Downworld

Chapter 43

If there's one thing the news media was good at, it was asking the same question a hundred different ways in an attempt to get a different answer. How did you feel? That must have been frightening. Were you afraid? Anyone would be terrified. Weren't you scared? Did you think you would die?

Blah blah, blah blah, blah.

Mind numbing boredom was a feeling I was becoming familiar with as I fielded interviews in the wake of the kidnapping. Some of them, at least, seemed interested in the more gory details -- which I heavily embellished to take out all the too bloody stuff -- and on Malik's hero show than sympathizing with my so-called traumatic experience.

The latest one had actually been vetted by the PR people, but still the same "are you okay" BS as usual. Only this time they brought Fiona in too, so we could commiserate on our victimhood together. I played the game, because pity-me coverage was better than no coverage, or worse look-at-these-monsters coverage, which was still going on in some places, though it seemed there weren't that many people willing to kick the dog when it was down.

Though Fiona played along as well, I could tell she liked it less than I did, but considering her disapproval didn't fade away during the tense, quiet drive back to Gateway, I figured that it wasn't the reporters that were on her mind. It was a good thing I was driving, and she was sitting in the back seat with Isamu; otherwise, we might have had our serious words in an enclosed space with no viable exists.

As it was, she stewed until we'd gotten back to the apartment and Isamu had wisely made himself scarce so we could have a moment of privacy.

'I think we need to stop,' she announced.

'In what way?'

'Actually, I think you need to stop using me like I'm a prop for your oppression show. I didn't like it before and I don't like it now. There's no reason for it either, since you've your own story to tell.'

That took me a moment to process, or maybe all the interviews had rendered me brain dead. What wasn't difficult to process was the way she was gearing for a fight if I gave her one, and I really wasn't in the mood for once.

'If that's what you want. But my story and yours aren't the same. Yours was a hate crime, mine was just bad politics.'

'That's it?'

I was very seriously considering taking up drinking again. Instead, I got a cola out of the fridge in the hope that the sugar had somehow turned into alcohol. 'Isn't that what you want?'

'How about an apology?'

'For what?'

And wasn't that the wrong thing so say. Her eyebrows shot up and she drew back like I'd hit her.

'For using me? For putting me in a position where I almost died and then parading me around so that everyone could gawk at my pain like I was a sideshow attraction.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Could you at least try to sound sincere?'

I poured the rest of the cola down the sink. Sugar wasn't going to cut it. 'Fine, I'm sorry you got hurt. And you're right, I've used you. You can consider it your repayment for college.'

She scoffed. 'If I'd known that would have been the price--'

'You still would have gone. Don't pretend you wouldn't have.'

'Don't tell me what I would have done.' She shook her head. 'When are you going to stop trying to make the world pay for what happened to you?'

'Is that your mother I'm hearing, or your grandmother? You're too smart to parrot other people's words, Fiona. If you want to be mad at me, be mad, but don't be stupid.'