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It is exhausting, he thinks, to be a ghost.
Of course, he is not actually dead, not anymore, not yet. But he cannot call himself alive, not without an acidic lump rising in his throat and a persistent thought at the back of his mind - it should’ve been her. The abrasive, lecherous lawyer-turned-coma patient over the bright, determined rookie defense attorney. It's not hard to tell who is more deserving of life.
What a shame.
Both of them have found themselves in the wrong words, the wrong tense - she is the deceased, the gone-but-not forgotten, trapped in the past by a single word, while he is the living, the fresh faced and rosy cheeked, stuck amongst people who still remember how to live, to inhale and not choke on your own saliva, to look at themselves in the mirror and see a person and not a corpse walking.
He cannot bring himself to do it. He knows what he will see. Doctors have commented that he looks rather healthy for his condition, that he is sure to be back to full health soon.
Fools, he thinks, every last one of them, for surely anybody so familiar with the sick and dying must be able to smell the stench of rot that follows him, must see the flatness in his eyes, must feel the chill permeating his bones to the marrow. Surely they can see that he is not fit for the world beyond the hospital, surely they will let him stay in the haze of painkillers until he drowns.
And yet he is free.
What does that say about him? Think, Diego.
That he looks well enough to be alive. Yes, very good. But then what about Mia?
Her smile, crinkling the delicate skin at the corner of her eyes. Her eyes, blazing at a challenge. Fingernails bitten down to the quick. Compassion towards each and every poor soul at the agency’s doorstep. Everyone deserves a fair defense. A pep in her step after a not guilty verdict. Her razor sharp wit, flashing out in moments of playfulness. The smell of her, coconut shampoo and cheap soap. These are all hallmarks of someone who lives, fiercely and unapologetically.
Her pulse, frozen solid under the soil.
On nights like these, he finds himself at the doorstep of her old agency. Hand poised over the knocker. The light above her door is dark, probably cut off to save electricity. The only thing marking him are the three glowing lines of red on his face.
People ask him why he wears the mask. Is it some kind of fashion statement? Does it hurt?
How can he see through it?
What’s under the mask?
He doesn’t answer. He could say any manner of absurd things to get them off his back. But the truth is, nothing. Sure, his eyes are there in form, but they are unseeing, and strictly speaking, unnecessary. Withered away. Whether it was from the poison in his cup five years ago, or the decay in his bones that has never left, he doesn't know.
Liar, liar.
He wonders if others can see it. Can they see the maggots feasting on his flesh, the peeling skin on his palms, his teeth yellowing in his mouth? Grief has no physical form. It can’t. Grief is the absence, the feeling that somebody who should be here isn't.
And whose fault is that?
Questions, so many questions. And so few answers.
He imagines knocking now, seeing her joyful face at the door inviting him in, placing his shoes next to hers in the foyer. Sitting down on that ratty couch she only kept because she’d gotten it for free, chastising her for working so late. Teasing her over it. Got nobody special to waste your time with, kitten? Her sassy response, delivered with affection and that devastating grin. Not right now, unless you’d be willing to give up a few hours? Walking out together, breath frosting in the air, his hand in hers.
For you, I’ve always got time.
He had time, until he didn’t. She had time, until she didn’t. He chuckles at the irony.
Cheesy music floats down from above. He faintly recognises it, that theme that she hummed to herself occasionally. Some children’s show.
He lets his hand fall from the door.
When he’d gotten his prosecutor’s badge, the first thing he did was immediately abuse his power. Headlines, interviews, interrogations. Photos. Medical records and a receipt for throat surgery. Procedure leads to a paper trail. A university student in a pink sweater. Red hair over bare shoulders.
He studies the face in front of him. Open expression, kind eyes, a hint of conviction behind that stained mask. It is familiar, too familiar.
He will crush this man.
It’s cold on the mountain.
Ice traces its way into his body, slowing the blood pounding through his veins to a sluggish crawl. Yet he has never felt more alive.
Isn’t that odd?
He feels closest to her here, like he could just reach through the veil between this world and the next and pull her back. Her face scrunched up, eyebrows pushed together. Cut it, Armando. Every good lawyer knows to only claim what you can prove. He claims, with all the fervour his heart has left, that she is here with him. But then again, she was always a better lawyer than him.
Her feet shift on the snow. The ghost of her hand on his back. Her breath on his neck. For a moment, he wishes he was born a Fey woman, just to hear her voice again. Can’t you say another word, dearest? The illusion hangs heavy in the air.
Footsteps sound through the night, loud and urgent. In the light of the moon he sees it- red. Red flowers, red fruits. Roses in her hair. Watermelon candy wrappers in her purse. Red hearts. The blush on her face.
Red blood. A spreading pool under her body.
He stands up and dusts the frost off his skin. She doesn’t move. Relax, dear. He strides towards the garden.
Is there salvation for him? There is no coming back now, surely. The word is ugly, pointed, it is everything he hates.
Murderer.
Inked in red on pristine white paper - a cruel, cruel joke. Red. Red. Red. All around him is the mocking glare of what he has lost, of his fatal mistake.
He slams his cup down on his desk, uncaring of the coffee spilling over the rim. It splashes onto his hands, etching burns into the fragile skin of his knuckles. He knows Trite is staring at him, eyes tracking the wasted drops. Seeping into the wood of the desk. Forever stained with the memory- don’t forget me, not you too. If he does it enough, will it crumble? The heat stings his hands, his vest, his tie. He can’t take it off. Will they see the decay of his heart through his skin, will that be enough to place among the nameless hordes of the guilty? The devil is next to him- you’re no better than me claws at his throat, pressing into the jugular, so close to piercing- just do it, just do it, just let me go-
And he cannot breathe, because Mia is next to him, and when he looks into those eyes he sees nothing but sorrow.
Diego, my dear, what have you done?