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 Posted: Mon Dec 02, 2013 12:52 am
A stubborn smile was Shiloh Parish’s best feature, the warm upturn up his mouth a sign of an unbreakable spirit, of the stupidity of eternal optimism.
He wore it like some kind of badge, as if by smiling he could make the world a little brighter, as if the world did seem brighter with a smile. It wasn’t a sneer or a smirk, or even always as rambunctious as a grin. It wasn’t anything to anyone but himself, the man with pink hair and duck boots.
Nonetheless, like all shields, eventually smiles crack.
His smile, constant though it was, wasn’t invincible. It was a little lopsided even now, the soft lilt a product of a smile broken and repaired one time too many. But that was Shiloh, ever hopeful; each time the smile was wiped from his face he picked it back up, fixing it gently in place. It was his, after all, and no one else’s to take away.
Rep hadn’t been the first to try; it seemed the happiness of a smile was quicker to incite anger than the indifference of a frown. His father’s hand had been swift to strike it down, and later, his brother’s, and countless bullies too worthless to name. But still, he never learned, no matter how many cracks hit his face. Shiloh had been born blonde and fair and fragile into a world that demanded anything but, in a world where worth was measured by the size of one’s truck and a six pack of beer but he’d been born smiling, a child of curiosity and mirth, and the innate sense to see the good in everyone. It was impossible to knock the happiness out of someone where hatred didn’t exist.
It was why, though his body was dead, and unable to smile, he smiled anyway. There were many other things he could have done, but he pushed away the thoughts that threatened to slip into the cracks of his smile, to tear it to ribbons the way Rep’s axe had his face. Instead, he drew himself up tall, whatever he was, a specter tapping gently on the glass of the pod across from his with a crooked little smile.
“I’m sorry,” he said genuinely, to the wide blue eyes that peered back.
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Posted: Mon Dec 02, 2013 4:20 pm
Sorry meant a lot of things. It didn’t mean, by any stretch of the imagination, that Shiloh thought Rep was any less of a bigoted a*****e, or that he in any way excused the man’s behavior, or that he forgave Rep for killing him over an insult the redhead had no problem dishing out to other people, that he had no problem hurting other people with. It didn’t mean he was sorry for standing up to him, or that, if they somehow made it out of this mess, that he would ever stop standing up to him, and people like him. He was sorry, yes, that Rep was dead in a pod and that he himself was left floating, non-existing, a hollow shell of his living self. He was sorry at they grief they’d caused in the faces of those that came to visit them, the sorrow and the tears and the hurt. He was sorry for that very first tweet, that biting insult that got his point across but in the entirely wrong way, for the message that baited the bear not by being better than him, but sinking to his level. It hadn’t worth it. Rep hadn’t been worth it. Shiloh was disappointed in himself, he hadn’t led by example, he’d let his smile become that on the face of an instigating little s**t disturber and for that he was sorry. It was a mistake he wouldn’t repeat. Would he ever even have the chance to repeat it? He was dead after all. Shiloh refused to accept that kind of finality, and he refused to be sorry he’d stood up to him.
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Posted: Mon Dec 02, 2013 4:22 pm
“Right here,” Shiloh said, staring at Ian’s back as the man leaned his face against the pod. “I’m right here. It’s okay.” But it wasn’t okay. It wasn’t okay at all. Ian couldn’t hear him and, above everything, that broke Shiloh, as he stood there like a lost little child, tears streaming down his face. He didn’t realize he was crying. He couldn’t feel the tears hit his cheeks because he couldn’t feel anything at all. Why then, did it hurt so much? Ian couldn’t hear him. He couldn’t feel him, as Shiloh’s fingers reached tentatively for his shoulder, couldn’t seem him as Shiloh recoiled, terrified when his fingers didn’t stop, when they passed through Ian like they weren’t there at all. Like he wasn’t there. “I’m right here,” he said again, louder. “I’m right here,” he said over and over until he was screaming it, until the very effort of trying to make himself heard dimmed the outlines of his body. “I’m right here,” he said softly, finally, as slid to the floor, tucking himself against the chair Ian unfolded, leaning against his legs. “I’m not going anywhere.”
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