Still mostly asleep, I opened my eyes in the semi-darkness of the room, only to meet his. Even in the dim light that got past the blinds, they were somehow gleaming warmly.
I turned around, images of that night flashing in my mind. I looked at my hand -- the recent wounds were a somewhat painful reminder that it hadn't been a dream. I closed my eyes only to find his -- but turned into a glistening void, full of cruelty. Instinctively, almost sobbing, I reached for my neck, only to realize that memory also hadn't been my imagination -- I had another couple cuts there, right across my throat. I couldn't bottle up the tears anymore.
I was stuck in those thoughts when I noticed a hand over my arm, gentle, caring. Shit. "I'm here, Sandy. I'm here for you."
You couldn't understand even in a million years, I thought. What had happened the night before had been all my fault -- to a point. I had asked for it, yes. But he had delivered much more than I had bargained for. Maybe trying to get me to stop and realize what a stupid idea it was. But it didn't make it hurt any less. You see, behind his "Trust me, Sandy" hid his raw brutality.
Yet every single time, I had told him to do it.
He dragged me closer and hugged me. "I'm sorry, boy. I'm sorry I don't know better."
"It's not even about that," I said coldly. "You wouldn't understand."
I almost heard his soft, sad smile. "I know why you did what you did. Sometimes pain feels better than regret, doesn't it?"
Shit.
"Turn around, let me see you."
My broken heart couldn't possibly say no. I turned around and again saw his eyes, a hint of sadness, of regret, clouding their usual shimmer.
"I'm sorry, Sandy."
I shifted around 'till my head was resting on his chest, his heart beating into my ear, steady, soft, warm. My world melted. Yet it did not make me forget what had happened a couple days before in the club. That poor girl. "You can't understand."
He started petting my head, my arm, lovingly. "You're still thinking of the other day, aren't you? Sandy, tell me, why on earth do you care so much?"
I sighed. "You can't understand, can you? ... Andrei, dammit, they're people."
"Yeah. People are stupid and greedy enough to get in there. That girl could have said no."
"And you could have given her a chance without making her go through hell first."
The very thought of his blunt answer made him grin. "First, I've told you, I'm not a charity. And, let me be honest here, I think you did her a favor -- she'll probably not come back."
"That's not my point. You could--"
"Yes, I could, and no, I won't. There's a reason they work there. They all could go and get some other job, but they don't. What they choose is not my fault, at all."
I sighed. "What about the people in the bridge."
"That's another topic, entirely. Sandy, let me tell you something about that girl. Give her a year, and I bet she'll be back for more. They usually do."
"That doesn't mean it's fair."
"Well, news flash, life is not fair, it will never be."
I sighed. "Why don't you care at all?"
He laughed at me. "Why do you care so much? Look, I get your point, I do. But you're assuming people are nice."
"Not everybody is like... this, you know."
He laughed at the joke. "You'd be surprised. Okay, let me tell you a story, yes? This country used to be communist, as you well know. Ask around, and those willing to tell the truth, will tell you that everybody was a firm believer in the system. Everybody believed in equality, and that stuff. Then the regime fell. Ask around. How many of those communists are now greedy capitalists who don't give a shit about others. That's people for you."
"Your point being?"
"That girl. I'll bet whatever the hell you want. Give her... two years. If she isn't back, ask her if she thinks it's not fair. You know what she'll say? ... That same as she got out, others can. Yeah, sure, it was hard, but worth it, and bla bla bla. Ask her if she'd do anything to change it, and I bet literally anything you want, then she won't care. Again, that's people for you. I've seen it again and again. They all want a better word while they have nothing to lose. But give them a comfy life as mid-class, and soon all they care for is the numbers on their bank account."
I sighed. "Well. Okay. But. The people in the bridge--"
"Those are actual rats. And I can prove that to you. They just don't want to work, period. They're there 'cause they have shelter, some safety, enough food to not go hungry. But give them a job, any job, and they'll say no."
"Working for you is not--"
"It's not working for me. I HAVE offered them jobs, yes. But it's not even that. Not all the jobs I offer mean working here. Most are simply to keep an eye out for news, and other than that, lead an honest life. We can go talk to some of the guys I recruited from the bridge, if you'd like. But anyway. It's not about working for me. They could find any other honest job."
"It's never that easy, they're there for a reason. Some of them have lost everything due to circumstances--"
"And those won't stay there for long, they'll always find a job in a matter of months. Or eagerly accept my offer. But the others -- they're rats who'd rather sit there than live an honest life. And so, that's what they do."
I sighed. I guess he was technically true, but knowing that a couple hundred of people lived under a bridge, and that he was 'partly' responsible for it all, knowing he gave them protection and enough money to go by, the price for his 'help' being having a reliable source of targets for 'training'... knowing what happened to these people, and then hearing him talk like that, was heartbreaking to say the least.
"What people chose to do with their lives is not my fault. Anyway, get dressed, we're paying a visit to a couple of my guys."
I turned around, images of that night flashing in my mind. I looked at my hand -- the recent wounds were a somewhat painful reminder that it hadn't been a dream. I closed my eyes only to find his -- but turned into a glistening void, full of cruelty. Instinctively, almost sobbing, I reached for my neck, only to realize that memory also hadn't been my imagination -- I had another couple cuts there, right across my throat. I couldn't bottle up the tears anymore.
I was stuck in those thoughts when I noticed a hand over my arm, gentle, caring. Shit. "I'm here, Sandy. I'm here for you."
You couldn't understand even in a million years, I thought. What had happened the night before had been all my fault -- to a point. I had asked for it, yes. But he had delivered much more than I had bargained for. Maybe trying to get me to stop and realize what a stupid idea it was. But it didn't make it hurt any less. You see, behind his "Trust me, Sandy" hid his raw brutality.
Yet every single time, I had told him to do it.
He dragged me closer and hugged me. "I'm sorry, boy. I'm sorry I don't know better."
"It's not even about that," I said coldly. "You wouldn't understand."
I almost heard his soft, sad smile. "I know why you did what you did. Sometimes pain feels better than regret, doesn't it?"
Shit.
"Turn around, let me see you."
My broken heart couldn't possibly say no. I turned around and again saw his eyes, a hint of sadness, of regret, clouding their usual shimmer.
"I'm sorry, Sandy."
I shifted around 'till my head was resting on his chest, his heart beating into my ear, steady, soft, warm. My world melted. Yet it did not make me forget what had happened a couple days before in the club. That poor girl. "You can't understand."
He started petting my head, my arm, lovingly. "You're still thinking of the other day, aren't you? Sandy, tell me, why on earth do you care so much?"
I sighed. "You can't understand, can you? ... Andrei, dammit, they're people."
"Yeah. People are stupid and greedy enough to get in there. That girl could have said no."
"And you could have given her a chance without making her go through hell first."
The very thought of his blunt answer made him grin. "First, I've told you, I'm not a charity. And, let me be honest here, I think you did her a favor -- she'll probably not come back."
"That's not my point. You could--"
"Yes, I could, and no, I won't. There's a reason they work there. They all could go and get some other job, but they don't. What they choose is not my fault, at all."
I sighed. "What about the people in the bridge."
"That's another topic, entirely. Sandy, let me tell you something about that girl. Give her a year, and I bet she'll be back for more. They usually do."
"That doesn't mean it's fair."
"Well, news flash, life is not fair, it will never be."
I sighed. "Why don't you care at all?"
He laughed at me. "Why do you care so much? Look, I get your point, I do. But you're assuming people are nice."
"Not everybody is like... this, you know."
He laughed at the joke. "You'd be surprised. Okay, let me tell you a story, yes? This country used to be communist, as you well know. Ask around, and those willing to tell the truth, will tell you that everybody was a firm believer in the system. Everybody believed in equality, and that stuff. Then the regime fell. Ask around. How many of those communists are now greedy capitalists who don't give a shit about others. That's people for you."
"Your point being?"
"That girl. I'll bet whatever the hell you want. Give her... two years. If she isn't back, ask her if she thinks it's not fair. You know what she'll say? ... That same as she got out, others can. Yeah, sure, it was hard, but worth it, and bla bla bla. Ask her if she'd do anything to change it, and I bet literally anything you want, then she won't care. Again, that's people for you. I've seen it again and again. They all want a better word while they have nothing to lose. But give them a comfy life as mid-class, and soon all they care for is the numbers on their bank account."
I sighed. "Well. Okay. But. The people in the bridge--"
"Those are actual rats. And I can prove that to you. They just don't want to work, period. They're there 'cause they have shelter, some safety, enough food to not go hungry. But give them a job, any job, and they'll say no."
"Working for you is not--"
"It's not working for me. I HAVE offered them jobs, yes. But it's not even that. Not all the jobs I offer mean working here. Most are simply to keep an eye out for news, and other than that, lead an honest life. We can go talk to some of the guys I recruited from the bridge, if you'd like. But anyway. It's not about working for me. They could find any other honest job."
"It's never that easy, they're there for a reason. Some of them have lost everything due to circumstances--"
"And those won't stay there for long, they'll always find a job in a matter of months. Or eagerly accept my offer. But the others -- they're rats who'd rather sit there than live an honest life. And so, that's what they do."
I sighed. I guess he was technically true, but knowing that a couple hundred of people lived under a bridge, and that he was 'partly' responsible for it all, knowing he gave them protection and enough money to go by, the price for his 'help' being having a reliable source of targets for 'training'... knowing what happened to these people, and then hearing him talk like that, was heartbreaking to say the least.
"What people chose to do with their lives is not my fault. Anyway, get dressed, we're paying a visit to a couple of my guys."
