ladychaos

I'm unsure of what to feel right now. I'm torn between altruism, childish love and fear. I swear, this beautiful boy with a shark's smile will be the death of me. I want so badly to help him, but it's difficult when he looks through me with those eyes and speaks with that gruff, yet resonating voice. "I'm not a good person," he tells me, a cigarette held comfortably between two deft, a-bit-lighter-than-caramel fingers. He says this often. Sometimes in jest. Sometimes with an aggravated insistence that is frankly, terrifying. Sometimes I almost believe him. But the words usually just hang in the air, not quite awkwardly--but meaningless. He's not bad---at least, not that bad. People tense around him because he's cocksure and walks with swagger. But I don't mind, because I know that he's more than just talk. People see him and see a thug. I see him and see a boy who loves to read and write poetry. It's strange to think that he's a lawyer now.

I was nursing a large cocktail at Red Robin when he told me about some of the work he did--and how it had steered him away from public interest. There was a high profile case-- about which he adamantly refused to disclose details---that still haunts him. His thumb caught a bead of condensation as it slid down the side of the perspiring beer mug. He closed his light brown eyes for a moment before setting them on mine. "It still haunts me," his voice was not quite a whisper, "It's always the pictures that get to you." He took a swig of cherry wheat, "I was supposed to be defending him, but he deserved to die. I couldn't do it."

Moments like that make it impossible for me to believe him when he tells me he's not a good person.