Read Online Beneath Ceaseless Skies #172 by E. Catherine Tobler, Erin Cashier, Shannon Peavey - Free Book Online
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sat, and then looked straight ahead at the dark silhouette of her face, at her gentle fingers coming up to trace the corners of his mouth.
“Ni sé porque carajos sigo contigo. ¡Mijor que me encuentre machos cabrones qui mi dejen menos canas, pues!”
Her fingers were so soft on his face. He wondered what she was saying. If maybe she said that she loved him, that she forgave him for always being false with her.
So he spoke, then, and told her everything that was in his heart. About his brother and his brother’s head in the glass jar; about their strange afflictions.
And she spoke back to him. Conversation between them had always been easy. And her tone was light and she laughed and patted his cheek and he knew that whatever secrets he might confess, he said them only to himself.
* * *
Leo did not sleep. He tried, but sleep wouldn’t come. So he went back out into the night, where the moon was just coming up and he had to take a lamp to be sure of his way.
Most of the WORLD’S MOST DEPRAVED TREASURES—FROM ACROSS THE SEVEN SEAS! had been packed away in crates. Cary’s head hadn’t, though. His jar sat on top of a sealed crate, his forehead tilted at a strange angle against the glass. His eyes were open.
He smiled when he saw Leo. “Do you have something to say to me, before we move on?”
I want you to stay behind
, Leo said, while his lips formed the words “I’m sorry I killed you.” That’s all Cary ever wanted to hear.
I’m sorry I killed you
.
“You don’t want to see me anymore. You think you’ll be able to start over fresh if I’m not around,” Cary said. “If there’s not someone constantly reminding you that everything you say is false.”
Leo said nothing. It was true; of course it was true.
“Well I don’t give a shit.” Cary’s voice sounded so strange, muffled through the alcohol and the thick glass. “I want to still be alive. Tough luck for the both of us.”
I just want to forget about it
, Leo said, while aloud he said, “You are alive. Look at you.”
Cary laughed. The force of it shook his head and he flopped backwards so the back of his skull hit the glass but he didn’t stop laughing. He screwed up his eyes and his laughing was a lot like crying.
Leo tried to snap,
Shut up, someone’ll hear you
—but instead it was quiet and almost kind. “Are you all right?”
Cary hitched and hiccupped and finally sat still. He cracked one eye open to look at Leo. “Do you think we ever really cared about each other?”
Leo hesitated. Only Cary asked him these questions, the kind he couldn’t answer because he didn’t know the answer and he never had. So he said,
What do you want me to say?,
and it came out, “Of course we did.”
“I knew you would think so,” Cary said, his face canted in an ugly slantways smile.
God only knew what he’d heard. They were not the same in this—their gifts were not equal.
To some the Spirit has given diverse tongues.
He’d heard it once in a sermon and felt the words shiver in his ribs.
And to others the interpretation of tongues.
Only this was not fair, not fair, because why should one man speak and not understand his own words?
He remembered being a child with Cary, remembered being the same in everything except that he always spoke too much and Cary always listened, always knew what he’d meant no matter what he said. But he didn’t remember if they’d cared about each other. It was all overshadowed with six months ago, with the memory of Cary’s blood slipping hot over his hands.
“What did you hear?” he said. “What did I mean?”
“You don’t know your own heart?”
I do
. Which
“Ni sé porque carajos sigo contigo. ¡Mijor que me encuentre machos cabrones qui mi dejen menos canas, pues!”
Her fingers were so soft on his face. He wondered what she was saying. If maybe she said that she loved him, that she forgave him for always being false with her.
So he spoke, then, and told her everything that was in his heart. About his brother and his brother’s head in the glass jar; about their strange afflictions.
And she spoke back to him. Conversation between them had always been easy. And her tone was light and she laughed and patted his cheek and he knew that whatever secrets he might confess, he said them only to himself.
* * *
Leo did not sleep. He tried, but sleep wouldn’t come. So he went back out into the night, where the moon was just coming up and he had to take a lamp to be sure of his way.
Most of the WORLD’S MOST DEPRAVED TREASURES—FROM ACROSS THE SEVEN SEAS! had been packed away in crates. Cary’s head hadn’t, though. His jar sat on top of a sealed crate, his forehead tilted at a strange angle against the glass. His eyes were open.
He smiled when he saw Leo. “Do you have something to say to me, before we move on?”
I want you to stay behind
, Leo said, while his lips formed the words “I’m sorry I killed you.” That’s all Cary ever wanted to hear.
I’m sorry I killed you
.
“You don’t want to see me anymore. You think you’ll be able to start over fresh if I’m not around,” Cary said. “If there’s not someone constantly reminding you that everything you say is false.”
Leo said nothing. It was true; of course it was true.
“Well I don’t give a shit.” Cary’s voice sounded so strange, muffled through the alcohol and the thick glass. “I want to still be alive. Tough luck for the both of us.”
I just want to forget about it
, Leo said, while aloud he said, “You are alive. Look at you.”
Cary laughed. The force of it shook his head and he flopped backwards so the back of his skull hit the glass but he didn’t stop laughing. He screwed up his eyes and his laughing was a lot like crying.
Leo tried to snap,
Shut up, someone’ll hear you
—but instead it was quiet and almost kind. “Are you all right?”
Cary hitched and hiccupped and finally sat still. He cracked one eye open to look at Leo. “Do you think we ever really cared about each other?”
Leo hesitated. Only Cary asked him these questions, the kind he couldn’t answer because he didn’t know the answer and he never had. So he said,
What do you want me to say?,
and it came out, “Of course we did.”
“I knew you would think so,” Cary said, his face canted in an ugly slantways smile.
God only knew what he’d heard. They were not the same in this—their gifts were not equal.
To some the Spirit has given diverse tongues.
He’d heard it once in a sermon and felt the words shiver in his ribs.
And to others the interpretation of tongues.
Only this was not fair, not fair, because why should one man speak and not understand his own words?
He remembered being a child with Cary, remembered being the same in everything except that he always spoke too much and Cary always listened, always knew what he’d meant no matter what he said. But he didn’t remember if they’d cared about each other. It was all overshadowed with six months ago, with the memory of Cary’s blood slipping hot over his hands.
“What did you hear?” he said. “What did I mean?”
“You don’t know your own heart?”
I do
. Which
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