. His Cookie? How could she ever understand that? The bond that death formed?
If he told her any of that she would leave him. He would disgust her. As he was disgusted with himself for his blindness.
"Why is it OK to see the way you see, the things you see? Why is this more "right" than what "I" see? You think I see nothing? I see the world, just not as you see it."
Yes, he was disgusted with himself for his blindness.
They had not been the good guys. They had never been the good guys. They had used him and he had been a willing monkey. A stupid monkey. Making millions for himself while making billions for his masters. Swig. The whiskey burned and he was glad of it.
Swig.
What was he? A non-thinking, non-feeling killing machine. Cookie. Cookie had watched as he had killed the fuckers who had killed Jade. Cookie was supposed to be next. Already tied, naked, to the table. She knew what he was. She was the only one. Cookie. His Cookie. How could he tell Lucy about Cookie? The beautiful Chinese irresistible girl who provoked to feel safe? His Cookie who had seen too much? His beautiful Cookie?
Swig.
No. He would tell Lucy nothing of Cookie, not this stuff, this stuff, no, nobody could understand this stuff.
Swig.
As he looked at Lucy now it all came back, his shame, his hurt. His violence. For what? What was he? What was she to him, after all, this girl from the beach?
Swig.