Re: quicklog: atticus/matt
[Wasn't under any illusions about what Matt was. The topic had come up often with Steve. Knew about the metal arm. Knew about Matt being presumed dead. Knew the particulars. Details from a book, like the ones Atticus' father had read voraciously. History. History always made Atticus think of his father. Thinking about his father usually opened the door to guilt. Atticus hated guilt. Tried not thinking about his father. Tried not thinking about his mother. It was harder when he was blitzed. Harder to not open the door to all those memories and recriminations. Couldn't help but wonder what the old man would make of all of this. Atticus still remembered his father telling him about Cap. His father had called him that- Cap. It was all surreal in a way that Atticus didn't even question. The number of normal things in Atticus' life were well outweighed by the abnormal ones. But Atticus, himself, was human. Was vulnerable. Could die. Wasn't young anymore. Smoke. Ate wrong. Got himself drained by vampires. Wasn't particularly careful. Didn't give a shit. Atticus had stopped giving a shit a long time ago.]
You're making me enjoy not answering the question. [There was that lazy smile. Head back against the wall, shoulders rolled lazily, and a smile that took its time.] Honestly? Can't remember the question. [More smile. More smirk, but just as languid.]
Don't mistake writers for heroes. The men you're talking about are heroes. Steve was a hero. Writers are selfish assholes. Brilliant, talented, selfish assholes. The good ones are fearless. Say the things people are scared to say. Say it in a way that hits you like a fist to the gut. Heroes save people. Heroes suffer, sacrifice. Writers suffer, but they don't sacrifice. Don't save people. Would argue writers make more of an impact than heroes. Assume you'd argue I was wrong. Haven't had discussions like this since Steve was here. [Was definitely drunk. Reached for the whiskey glass, but it was empty. The bottle was over on the nightstand. Held onto the glass for the moment.
What people read always said things about them. What they remembered clearly said even more. What they quoted gave away secrets. Most people didn't notice. Atticus was good at going unnoticed. Was his special skill. Wasn't expecting this encounter to be any different at the end of the day.] Readers, real reader, always go back to their old friends. [Shook his head. Curls were a mess. Really should cut them.] Can disappear in the real world. Can get so good at pretending there is no past, that there's no past. People do it all the time. Forget the past with a new lover, a new home, a new job, a new vice. People think life is about remembering. Isn't. Life is about forgetting the bad things. About picking yourself up and moving on. Wouldn't be able to carry on otherwise.
[A laugh. A cough. More of that unhealthy rumble in the chest.] Tony parents? Rich. If you mean rich? Rich. Both came from Knickerbocker families. Both gave it up. Moved to the slums. Tried to teach inner-city kids. Tried to make a difference. [Wasn't making a statement about whether they had. Atticus had no clue if they would've made a difference. Ruined their lives before they had a chance. Looked around again for that bottle. The glass was resting at his hip now.] My father's Brooklyn. History teacher. Obsessed with World War II.
[P.J.]
Interested in her?
[The scars. Atticus looked down. They weren't just on his forearm, though they were most numerous there. Were countless old IV scars. Over his torso, medical procedures left stories in their wake. Ostomy, reversed a long time ago. A vertical abdomen scar from exploratory surgery. Multiple laparoscopic scars. Biopsy scars at hip and back. Port scar on his chest. On and on. Didn't answer Matt's question immediately. Just looked down at his arm. Other arm had different scars. A jagged line where bone had come through skin at the forearm. More of the same at the bicep.] Might steal my story. Where would my novel be then?
[A snort of his own.] Are young. Numbers are just numbers.
[Touching. Thumb dragged down to metal.] Know some about this, but not much. [Didn't open his eyes.] Refill me and tell the story? Be Kerouac.