{ Who } Gil { What } Letters and whiskey. And regret. { When } Sunday evening { Where } His trailer { Rating } PG { Status } Complete (solo)
Gil had fought tooth and nail not to get an assistant. And technically, he didn't have one-- he had a prop, sort of, albeit one who talked too much and tried too hard and followed him like a puppy. At least he stayed out of the way when he had to.
But it was still too much. Too close. Gil worked alone for a reason.
Sunday night found him contemplating that reason despite all his best efforts not to think about it-- which was the entire fucking point, not thinking about it, not remembering. Sunday night found Gil alone in his trailer with a half-empty bottle of whiskey at his elbow and a scatter of letters across the table.
"--know that together, this act could rival even Houdini's"
Gil drank.
"If I had not met you, my soul would still--"
He felt the whiskey burn down the back of his throat, relished the sting of it. Hell, he wished it stung worse. If he had a box of needles or razor blades or angry hornets, he would have drunk that.
"--cherish every memory of our night together"
Gil slammed the bottle down a little harder with each letter that passed through his fingers, until the flimsy card table was shaking. He didn't even need to read them. He knew them by heart. He knew every loop and line of the handwriting by heart. He knew every careless smudge of ink. The only real reason to read them again was to torment himself.
"I am begging you to reconsider. Please, think of our--"
Gil drank and read until his eyes swam and his head ached, and when he finally passed out it was with one single thought on his mind: