Disclaimer: Not mine. Never were or will be.
Summary: A collection of Bobby drabbles featuring Thursday lyrics; this is the seventh and last installment, continuing when he is nearly forty-three years old. It's still 2004, and Bobby will do anything not to let her win again…
Archive: Amorous Intent, of course. Anywhere else, please ask.
Rating: R just for caution...
…Choke on her words…caught in your throat…
"People like us just aren't meant to have children, Bobby..."
It was just like when he had been a boy. She spent a little time with him at a time he'd rather forget and she just presumed to know him. How he longed to throw those words of hers, so haughty, so certain, back in her face as surely as she'd tossed so many things at him. Her very manner in his presence, always searching for the slightest opportunity to hurt him, reminded him so forcefully that she was a hungry lioness and he the unlucky gazelle who wandered into her line of vision that it was all he could do at some moments not to turn and run. But he would never run from her. He'd never give her the satisfaction of getting to him ever again. All he had to do was find an opening. It was like chess...just like chess...
…How long can the wheels maintain a spin…at this velocity…
"Well, don't count me out yet."
He thought about it sometimes. What being a father might be like. But he didn't get his hopes up. At the moment, though, he figured he was better off than she ever had been. He had stability, of sorts. People he knew cared whether he lived or died. He knew, however, that if Nicole wanted, she'd try to steal that, too. If only to torment him. So he played the game to the best of his ability, pulling out everything he had. If only to just this once see her as rattled as she'd gotten him. She was doing her usual maneuvers of trying to unsettle him by catching him off-guard. But he was ready. She couldn't hide. Not anymore.
…Since I replaced the 'i' in 'live' with an 'o,' I don't remember who you are…
"She could never..."
"She was precocious that way, this three-year-old, wasn't she?"
"Stop talking about her."
He had her. God...he had her.
"Three years old...that's how old you were when your father first molested you..."
"I won't listen to this."
"He said that it was your fault. That you seduced him. That all little girls flirt with their daddies. And you believed this big lie. What other explanation could there be? Why else would your father do these horrible things to you...?"
Some faint, nearly deadened part of him enjoyed watching her so upset, but he killed it. He would not take satisfaction in this. That would make him no better...or, perhaps, worse.
…I will change back to myself…in the flame…
"How could you not be jealous of her? You couldn't allow her to take your place."
"I did not kill—"
"And throughout this whole thing, you haven't managed one solitary tear for her."
It's that lack of compunction...of remorse...that turns his stomach more than anything else. To be so utterly inhuman so as to not mourn the loss of your own child...he hopes he never finds out what that feels like. He can't understand it and thanks God for that.
He wishes he could've helped her.
…Cut the jet-black from my hair before we're bathed in the dawn…of the New Year's Day…
He stares at her lying there, on that slab, and against his will some part of him breaks. He tried so hard, but he failed her. And here was the proof.
"Sparkling little girl."