It's Hard To Be Holy

EP. 42: The Author (Cont'd)

Coarse and Offensive Language. Reader Discretion Advised.

The door to the dining room burst open again, and swung back with violence, only coming to a stop when it crashed against the stone wall.

The Author gave a shout, and Alan Carr jumped to his feet, the cigar falling to the floor. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes wide with fright. 'Fuck off!' he snapped, and plodded back to the door. 'Whole fucking place is a wind tunnel. It comes off the ocean—' but his speech drifted off as he stopped at the entrance. He stood still there, staring out blankly into the courtyard, one hand on the door, the other twitching at his side.

'Are you okay?'

'Fine,' he muttered, and then more clearly: 'It's just...you're rushing me, and I don't really appreciate it.'

'I'm sorry, I don't mean to rush—'

He snorted, and with more strength that he had shown before, swung the door shut, slamming it into place. The room quivered with the shock, and the chandelier above swayed so visibly that the Author had to wonder when the last time the screws had been checked. 'I won't do it anymore. I won't play by his rules. I'll do it my own way. I should have always done it my own way...never trust anyone to help. They'll always fuck you over in the end. They always do...'

'Sorry, I don't...who are we talking about?'

But when he turned, all vehemence was lost, and there was that famous and well-practiced smile. It fitted Alan Carr's face so well. Too well. 'I don't know what it is...but you remind me of her. My Vera would have loved you...' He nodded to himself, and his shoulders caved in, and his head jutted out, and it wasn't hard to see what he must have looked like as a mischievous boy. 

'She was always at me...I didn't mind.'

'You must miss her.'

He didn't speak as he came back to the table, and took his time to light another cigar, completely ignoring the one smoldering on the floor. 'Do you have siblings?'

'I have a sister as well.'

'Is she a pain in the ass too?'

'Well...she's my sister.' It was the best and nicest way to describe her relation. After all, what can be said about the love and hurt that passes between siblings. It was easier to stick to facts, and not get bogged down in editorials.

'Is she a writer too?'

'No. She's an accountant.' An habitually unemployed accountant that is, added the Author to herself, and the voices of her parents came to her: 'You'll never make money as a writer,' they had said. 'Be like your sister. She's got a good head on her shoulder. Go into something employable. Don't throw your life away.'

'Would you miss your sister if she were gone?' The question, in its bluntness, caught the Author off-guard, and she noticed Alan Carr watching her carefully again. How many times had she wondered if it would be...better? Just easier if—but every time it had almost happened, how the Author had sat by her sister's side, holding her hand, praying and begging for another chance for recovery... 'Funny, isn't it?' said the old man, seeming to read her expression as if she had spoken aloud. 'How often we fantasize about life without them...how much easier things will be...but then, one day, they don't come back...and what the fuck are we supposed to do then?'

'Both of yours are gone now?'

'Hmm...I wouldn't call the fat one a sister. I don't speak for her. We were related, but that was as far as we got—but Vera! She was—' his eyes suddenly welled. 'I...the things that could have been said better. None of this would have lasted without her. I should be thankful. But then I think: Well...this wouldn't have happened if she were still alive...'