Chapter 21: When Acrobats Defeat The Brain Of Destruction

I think this cola's poisoned. It tastes so disgustingly awful. When we bought it from the gas station, I didn't notice that it was punctured a little on the side. I bet the puncture is from the pinprick of the syringe that injected the poison into the soda. So now I'm sipping poison and my hands are sticky. Even worse is Andy's completely ignoring me.

He shouldn't be mad at me. I can't think of anything I've done that's out of the ordinary, so he can't be mad at me. Unless this is because I brought to the surface painful memories from his childhood—but if he's blaming me for that, then I'm mad at him, because that was so utterly his fault it's not even funny.

"Hey," I say, lowering the bottle of cola just low enough so I can speak. The poison that's in it is highly addicting. "Where are we going?"

"Market," he says shortly, and I gloat in victory. At least that's better than nothing.

Then I think about what his asshole brother said to me: "Why don't you just go a few blocks over to the market and whore yourself off to some other fag?" Then I start to think about the possibility of Andy dragging me over to the market to sell me off into pleasure slavery. Then I think maybe Andy was the one who poisoned my soda.

That would give me stories to tell. And I'd finally have something to complain about. Plankton aren't even good enough to be eaten by sharks.

Warily I look around, eyeing the falling down buildings, the chipping stucco, the invasive desert plants, dirt roads, rocks, sun-bleached paint on splintering signs, tiny haunted-looking shacks… It's such a poor place, it's a wonder anyone ever comes here. But all the signs are in English, so they must be used to getting American travelers here.

"Restaurant," says one sign vaguely. "Fireworks," says another. "Pawn," says the next.

A flutter of movement draws my attention to the corner of the pawnshop. I stop and watch, feeling a certain, paralyzed sort of fear, as none other than Tony, Andy's asshole brother, steps out and stands, smirking at me in an altogether sinister manner. Another man joins him from behind the building, this one smirking as well, and flipping a knife around in his hand.

A surge of fear rushes through me, and tensely I reach out, yanking Andy around to face me. When he looks at me inquisitively, I point over toward the pawnshop…but, somehow, the two are already gone. Andy glances around, and then turns back to me, looking at me like I'm an idiot.

"What?" he asks.

I don't answer him for a while, and instead peer around his shoulder at the pawnshop, halfway expecting them to emerge again while he's not looking. I clutch my poisoned cola in my hands as if it were a security blanket.

I know I didn't just imagine that. I couldn't have. I don't have hallucinations about strangers and people I hate… Right…?

"What?" Andy asks again, in an annoyed tone that doesn't seem to fit him so well.

"I saw…" I start, and glance at the shop again. "I could have sworn I saw Tony there. With some guy with a knife…"

Andy falls silent, and contemplatively peers over toward the pawnshop, watching it for a moment before turning back with a lethargic shrug.

"Forget it," he orders solemnly and continues on his way, down the same path he had been following earlier. I watch with a crushing sense of defeat at his retreating back. I take another sip from the poisoned soda, wishing its effects to come soon.

We're at odds, and for once it's not my fault. I don't like this. I don't even understand this, and that doesn't serve to make it any better.

break;

I stop at a cart selling woven rugs. Assaulted by bright reds and pinks and oranges and yellows, my eyes instead travel to the girl sitting near the register. She smiles up at me, and I can't help but stare.

I swear, she is one of the most beautiful girls I've ever seen. Looking at about seventeen, her skin is clear and golden, her eyes big and brown, rimmed with naturally thick lashes without even a touch of makeup, her face round with full cheeks, and perfect teeth lined with thick, moist lips. A colorful shawl, woven with an intricate design of threads, holds her straight, thick black hair out of her face, and matches the bright dress she wears.

"Hello, handsome," she says in a thick accent. "Are you looking for a rug for your home?"

I don't believe I have a home. But I don't tell her that. Instead, I say, "I think these rugs are too big for my apartment."

"Then you can use them to decorate your walls," she says, her smile unfaltering.

"Wouldn't that make it a little hot?" I ask.

"It is worth it," she replies, blushing a little. "The colors make you happy." I can't help but grin.

"Did you weave these?" I ask, and she nods shyly.

"My mother and me, yes," she answers humbly.

"Your mother must be beautiful," I muse, and the girl looks at me confusedly.

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, these rugs are so beautiful themselves, and only beautiful people really have an eye for beauty. So your mother must be beautiful, to be able to weave this nicely," I explain. "Unless, of course, your own beauty makes up for it. That wouldn't surprise me."

"You are so kind," she practically whispers. I think that's the first time anyone's ever told me that. And here I am, thinking I'm just flirting. Poor girl.

"I'm not being kind," I reply. "I'm just stating the truth."

Her blush deepens, and she looks away. "Handsome and kind… You will make somebody happy someday."

I fall silent, staring at her as she blushes and refuses to meet my eyes in embarrassment. Now I feel bad, and I can't quite explain why. I pull away from her, stepping back into the crowded street and almost getting taken down by a rushing passerby.

"Maybe I'll see you around sometime," I utter awkwardly, because I don't want to leave without some closure, but I don't want to stay either. Turning on my heel, without even waiting for her response, I join the crowd meandering through various stands and kiosks, hoping that I can get lost inside of it. Vaguely I hope to find Andy—that is if he isn't being so callous anymore. I haven't seen him in over an hour—I wasn't exactly following at his heels, so by the time I reached the market, he was gone. I've been lost since then.

Wandering through the market, then, seems to be my only option until I find him again.

I stop in front of a stand set up with a variety of woven dolls, out of sheer interest. Dolls have always creeped me out. I think it's their eyes—especially the lifelike ones. The more realistic dolls get, the creepier they get. Their beady little eyes just stare out blindly at the world, soulless. It chills me to the bones.

Looking at these dolls, I feel hardly different. With a shiver, I shove my hands into my jacket pockets, only to be greeted by something that is hardly any more comforting: the cold metal of Andy's gun, which only contributes to the deathly chill that has somehow snuck up on me. Once again, I hear my father's words, unbidden, in my head: "Touch that gun and you're dead!" And then the images of Red, and Andy in his destroyed car, bleeding endlessly from the head, follow.

Quickly, as if burned (though I have to say it is quite the opposite), I pull my hands out of my jacket and instead bury them into my jeans' pockets.

I had forgotten the gun was in this jacket. Though now that I've been reminded of its existence, the heavy weight of it mocks me—How could I not have noticed? How could I even have forgotten? Now it feels like the gun's trying to pull me straight into the ground, it's so heavy.

All of a sudden, I'm knocked off balance, and have to struggle regain it. When I manage to, I turn to glare at whatever was the culprit, and my eyes come to rest on a strange woman, bowing her head in apology. She whispers something in Spanish, and then turns and darts away, disappearing into the crowd like a ghost. I watch a flock of people flow past where she had run, washing away her traces like a wave, and I fall into a sort of mournful silence, entranced with the sheer uniformity of the passersby.

Staring into the crowd, I am assaulted by the sense that something is missing in it. Among all the people rushing around, there's something that's just not there…

"Hey!"

A rough hand clasps onto my shoulder, jolting me out of my trance, and I swing around to be greeted by Andy's grinning face. Once the initial shock wears off, I find myself exceptionally relieved to see him again, especially with such a welcomingly familiar expression.

"Andy…"

"God, man, you look like you saw a ghost," Andy comments, and his grin turns strangely sweet. "Come on, let's get out of the way."

With that, he drags me to the side in between two stands and holds a rainbow-colored stick encased in plastic in front of my face.

"Try it," he says. "It's good."

"What is it?" I ask, eyeing it cautiously.

"It's candy, dipshit," he says in mock irritation, and pushes it forward into my hands so I can't help but take it. I unwrap it slowly and reluctantly put it into my mouth. It tastes pretty much exactly like a generic lollipop. "We have those in America too, stupid."

"Hey, I don't appreciate the name-calling," I scold halfheartedly, mocking him. I pull the stick of candy out of my mouth as I speak, and then shove it back in when the sugar coating around my tongue begins to dissolve. Andy grins, but it quickly fades again.

"Um," he starts uneasily and looks away, "s-sorry, about the way I was treating you earlier. I was…kind of upset."

I flash him a smile, and find myself surprised that it comes so easily to my face. "Well, you're lucky you managed to come around so quick, because I just met this really beautiful girl, and I might have chosen her over you if you were still being an asshole."

"You would have picked me over her," he informs me matter-of-factly, as if there were no room for doubt. I lift an eyebrow at him.

"Is that so?"

"Yeah, 'cause I've got something she doesn't have."

"And that would be…?"

He looks at me like I'm stupid, like I should know, and shakes his head as if I were a lost cause. "A dick, of course," he answers. I roll my eyes, but quickly turn serious.

"I thought you were mad at me," I tell him, and his eyes fall to his shoes.

"No, I wasn't mad at you," he says. "I was mad at…things…"

"Andy," I say, putting my free hand on his shoulder. His eyes snap up to mine, and I pull away, forgetting what I had planned on doing.

He looks at me silently for a moment, and then smiles faintly. "Let's go home. Cassandra's probably already back."

break;

Andy decides to make dinner—his own family (minus, perhaps, Tony because we haven't seen him around) is absolutely ecstatic since, apparently, Andy is some master cook and makes the most delicious food ever. I never noticed.

He and Cassandra seem to be in cahoots. When he kicks me out of the kitchen, claiming that food preparation is a form of artistic expression and he needs privacy (despite the fact that he never seemed to mind my presence when he cooked in my apartment), Cassandra is waiting just outside in the front hall and does not hesitate to corner me.

"You know," she says, grinning mischievously, mirroring Andy once again, "of all of Andy's boyfriends, I think I like you the best."

"That's nice," I mutter for lack of anything better to say, inching away from her toward the stairs. Her grin is unfaltering.

"That's a good thing, though," she tells me, "because I think Andy is most serious about you. He seems to really like you as a boyfriend."

"That's really nice," I say sarcastically in an attempt to throw her off. "'Cept I'm not his boyfriend."

Cassandra blinks at me, her grin finally fading. "That's not what you said last night."

"I never said I was his boyfriend."

She gives me an unexpected glare. "But I thought we settled it that you were."

"Well," I shrug, "that's your loss. I told you you're presumptuous."

"I think Andy thinks you're his boyfriend," Cassandra comments, just as the door from the downstairs bedroom creaks open and the ancient grandmother shuffles out, grinning toothlessly at us as she limps past. We must look odd to her, what with me cornered against the wall with a girl half my size hovering in front of me, but she doesn't look even the least bit curious.

I fall silent, staring at her warily as she makes her excruciatingly slow voyage to the living room. Cassandra sighs noisily.

"She doesn't speak English," she says. "Not a word of it, so quit worrying."

"It's weird," I reply, staring at Cassandra sharply, "talking about this in front of anyone."

"It's weird to you only because you're weird."

"Maybe, but that doesn't change anything."

Cassandra huffs but turns around with a smile. She calls something to the grandmother in Spanish, and the grandmother responds, her engraved smile unchanging as she mumbles something back. Then she continues her journey.

After much too long, she finally makes it into the other room, and Cassandra turns back to me.

"As I was saying," she says cocking her head to the side and letting her eyes slip halfway closed in a haughty gesture. I believe I've seen Andy do that before. "I think Andy thinks you're his boyfriend."

"Well, that's his mistake, then," I respond, a little bitterly. Cassandra hardly changes her stance.

"You know what? You're right. Your relationship with him is complicated," she says, and I'm not sure if I should smile in victory. I opt not to, and find myself grateful for my choice. "It's only that way because you make it like that. You're really messed up."

"Thanks…" I mutter, scoffing at her.

"I didn't mean that in a mean way," she says quickly. "I'm saying, I think you need to think about stuff. I'm not being pre-sump-chus either. It's obvious that you're the one who's screwing things up."

I frown at her and her little speech. Shows how much she knows… Does she even realize how fucking fickle Andy is?

"How well do you actually know Andy?" I ask.

"He's like a brother to me," she answers without pause.

"Yeah, but how well do you know him? How often do you really see him? Once a year?"

Cassandra frowns now too. "No, more than that. I see him every Thanksgiving and Christmas, and he comes around a lot during the summer, too, when he has off school."

"That's not enough. You don't know anything about him. You only see him in family situations. He's a lot different when he's on his own, or with his friends. And the only friends you know of his are the ones he drags down here because he doesn't want to be lonely."

"You're wrong."

"And don't you think that it's odd how many people he actually brings down here? Isn't it just about a different guy each time? Do you seriously think that it's the other guy's fault every time? Andy's just perfect, isn't he?"

"He is perfect," she insists, and I look at her incredulously.

"He is not perfect. Nobody's perfect. Didn't anyone ever tell you that?" I sigh and rake a hand through my hair. "You say I'm messing everything up, but I'm really not."

I fall silent under Cassandra's glare, and turn introspective. I'm not messing everything up. How could I be, when this isn't even about me? It's up to Andy and Sam to do all the messing, not me. I have no power over this.

"You're saying that the reason this is so complicated is all Andy's fault?" she asks.

"Yeah."

"You're so stupid!" she cries, and I step back in surprise, effectively banging my head against the wall. I reach up to touch it tentatively as she goes on with her rant: "I don't care what you say! Andy's a good person. And it takes two to tango, isn't that what they say? You've got to have some part in it!"

"You don't even understand what 'it' is!" I respond without pausing to think about what she said. "I've been fighting Andy this whole time because I don't want to get sucked up into whatever his deal is! I'll just be an innocent bystander, anyway, so I'm going to fight it with all I've got!"

I'm not sure she understood everything I said, but she definitely got the gist of it. Her eyes glaze with anger. "Well, stop! Just stop! See what happens."

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard!" I growl and push past her, marching angrily up the stairs, and retreating into the bedroom. I close the door softly behind me and lean against it in frustration.

I hate it here. I want to go back to my little apartment, to ridiculously boring college courses, to fucking Cindy and partying all night with Mark and his beer buddies. Whenever I've ever had meaningful relationships, they've always proved to be trying but never rewarding. Inevitable destruction.

Stop fighting Andy… She doesn't know anything. She doesn't know about Sam or any of that shit. I'm not going to take the advice of some sassy, ignorant little thirteen-year-old, no matter how desperate I am. I'm right, I know what I'm doing, because I've done it before. I can recognize crushes and loves and obsessions, and I know what Andy has for Sam will utterly annihilate whatever he has for me.

I remember, once, in high school, I had invited three of my acquaintances over—they weren't even my friends; they were just some guys in my class who I had over to work on a project. I remember one of the guys, Kevin, was a real bad-ass of the class. He was super popular and everybody liked him (though I didn't much)—you know, the typical jock dude.

My dad, when I brought the boys over for introductions, was drunk and started insulting me. He warmed up to the boys, rather than me, and led them in a verbal assault against me. He said I was too girly, that he couldn't believe I actually had male friends. He said he bet that they only agreed to come over and suffer me because they thought that if I was so feminine, they wanted to see if I had a sister.

Then he started talking to them. He told them that my mom had wanted to name me Jamie, and he said that he wished he'd never protested it or demanded that it be Peter, so that then there wouldn't be a problem with names—he'd just be able to chop off my dick and he'd have a daughter.

I started crying—of all of the worst times to cry, I had to choose then—so I ran away and locked myself in my room. Later, when my dad tried to come get me out for dinner, I screamed at him for scaring off all my friends like that, to which he only said: "Real men are doomed to be alone. Those who aren't are despicable. Pussies. You don't need friends."

Three weeks later, I had to switch schools because I was going to be expelled for breaking Kevin's nose and arm in a fight.

Real men… That's the way it is.

break;

Notes: The girl selling rugs is, in fact, the same age as Harry. And, yes, that was a hint.

I have some qualms with this chapter, but…ergh, yeah…

Thanks to: ChibixHolic, Collar de Espinas, Paperback Mummy, ddz008, mandraco, tinkle time kelly, Keterah, wickedzl, Jayn, electraray, and ItalianQT for your reviews!