WICKED | WILLIAM FRANKLYN-MILLER

⟶ 9 | THE FIRST DEATH

"You know nothing about me, Lovey. If you did, you'd know you're wrong."

"Prove it then."

"Prove what?"

"That you can't stand being around me," I smiled, blinking up at him, "turn and walk the other way."

He knew what I was doing. I could see it in the way he shook his head, a soft scoff slipping out of his lips.

We were standing in the middle of the pavement, blocking the path of many people around us, but neither of us dared to move. It was a showdown of the most stubborn proportion. I wanted him gone, he needed to stay, but neither of us wanted to be in each other's presence.

Bending down to match my level, he frowned. "How about you turn around and keep walking."

I narrowed my eyes. "I don't want to—"

"Now."

The way he said that word was so harsh and raw, that I felt it chilling through my bones like ice. If I hadn't grown numb to his presence, I might have even flinched. He wasn't entertaining my games. Instead, he flipped the table entirely without batting an eye.

Letting out my own scoff, I spun on my heels, stalking away from him. I could never win. I refused to lose, at the same time. We were always at the same bloody stalemate no matter how many times we argued.

I wanted him gone.

⚘

THE ARC DE TRIOMPHE REMINDED ME OF A WINDOW.

I could look through it to see the other side, yet I'd rather remain right where I was. Here. Sitting on this bench, staring up at its towering structure and wishing I could climb to the very top. Paris might look even more beautiful from up there.

After our debacle a few minutes ago, Creep and I hadn't spoken a single word to each other. He lingered by a metal bin a few paces away from the bench I sat on, my shopping bags littered around his feet. I was bothered with him (again), but I took another moment to observe him.

He wasn't looking at me. His gaze was focused up on the Arc like mine had been earlier, but his seemed more of a wistful expression. Almost as if he was seeing it for the first time, though it was clear it wasn't. He never had his emotions on display, which meant I had to pry into the quiver of his lips in order to know that.

The breeze drifted through the wind and against my arm, and I felt a chill shiver down my spine. It was already evening, and the sky was turning from grey to violet. I didn't want to budge from my seat. I wanted to revel in this peaceful silence we'd created, staring up at a beautiful landmark.

"Your job doesn't leave much room for tourism, does it?" I asked quietly, risking a whisper.

Creep heard me. "No, it doesn't."

"Is this your first time leaving England?"

"I never said I was from England."

"I can hear it in your accent," I said, turning to look at him, "maybe you weren't born in England, but you're English all the same."

He didn't say anything for a moment, eyes pointed at the Arc. I knew he didn't like me imposing on his personal life, but I couldn't help but be curious. I hardly knew who he was, other than his constant agitation and bad mouthing habits. I wondered if he had a family he'd left behind. If he had friends. If he was married.

I wasn't expecting him to respond, but surprisingly he did.

"I've been to Paris before," he said stiffly, "but I was too occupied with other things to take a look around."