Only you can save me (A Paul Walker fanfiction)

Chapter Fourteen: Alone

I hated that the world didn't stop turning, hated that life went on as usual as if tragedy hadn't taken place. News reports continued over the next days, anything Paul Walker related was newsworthy it seemed. News about his cars, about his funeral, about the crash itself, about tributes paid to him ... one topic after the other filled headlines. I let it all pass me by as much as possible. Simply breathing seemed like a hell of a job most of the time anyway, I had no energy to tear myself open by looking at the video images shown on TV. I wanted to crawl into a tiny dark space and never come out, but instead I was forced to live my life as if nothing was wrong. 

Of course that wasn't possible. I cried often, my work suffered because I just couldn't concentrate on anything. I had asked for time off, since I worked for my husbands enterprise you'd think that wouldn't be a problem but no, no time off, no reprieve of anything. Just reprimandes when things weren't perfectly in order. Part of me wondered where the love was in that, surely he had to see something was wrong? Someone had to notice how I felt? On the heels of that thought came the most unwelcome one: Paul would notice. That idea broke me all over again of course. 

I think the basic thing with me was that I didn't want to live in a world that he wasn't a part of. If he had broken things off with me because he wanted another woman, or any reason, the pain would be bad, but not like this. He would be somewhere enjoying his life as he always did not buried in the ground no longer part of the world. I wanted to, but could not bear to, see his grave. I felt offended by the plaque. Walker ... so impersonal, so crude. Surely there was so much to say about him? Didn't he deserve something more personal than just his last name? The closest I got were the gates of the cemetary. I couldn't go see it, couldn't go talk to a patch of grass as if I was talking to him because he would and wouldn't be there. Long story short: it wouldn't help me. 

We had a lot of history together but being his mistress (though he never once treated me like that let's be real, that is what I was) I had no place in his death. There was no mistress shaped hole in the worlds grieving process so I was left to deal with things on my own. And I wasn't doing so great ... Waking up in the morning was disappointing, and it was years later that someone said exactly what I felt: I didn't want to wake up anymore in the morning because I wanted to be with him.

I contemplated suicide but I knew he wouldn't want that for me. Did what he want matter anymore? Yes, hugely, and no, because he'd left me alone. Sometimes I felt so angry with him for doing that. And then I'd feel guilty for feeling angry, apologizing to the sky. I was drowning in my own emotions. I would have given anything to just talk to him one more time ... 

While I couldn't visit his grave, I started visiting places he liked to go. I avoided the places we had been in together because the memories were far too painful, but walked around the studio lots, and streets I knew he had seen. It was the only thing I had and it wasn't enough by far. The abuse started escalating and I didn't care what happened to me, I stopped fighting the rape or the hurt, what did it all matter anyway? Only the very worst could still break my cloud ... 

It was a few days after one of the very worst that I was walking around the outskirts of LA. Going nowhere, just walking ... I came to a grass field that sloped downward gently where some people were gathering after dark. No one in their sane mind probably would go sit there, but as I said, I no longer gave a damn about what happened. If they wanted to mug me, or worse, be my guest. The field was big enough to allow everyone enough personal space and I chose a spot somewhere near the middle. To the left of me sat a vagrant that stank to the high heavens trying to get some warmth from a fire that some others had started in a rusty oil barrel that was clearly there for that purpose. The fire was nearly out but he still had his hands outstretched towards the glow. To my right was an elder man who was extremely busy making an inventory of a wild assortment of plastic bags that were thrown haphazardly in a dilapidated shopping cart. There were more people around me, but those were the only ones I really saw and remember. 

I don't know why I chose there to rest, usually I wouldn't, but my feet were tired and here was as good a place as any. I put my arms around my knees and rested my chin, staring ahead but not seeing. Four months ... it had been four months since the crash and I still felt like I couldn't breathe normally. I closed my eyes and let a few tears slip, not even bothering to wipe them away. No one could tell me off now, no one could mind. Crying brought little relief, but not being able to cry at all was worse. A loud scuffle to my left made me open my eyes again, and I saw a group of youngsters who were in the process of chasing the vagrant away from the fire. The embers burned brightly enough to light up their well fed faces and I felt sorry for the man as I heard them yell at him, plugging their noses and pushing at him to make him get up and leave. 

He looks as desperate as I feel I thought, and resolved to not chase him away or get up if he sat down near me. He got up with great difficulty and started walking, a bad limp in his left leg. His torso bent almost double the other way and he walked slowly in my direction, then stopped to look around. He's looking to see where he doesn't bother anyone I realised, and motioned with my hand. Sit here, it's all good. A small nod and he almost fell down on the grass. I instantly regretted my decision as the smell hit me, this time from five feet away. It was as if a sewer and a garbage truck had made babies in a threesome with a month old cadaver, it smelled disgusting and I felt my nose wrinkle involuntarily. That didn't feel very nice so I fought to straighten my face again, and glanced at my new neighbour. 

Immediately the need for a fire was more clear: he was just wearing jeans and a short sleeved shirt. Both looked so filthy I would bet if he took them off they would stand up on their own. He had no shoes, a straggly beard and wavy hair that could have been green, it was impossible to tell under the grime that covered him completely. His breathing was strained as if he was in pain, his face averted to his left, away from me, as if he was still longing for the glow of the barrel. Or maybe just checking if and when the intruders left. 

I had a coat on, shoes, a sweater ... For a brief moment my crushing grief gave way to compassion and I was trying to decide if my clothes could be any good to him. Not that I was planning to strip to my underwear, but he could have my coat, why not? If he didn't keep it maybe he could pawn it off or trade it, or sleep under it. I didn't want him to think I had a savior complex (I knew from being homeless in Paris that some vagrants were mighty proud when it came down to it) so I debated the best way to present him with a probably too small but clean beige woolly coat. I took it off, took my wallet out of my pocket but left the money in, scooted closer to him (why was I doing this to myself smell-wise???)  and just stretched my arm out. 

It took him minutes to realise someone was trying to interact with him, and when he did he didn't lift his eyes from the grass, just took the coat. He said something too quiet and too murmured to understand, but I gathered it hadn't been "F*ck off" because he softly stroked the wool, then pulled the coat in his lap as a treasure. He inhaled the scent deeply, once, and I thought sadly that it was the first nice thing he had in ... I don't know how long. 

"There's some money in the left pocket, maybe you should take that out."

At first nothing indicated that he had even heard me, then his head came up properly as he nodded at me, not really looking at me but somewhere over my shoulder at the horizon. 

My world stood completely still ...