The Mechanic

-Chapter Twenty-Five-

Location: Central

My eyes don't have a straight course of action as I sit here, staring out the window in my shop. It's just an alley, after all. My eyes have a tendency to wander.

All I can see are a couple of cans, the shattered corpse of a liquor bottle, a stream of slowly-flowing muck, and a couple of chickens pecking through a pile of dirty newspapers.

How is there so much newspaper here? Central doesn't have a newspaper. There's no one who would want to read the news.

"Mechanic?"

I don't reply, even though Spero's voice is far from grating and actually rather pleasant. I just don't feel like talking. Is it a crime? Probably.

I don't care.

"Paris, you know it's okay to talk about it. I'm here to listen and help if I can."

"No one can help," I sigh.

Unlike the last time she slipped through my fingers, I'm not dying. I eat. I sleep. My voice stays strong and doesn't catch in my throat. Everything would appear to be okay if someone were to judge my mental health on my physical appearance.

But flesh and bone can hide monsters. Smiles can hide so much pain, and warmth can kill the chill of thousands of past screams.

I swallow, eyes glued on a single crack in the brick wall opposite me.

"Come on. I know that you need to talk about it."

I sigh, closing my eyes for a moment. "That's your greatest downfall. You always think that you know things. But I don't want to talk about it. I swear. There's nothing that I'd like to discuss with you less."

He looks at me for a moment—I know, even though I don't bother to take a glance at him. He's watching me, trying to decide what I'm thinking, trying to convince himself that he can read people.

And maybe he can, but he won't be reading me. I don't want to be read. I don't want to be read...

"Mechanic, it wasn't anyone's fault." His hand rests on my shoulder, and I flinch, brow folding into a concentrated scowl.

I don't want to be touched. Or read. Or considered.

Why won't these people just let me be alone?

"You need to face some of this. Closure helps the healing process, you know?"

"If I were able to get closure, I wouldn't need to heal. Because she'd be here."

He doesn't say anything else; not for a while, anyway.

My morbid mind keeps trying to drag that day back, bloodied and battered and shattered... like her, and I try to spin my head away from all of those thoughts, but I don't succeed. Not well. Not well.

I didn't go back for her ashes. And somehow, even though the thought of possessing someone's remains is an oddly depressing one, I almost regret my choices.

I regret all of my choices.

Her. The chasing. The neglecting of her ashes.

From gray to color. Gray, again.

I rub my forehead, wishing that I could stop thinking. Wouldn't that be helpful? I think so. I'd like to stop thinking so.

All I can hear is Spero breathing, and it rasps my ear drums raw.

"Leave me alone," I whisper, looking up. My eyes are burning.

Ashes.

He shakes his head slowly, and I find it unbelievable how old he's gotten. Where is that shadowy little kid? Where is that watered-down pair of hazel eyes? Where is that careful, breathy, child voice?