had to go down this road eventually
James's fingers itched for a cigarette, for the comfort of somethin' to do with his hands and his lips, somethin' completely different from what he really wanted ta do. Something destructive and awful, something leading to death, somethin' he wouldn't mind taking him right now.
He leaned against a chainklink fence, hazy blue eyes barely focused on the clean, eggshell white building afore him. Cars filled the parking lot. They had arrived about forty, forty-five minutes ago, and James had seen them all. He had seen the darkly clothed women and men, confused children, and veiled relatives step out of the cars and make their way inside, not a one of them noticing the man in faded jeans and green flannel across the street.
He couldn't go in. Anyway, it was too late now. The service was most likely done, the friends and families and acquaintences and nobodies mingling awkwardly, some trying not to cry, some weeping too loudly. James didn't want to go in and take part.
Bowing his head, James felt like shit. Shit because he couldn't go to her funeral, and shit because he wasn't as sad as he should be. Shit because he was way more torn up about the little girl than the woman, even though the woman was the one lost.
Cassidy had never really forgiven James. Or Sawyer, as she insisted on calling him, forever defining him as a conman, never just as a man. She might have appreciated him, she might have been able to see that Clementine doted on him and that he on her, but Cass never forgave him for breaking her heart. It wasn't about the money. Cass had said once that James could never change, that he had proven himself beyond a doubt to be forever nothing but a conman. She said that even if James's infamous Mr. Sawyer hadn't shown up when he was just eight or so, he still would have fumbled his way into that sort of life. Cassidy believed in self determination and never shied away from blaming James's failures on him alone.
James wondered if the philosophy of self determination brought into account the fact of drunk drivers and hit-and-run accidents.
A drifting crowd was starting to make its way out of the funeral home now. James stood up a little straighter as he simultaneously hunched his shoulders and leaned back into the metal cushion of the fence. He couldn't see Clementine, the small blonde figure of his daughter. She must have been there, even if he doubted she'd understand the enormous truth of what was going on.
He wasn't sure he'd ever see her again. Cassidy's boyfriend had been the one to tell him what had happened. Gerald had seemed numb, unable to speak in complete sentences, and James had sat the other man down and they had drank, once Gerald had managed to get across what had happened. James never disliked Gerald; on the contrary, he seemed like a really good man for Cass, and he had even seemed to understand why James felt the need to be around sometimes. They had both loved Clementine -- they both love her, she wasn't gone, she wasn't dead like her mother.
But neither of them had any legal rights to the little girl. When Clem was born, Cassidy hadn't put James's name down on the birth certificate. Gerald hadn't adopted her or anything. The courts didn't know James or Gerald from Adam when it came to Clementine. That was the main reason James couldn't have gone to Cass's funeral. He was mourning Clem maybe more than he was missing her mama, and that just wouldn't have been right.
Gerald was in the crowd across the street. He was hard to miss, tall as a mountain and dark as a raven. He didn't see James, and James assumed the other man still didn't see him as he turned tail and started to walk slowly away, down the street, away from his family.
James roughly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, looking only at his feet and the gray concrete under them as he walked toward his truck, parked on the side of the road a block or so away. Again, with the loud snap of a broken twig, his life was changed by forces outside of his control. Was this fate or just more shit being thrown his way by no clear, definable force?
"Fuck," James breathed out as he jammed the key into his trunk's front door. Maybe he shouldn't have left the island, maybe he should've stayed where he could be blissfully unaware and unconnected. Fuck.
He leaned against a chainklink fence, hazy blue eyes barely focused on the clean, eggshell white building afore him. Cars filled the parking lot. They had arrived about forty, forty-five minutes ago, and James had seen them all. He had seen the darkly clothed women and men, confused children, and veiled relatives step out of the cars and make their way inside, not a one of them noticing the man in faded jeans and green flannel across the street.
He couldn't go in. Anyway, it was too late now. The service was most likely done, the friends and families and acquaintences and nobodies mingling awkwardly, some trying not to cry, some weeping too loudly. James didn't want to go in and take part.
Bowing his head, James felt like shit. Shit because he couldn't go to her funeral, and shit because he wasn't as sad as he should be. Shit because he was way more torn up about the little girl than the woman, even though the woman was the one lost.
Cassidy had never really forgiven James. Or Sawyer, as she insisted on calling him, forever defining him as a conman, never just as a man. She might have appreciated him, she might have been able to see that Clementine doted on him and that he on her, but Cass never forgave him for breaking her heart. It wasn't about the money. Cass had said once that James could never change, that he had proven himself beyond a doubt to be forever nothing but a conman. She said that even if James's infamous Mr. Sawyer hadn't shown up when he was just eight or so, he still would have fumbled his way into that sort of life. Cassidy believed in self determination and never shied away from blaming James's failures on him alone.
James wondered if the philosophy of self determination brought into account the fact of drunk drivers and hit-and-run accidents.
A drifting crowd was starting to make its way out of the funeral home now. James stood up a little straighter as he simultaneously hunched his shoulders and leaned back into the metal cushion of the fence. He couldn't see Clementine, the small blonde figure of his daughter. She must have been there, even if he doubted she'd understand the enormous truth of what was going on.
He wasn't sure he'd ever see her again. Cassidy's boyfriend had been the one to tell him what had happened. Gerald had seemed numb, unable to speak in complete sentences, and James had sat the other man down and they had drank, once Gerald had managed to get across what had happened. James never disliked Gerald; on the contrary, he seemed like a really good man for Cass, and he had even seemed to understand why James felt the need to be around sometimes. They had both loved Clementine -- they both love her, she wasn't gone, she wasn't dead like her mother.
But neither of them had any legal rights to the little girl. When Clem was born, Cassidy hadn't put James's name down on the birth certificate. Gerald hadn't adopted her or anything. The courts didn't know James or Gerald from Adam when it came to Clementine. That was the main reason James couldn't have gone to Cass's funeral. He was mourning Clem maybe more than he was missing her mama, and that just wouldn't have been right.
Gerald was in the crowd across the street. He was hard to miss, tall as a mountain and dark as a raven. He didn't see James, and James assumed the other man still didn't see him as he turned tail and started to walk slowly away, down the street, away from his family.
James roughly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, looking only at his feet and the gray concrete under them as he walked toward his truck, parked on the side of the road a block or so away. Again, with the loud snap of a broken twig, his life was changed by forces outside of his control. Was this fate or just more shit being thrown his way by no clear, definable force?
"Fuck," James breathed out as he jammed the key into his trunk's front door. Maybe he shouldn't have left the island, maybe he should've stayed where he could be blissfully unaware and unconnected. Fuck.