NOTHING GETS FORGIVEN

there  has  been  no  compliment  yet  that  has  shattered  the  rock-hard  illusion  that  encases  arthur's  mindset  like  a  bubble  of  stone  ,      practically  impenetrable  in  its  stature  .      every  reflection  caught  in  the  glass  of  a  store  window  ,      every  flicker  of  his  likeness  in  the  water  or  caught  in  the  passing  of  a  mirror  ,      toughens  his  thoughts  into  such  reality  .      he  will  never  be  as  pretty  as  anyone  ,      as  sour-faced  and  bitterly  displeased  he  looks  at  all  time  .      his  eyes  ,      the  ridge  of  his  brows  ,      the  tense  set  of  his  jaw  :      all  of  which  carry  the  reminders  of  a  harsher  ,      leaner  ,      meaner  man  who  had  made  his  influence  known  in  both  arthur's  appearance  and  habits  .

❝        shut  up  .        ❞        he  will  never  be  as  pretty  as  john  marston  ,      no  matter  how  much  john  insists  as  much  .      the  sentiment  ,      once  stirred  in  the  throes  of  marston's  youthful  lower  twenties  ,      now  settles  like  pacified  silk  in  the  still  wake  of  that  missing  eye  and  the  scars  that  tear  across  his  face  and  render  his  beard  splintered  and  incomplete  .

his  pencil  lines  a  darkened  scribbling  along  the  bottom  of  the  cliff  .      lead  spreads  unevenly  ,      and  he  ,      in  turn  ,      rubs  the  pad  of  his  pinky  into  the  powdery  pile  and  spreads  it  more  even  .      the  corners  of  his  lips  tug  downwards  in  an  unhappy  ,      solemn  show  .      it's  a  warm  day  out  ,      yet  he  can  feel  a  cool  wind  blow  against  his  skin  ,      seeping  through  the  thinner  linings  of  his  shirt  like  a  threat  .      a  cruel  reminder  that  there's  not  much  left  for  him  here  .      to  be  well  is  to  be  happy  ,      he  supposes  ,      or  confident  in  the  future  .      he's  been  none  of  those  things  for  months  ,      now  ,      with  a  storm  as  much  in  his  lungs  and  his  ribs  and  his  stomach  and  his  skin  as  much  as  in  his  head  .

he  cares  too  much  for  his  brother  to  lie  to  him  .        ❝        no  .      i  ain't  been  well  .      and  it  ain't  good  .        ❞        his  pencil  slows  ,      then  stops  on  the  page  ,      where  the  tip  rests  in  the  way  arthur  would  very  much  like  to  rest  his  forehead  upon  his  knees  ,      waiting  for  a  spell  to  pass  .        ❝        it  ain't  good  at  all  .      it's  tuberculosis  ,      you  fool  .      'course  it  ain't  nothin'  good  .      i'm  dyin'  .        ❞        saying  it  aloud  only  makes  it  feel  more  real  .      but  it  has  always  felt  impending  .

arthur's  gaze  slides  to  the  side  ,      watching  the  brim  of  the  hat  that  veils  john's  face  from  view  .      there's  an  authenticity  in  the  bow  of  his  head  that  he's  seen  in  those  who  stand  at  the  graves  of  their  loved  one  .

of course, he's trying to salvage this into something he can control, because he can't control this. it'd be easier if arthur were to be shot and killed. it'd be easier than that, really, if john were to be shot and killed, if he'd just died in blackwater or in saint denis--

he inhales sharply, glancing back up at arthur as his face and eyes burn in equal parts shame and sorrow.

"i don't look sad, morgan," john says, knows that the tautness of his voice betrays how much of a liar he is. he sniffs harshly, thankful he's not one to cry. why would he cry now, when he's still got arthur here with him? there's still time. maybe he's as delusional as dutch.

" -- you still got time," john says to that point, "maybe we ain't always seen eye-to-eye -- hell, i know i ain't always been good to you the way i should've been. but you ain't got a foot in the grave."

he clears his throat, equally as harshly, and looks at the fine details of arthur's drawing with his good eye and smiles tightly, tries not to think of the way arthur has been a sure constant almost as nearly as long as he can remember but so had hosea, hadn't he? nothing is concrete, nothing is certain--not in this life they've chosen to live. he knows that.

dialogue prompts from my murder: a novel by katie williams.

you always knew your manners.

i understand. it's hard to know what to say.

today, i'm okay. and you? how are you?

i want to know why you're nervous.

i guess i believe in second chances.

i remember those days. and nights.

we can do this however you want.

this is a little awkward, huh?

how did you know something was wrong?

are you breathing in? are you breathing out?

you're not supposed to lie to me anymore.

i don't know what to say to that, so can you stop apologizing? please?

i was glad to do something to help you.

you didn't need to trick me, honey.

all you ever needed to do was ask.

i don't know if i'll ever be ready. but that's how it is, right? things just happen, and then they're happening.

it's like you're no one. like you're nothing.

it feels better to name it.

i may not remember it, but it happened. and you remember it.

i like to know everything, so i don't mind if people explain things to me.

she was so sarcastic before all of this. it's not new. she's said things like that since she was a little girl.

i wouldn't say i 'laughed' at you.

you came back. you're here.

you want to eat your baby, don't you?

you didn't fuck up again, did you?

i should have believed you.

i did a bad thing.

there are different ways to love people.

you did good. it was scary. you were brave.

i've always been good at staying.

you can't ask a person if they've changed.

are your nightmares - i mean, how are they?

i've learned not to question the things that help me along.

thank you for coming with me.

whatever it is, you can tell me. i'm ready.

i feel like an intruder in my own house.

you don't have to lie to me.

everyone loves a dead woman, as long as she's the right kind of dead woman.

guess i'm not so good at keeping my promises.

we lied to each other. why did we do that?

what were you afraid of?

you can't promise you won't ever want to go.

i can promise that if i ever do feel like leaving, i'll tell you.

i was afraid the truth would hurt you.

fine. let them be a little uncomfortable.

there  will  come  a  time  when  someone  else  will  pick  this  journal  up  ,      snake  a  finger  into  its  pages  and  leaf  through  all  his  ramblings  and  his  drawings  and  become  privy  to  a  life  he  never  truly  shared  with  anyone  else  .      whether  it  will  be  a  person  he  knows  ,      or  an  unanticipated  passerby  who  happens  to  glean  the  cover  of  his  journal  sticking  out  of  a  mud  patch  ,      he  does  not  know  .      he  hopes  ,      for  his  own  peace  of  mind  ,      that  it  will  be  the  former  .

it's  out  of  habit  that  arthur  draws  his  knee  up  a  little  higher  and  presses  the  back  of  his  journal  a  little  more  firmly  against  the  inside  of  his  thigh  ,      slightly  shutting  and  shielding  the  sketch  of  the  ragged  sloping  hill  he's  been  staring  at  for  the  past  fifteen  minutes  .

❝        guess  i'll  have  to  thank  good  ol'  dutch  once  i  get  around  to  it  ,        ❞        says  the  elder  right  back  ,      not  looking  up  from  his  page  just  yet  ,      with  the intention of never getting around to it  .      he  finishes  a  single  ,      important  line  on  the  page  before  finally  glancing  up            first  toward  john  ,      and  then  ,      after  a  quick  refocus  ,      to  the  offered  slice  .      he  takes  it  with  no  thanks  ,      but  with  a  gentle  grasp  that  borders  on  as  much  gratitude  as  he's  wont  to  show  .

so much for that. john's nose scrunches at the mere thought of dutch, wherever he is      and he can't quite help the way he quickly surveys their immediate surroundings for the man, as if it's forbidden for them to sit together like this, like he's a child.

john cuts another slice of the orange to shove into his mouth and offers arthur the rest of it, discarding the peel on the ground beside them.

that's when john baulks at him, though he can't quite help the way his eyes just about light up at the idea of arthur thinking of him at all, given the way he'd sworn he'd detested him in such a way that john made sure to reciprocate.

"well, ain't like all of us can be as pretty as you, arthur morgan," gloved fingers rise to the scar tissue of his right eye absentmindedly. he doesn't favor the patch nowadays, because the scar tissue doesn't matter.

"maybe if we put your work in one of them galleries, we could have all the money dutch could ever want to go to tahiti or china or olympus or wherever it is he's on about now." he leans back against the bark of the tree, long legs stretching outward. a sad smile spreads over his features at his own disillusion that he doesn't dare fully articulate just yet.

" - i know that you ain't been well, arthur." here it is. it's unsteady ground he treads upon, and carefully he does. his own father had died in a pool of his own vomit and piss, his mother long before him--he knows loss, and yet, he can't quite help the pang of panic that settles in at the idea of that inevitable fate befalling arthur.

he ducks his gaze downward, covered by the brim of his hat.