A/N: Yeah there not mine. This is number eight... wait... 9 of my christmas fics... the good the bad and the terrible...
Next Up is... Hostage... Tie Me Down...
The most innocent, loving person in the world had to pay for your sick obsession. Was it worth it?
He used to love the sounds of the mill, use to love the smell… sawdust and earth, deep, rich. He hates it now for the same reasons, hates the memory of dark skin that flits beneath his lids anytime he catches the scent of freshly cut timber.
Hate is too light a word, loathe and despise, just don't seem to cut it either. Detest, abhor… he could run through the whole dictionary and never come up with a weighty enough word.
Actions speak louder than words anyway and the town at least adequately reflects the resentment he feels.
It starts with the casino, dropped right on top of the hills, right where they use to play as children. A huge neon beacon that clearly says… 'I don't give a fuck anymore… about where you are or who your doing…'
He remembered standing on the dirt hilltop opening night, standing and staring down at the dark silent town, angered by how much it didn't buy his bullshit.
The epiphany had hit right then, the town was mocking him… It had to be, ghosts of Chris still lingering there, pair of footprints in now dry cement, the cigarette burns on the back of the park bleachers, black and red graffiti tags that decorated the town.
He'd paid a fortune to have it all ripped up and replaced, everything top to bottom. Had even had new grass laid in the park so that he could never possibly sit on something the other had.
It didn't work.
The town was still teasing him, it was so… clean and scrubbed and pure… so good, so much like Chris. So it had to go, he had to deep-six the town…
Much to his chagrin though, he couldn't actually negotiate the bulldozing of an entire town like he had that hill.
He took pleasure in hacking off a limb instead, and watching the rest of it flail. He could take the mill away, could take away that sickening smell of lumber, of fresh sawdust. Could lock the gates and broad the windows and eventually crush where Chris and he had shared their first kiss.
He over it, he's done, hearing the nail being hammered into the last board being put up on the mill convinces him of this. His head feels clearer; his skin doesn't have that bug crawling itch anymore… He's happy.
Its not until he sees how easily the drugs twist the town that it occurs to him why he would ever start producing them in the first place. It's fine though, because now, he's happy. The towns poisoned, dying almost, mutating into something foreign.
He's standing on the hill again, content that the town is no longer mocking him… That what's before him is nothing that could possibly resemble Chris, takes great satisfaction in twisting and polluting something as pure as that.
Its pretty how he can now see himself reflected in those sloping rooftops, it leaves him calm… cold… He wonders what Chris is doing and then tells himself he doesn't care…