|ooc| ; I can't remember everything perfectly, and this will be short because of it, but I thought the thread before had some nice things going for it, so I thought I'd restart it. =]

The word surprised him a little. He was not the sort of man who would judge a person by the level of their gentility, being rather vulgar himself, but he would judge them in general, and the fact that they could curse as fluently as he himself made it easier to do so, and with more eloquence. At the moment however, hot embarrassment flooded his face and neck, and he had no time to think about what she had said and how it could have possibly offended any one of his senses--which was rather ironic, because all of them were rather busy at the moment. His eyes saw the sea, in all it's terrifying majesty and fearsome qualities; his nose smelled the damp, salty tang that the ocean and it's sand brought with it; his mouth was filled with a bitter twist that was either his bad mood, the cigarette, or that afternoon's Chinese food repeating on him; his skin was on edge, cold and sensitive in the breeze, mildly burned from the sun on his face. But it was what his ears heard that disturbed him most. The echoes, the softly gurgling mutterings that seemed to never leave, the depression that followed his triumph. The laughing faces that wavered over him as the boys kicked him in the guts and face, humiliating him in front of the crowd. Instinctively he seemed to smack his lips a little, running his tongue subtly over his teeth, trying to rid himself of the taste of his tie as it was shoved brutally in his mouth to gag his screams. There was no tie, he was imagining it, he knew that but...

One hand made a rasping sound against the beard he had grown over the past couple days, the slight shadow about his jaw, the dark stubble that made his gaunt face seem more daunting than ever. The hollow cheek twitched in what could've been either disapproval, dismay at being distracted, or the hint of a smile, depending on your upbringing and mindset. His eyes had been drawn to the lady as she spoke, and it took his buzzing mind a few moments to understand whether or not she was speaking to him, they were after all, quite close. Some of his bemusement leaked onto his cold, calculating face, and a touch of that heat darkened his pale cheeks. She seemed distressed, either by his presence or by something else, and his perceptive eyes noticed the way she moved, in that slow, careful manner, as if she was afraid of hurting something. Well, she had failed, quite obviously, he thought bluntly, as he saw the blood trickle from her wound. A 'better' man might have sucked in his breath and gotten up quickly to help her, taking out a handkerchief to mop up the blood and acting concerned. But Simon was not one of those 'better' men. He had learned that when males acted in such a way, they ended up convincing the woman they truly loved her, and that would be a disasters indeed. Or at least, that's what he told himself. But deep down, our gentleman was disturbed by the idea that men normally acted so affable because they just wanted to sleep with the woman and be done with it. He never acted in such a fashioned, because he despised the idea of women thinking of him in such a way and then being so terribly disappointed. He was through with being 'a disappointment'.

All the people he had ever met had been 'disappointed' with his work, his personality, his attitude, his manner. And he was angry at them, all of them, the world, and every G-d forsaken thing alive on it that looked at him with that wistfully mistaken expression. He had 'dashed hopes' and 'ruined ideas' because of this, but in his mind, it was better than playing nice and being hurt. You had to be rough, you had to take what you needed, because if you waited in line like a good boy, people would noticed you and 'love you up' and then hate you for 'disappointing' them. If he was what they called a bad person, then at least when he played nice they would approve. If he was a 'good' man, then one little toe out of line and he had 'disappointed' them, yet again. His leg shifted, and his lanky frame extended itself like an accordion that had been collapsed, the rustling of his cold shirt adding to this papery illusion. A smooth hand reached into a pocket and withdrew the elegant, silver lighter with the flipping top and adjustable flame. It seemed the woman, girl really, needed a light, and there he was, with his little lighter, so faithfully used since the age of 18, right on his birthday, when he had received it from his father. 'Smoking's good for you, clears out your lungs. Help you with your asthma.' He said, sticking to the 1930s messages that had had been taught by his father.

He put on his more polite face, taciturn and slightly shy as it was, the color receded from his face a little, and he approached in that shambling way he did. Long strides cut short by the small distance between them. With a practiced ease, he flipped the cap open and ran his thumb along the rough surface of the metal that created the wee flame. It shot up quickly, but he had it on a low enough setting, and was saved the awkward moment as he both apologized, introduced himself, and wrestled with the controls to lower the shooting flame. If she chose to accept the flame, she would also be saved the trouble of backing up a pace, for he was not one to shove the little item in another's face, but would have to step forward slightly to receive it. There would be no need to lean, he held it at her height, respectfully not mocking her for being shorter than he. There was something in the way he stood, though, that indicated he would rather not have been so close. Was it the way he rocked back a little on his heels, or was it how he seemed incapable of holding the stare she might have thrown his way? The way he held the lighter, too, showed how hesitant he was about gripping it firmly, and the fingers almost twitched as the limited heat from them seeped into the metal and he noticed how it fogged. There was a jerky quality, at times, to the way he moved around others, an air that definitely showed how...Intrusive he found their touch. Disturbed was the look in his eyes if she brushed against his hand, childish, like a boy who was unsure about how he felt being with others. Mildly unsociable and cold as he was. Simon continued to stand as he was, slightly hunched over, shoulder blades sticking out of his thin body, iron muscles gripped with what appeared to be spasms rather than actual cohesive movements as they worked together to shape his form.

"Sure." Was the simple, uncluttered answer, unhampered by an emotion, undriven by any secret memory or passion. It was not piercing, cold, or even of a flat, even tone. It just...Was. The harmony of it was off, his vocal cords almost seemed to break off at the end, as if he wished he hadn't spoken. Saying 'his voice broke', would indicate that it was whole at one point, which it had not. Not since he had first said his menacing words upon the rock, his mock thrown where he had looked down upon all those beneath him as things that didn't matter. Not in the least, they were only things, it wasn't as if they had feelings. But now, now, now he was below it all, humbled by those that seemed to know more about him than he himself did. 'Even she is disgusted by you!' One of them hissed in his ear, causing a soft wrinkle to be created in his face. A small jerk of his thumb created what appeared to be a spasm farther up his bare, pale arm, he retracted the lighter, back into his bubble he fell. His little world, the small place that formed two feet around him in a circle. It was home, he rarely left it. Now that he was back, he felt the thrill of leaving it fall back, and a shiver ran up his arm at the idea. He could not satisfactorally say that people did not understand him because...Nobody had ever known there was anything to understand. He had never made much of an effort to 'reach out' and make contact, because on the tentative occaisions he did, such as this, people like this girl, this juvenile, this barely developed child would look at him like that. Like he was just a wall, something that didn't phase them. Dr. Roberta Temes had gotten it right, he thought. Most people did not think Simon was the sort of man who read a lot. In fact many of those who 'knew' him, thought that he was more of a drinking, gambling, smoking, neurotic little beast who had moments of strange fastidiousness but was a generally well-rounded guy on most occaisions. The truth was...He did read, quite a lot, but not fiction. He hated how the authors always pretended to 'get' humanity, to such an arrogant extent that they spoke of it in such nonchalance in a book. No, he liked the facts, the numbers, the real 'stuff of the world'. He read books about grief, about how to deal with it, how to live with it, and how to know it would never leave. Although the books all made confusing references to 'dying' or 'loss', Simon got through them fairly quickly and he retained the information very well. For him, 'grief' was a way of life, not an emotion he felt. He didn't understand why they kept saying things about 'getting over' the grief. Mr Mackintosh would never get over the grief, he knew that, he had always known it. It was...Like a friend. And nobody seemed to grasp that. His friends from Boston had said 'Come on man, have another beer, forget it! Life goes on!' But...It didn't go on. It stopped, it had stopped all those years ago. Dr. Temes said it went like this: numbness (mechanical functioning and social insulation), disorganization (intensely painful feelings of loss), then reorganization (re-entry into a more 'normal' social life). Was it possible, he wondered, to feel the first two at once, but over a period of 15 years? Shame bubbled up inside him, but he hid it well. Embarrassment, guilt, and sharp anger at feeling such things welled up like tears, and spilled over in his gut. The same, papery sound almost like a tarp folding--but certainly less loud and intrusive--hit the air roughly, and he looked for a moment like some paradoy of a child's dolls, two dimensional and pasty-white, fluttering a little in the wind. He could blow away any moment now, honest. Just float, drift, fly away into the sky, and nobody would ever know...And, to be perfectly factual, he didn't find that too horrible. There was something peaceful about dying in the sky, something unrestriced and free. Not like drowning, where you were pulled down to the depths of the sea, to be swallowed by something horrid unpleasant and certainly slimy. It seemed she was more concerned with getting the smoke in and out of her lungs than paying attention to the sea, him, or anything else. Including her finger. For moral reasons, he felt badly that he hadn't offered to help, but it wasn't as if he was going to start being all nice now, just because he should. His neck convulsed as he swallowed, his eyes blinked in slight nerves, the heat flew back to his face and when he did speak, his jaws were clenched. Light blue glims focused somewhere to the right and slightly below her head, hovering over her shoulder. "Y-you might wanna put some disinfectant o-on that finger. Could get infected out here, foot and mouth or whatever." Soon after he said it he felt like a bloody fool. 'What the hell did you need to say anything for?!' All the voices roared at him in unison. As if surprised that they all agreed on something, they fell silent and he was left in momentary peace. It only made him more irritable though, and he stepped back smartly, lowering his eyes to the ground and cursing himself inwardly. His back connected with the pole put up for his safety and he felt a sharp stab of pain go up his bony back, a chilly ringing in his nerves. Simon's face did not react, he refused to show it, and his face only moved the slightest fraction to the side as he realized an bruise would probably marr his form by the next day. Perhaps a little vain, he wanted to be able to run away and huddle up in his car, hide his face from her laughing face (of course she would laugh, he looked like an idiot) and all those other leering features. Cold, unphased was his expression, and if she troubled to look him in the eye it was a challenge she would find. 'What the hell do you think you're looking at?' sort of face, jaw set and eyes staring with uncomfortable intensity. That face that hits men right before they are about to cry, one could say. But he would not cry, crying was for little girls, and he was better than that. Wasn't he...?

DONE, finally xDD

Of course he was right, how dare anybody think otherwise! He was always right. Even when he was wrong...He was right. And anybody who said otherwise would have him to answer to. 'Wow...My G-d, that is so lame...' He thought, a voice jeering in his brain, raucous laughter permeating his head in the form of a stronger headache. He was a fool. And I do not say this from his point of view, because you are lucky indeed if you get him to admit to that. No, I say this from the point of view of The Observer. Simon A. Mackintosh was a fool. He was not easily led, nor was he dull of mind, or compliant as a sow. But...There is more to foolishness than meets the eye. True idiocy is almost like a physical complaint. It keeps one from making the right movements, from stretching out ones arms to grab what one should take, and it constrains the facial expression into one of sulky ignorance. Of course he had his virtues, but the most important ones seemed to be devoid from his education. Or rather, he had been taught them--in a way--but then they had been wrenched from his grasp by bad schooling and mental abuse. Still...We shall not continue to state how wrong or right he was, but we will record his progress as a being of matter and spirit (the latter is doubtful, but how else could he move?), and see how he steers his fate, hmm?
It seemed she was interested in speaking with him, did it not? And if she wasn't, then why was she acting so...Chatty? His speedy brain leapt to conclusions, none of which made sense, and then drove backwards until he had reached his destination. Violent, feverish assumptions raced through his mind. 'She's trying to use me! Here the way she says 'your name', she wants to take me in, make me into a tool...Or is it something else? She might be trying to make me humiliate myself...Or it could be a test of character! If I hold out my hand, she'll mark me 'bold' or 'arrogant', perhaps. If I don't, I'll be 'reserved' or 'uncouth', always supposing the former is if she fancies the look of me, and the latter if she doesn't, hmm...' He was running out of time. It had been a full ten seconds already, and it was an awkward beginning to a conversation. Still...There they stood. She, cold and defiant, small and quiet, with an edge; He, icy and resilient, unfeeling and gangly, with a streak of soft, soft weakness. Compassion. She seemed sad. But why did he care? Women were the enemy, they tried to beguile and control, he would not be taken in. A curl tainted his thin, pale lips, mockery stamped on his face now, but slightly veiled with a politeness that not even Alistair could have achieved. A truly refined, well-bred air or a insult hidden in flattery, or vice-versa. She seemed a little brusque, he was a little brusque. Perhaps this 'Gemini Couie' would yield under a little pressure. They all did, one way or another. She seemed to like her personal space, as he did, but there was one thing that Simon loved more than a healthy distance between himself and a woman that he considered an intellectual equal. He adored pushing a lady's buttons. Seeing she liked roses and chocolates, and not bringing them to dinner. Did she love him enough to forget about it? Or was she in it for the fun? Every relationship was a testing situation, a battleground, and a circus marquee for him, all wrapped into one. A long, solid step forward, they were close now, though not close enough for any evil intent to be thought up. Close as friends might stand, familiar friends...Icicles. "Why are you feeling so hard-done-by, Gemini Couie? Surely not just because of a little cut..." It was strong, and clear, as he meant it to be, in beginning, and then it grew slightly higher in pitch, and softer in manner, trailing off delicately. Some other men might have been capable of small-talk, and some others still might have had the intention of charming this feeble creature. He had no wish to do either. She was fair looking, true, but he needed quite a lot more beauty, and considerable more fire to put him in the mood to endear himself to her. The smile left his face, and all that remained was a slightly haunted, gaunt face with dark shadows under the chips of glaring ice, and harsh hollows for cheeks. Had he been in board shorts, preparing for a swim, he would have been positively alarming in appearance, with his jutting ribs and transparent skin. But fully clothed, like a paper figure, as he was, he looked like a shadow of an exceedingly handsome man. But tired...So weary. So much was expected of him, and he had nothing inside him left to expell in nerves. Empty, a shell. Like his Aunt. They were the same. But at least, he could say, that it had not been his own foolishness that had gotten him into this mess. He had been the victim, she had been the instigator. Or at least...That was the only way he could look at it without shedding shameful tears of anger.