SECOND DRAFT: Hard Bank Left

17

Graham sat at his desk, taking in everything Celeste had said, the insight she had given him. He didn't know Krys, at least, he didn't think he knew Krys, but he did know something: "I would never do that, Celeste."

"It doesn't mean that you don't want to."

"That's beside the point. I would never do that, and you know why."

"I know why, and you need to get over that."

"I don't think I can."

"I think you can."

"That's your opinion."

"That's your opinion. You've been thinking it for a long time. It keeps coming up. You are literally fighting it. You keep lying, to her and to pretty much everyone."

"She's going to take it the wrong way."

"That sounds like a personal problem."

"I'm not going to do it."

"But you really should."

"No."

"I can be just as stubborn as you, and you can't shut me off anymore, and I can follow you anywhere."

Graham glowered at the tiny pink figure. "I'm really good at ignoring."

"I also have control of the ship. I can set off alarms, and suddenly drop us twenty feet, and open up the windows while you're getting dres--"

"Okay, fine. I get your point. Where is she?"

"Where do you think she is?"

Graham's scowl dropped to unamusement.

"Oh, oh yeah. Sorry. She's-- she's in the pilotry."

Graham decided not to go to the pilotry, something in him told him not to, something that was holding onto a memory that he couldn't quite reach. Sitting in his green chair he wrestled with some semblance of an emotion that just wouldn't go away: resentment. Flavored with a newfound disdain for the creature that Celeste had called his best friend. That resentment sifted to the surface and lay there, bare for him to analyze. It mustn't have mattered to him very much if it hadn't been burned away, but then, when all the strong and bright and clear paths were gone, what was he left with but the things he'd never been forced to think about before. Evidently there was a lot he hadn't been forced to think about, because as soon as the thought crossed his mind a series of memories bubbled up. Krys felt, she felt deeply, felt strongly. She yelled, screamed, laughed, cried. It was the crying that killed him the most. After all, he knew what it was like to rage, he knew what it was like to find humor in things. But crying? No, crying wasn't something he thought himself capable of doing.

He hated her for it, for being able to thoroughly consume what he wished he could merely taste. There was nothing so happy, or depressing, or heart wrenching that could make him cry. How easily she had burst into tears right in front of him. He hadn't even been that harsh. Hell, she probably had known him when he was like that all the time.

The wish that he could remember all of her, and not just the moments where he wished he could kill her, filled him so completely, so intensely. It hurt. It physically hurt not being able to remember the one person he had been told meant more to him than everything except, maybe, his inventions. He kicked off his shoes, tucked his knees to his chin, and stared out the porthole to his left.

If she was still crying, she'd be right behind him. Celeste was right, he did want to, even if just as a gesture that he wanted his memories back, but he found himself frozen, isolated, not wanting that sort of contact - or any sort of contact, for that matter. He didn't want to be touched. Touching was a violation of his personal space, a violation that all too often ended in him being hurt.