And All I Loved, I Loved Alone—Then I Found Tumblr

Come hell or high water, if Gator Tillman wanted something, he would get it. More often than not, Gator found that his iron-like willpower was reserved for making his father happy—or at least trying to.

He didn't think he worked for anything more than making his father proud of him. Whether Roy had told him to or not, Gator did anything to please him—planting evidence, tracking down Dot, hell, even going after Ole Munch? Gator did it without question.

With all of his determination, he didn't have room for fear—for hesitation. Why would he? It wasn't like he had anything to lose. After all, he was the law—untouchable, invincible.

But being the law couldn't save him this time.

Truth be told, Gator was convinced losing his sight was worse than dying.

He would be able to handle dying. Maybe he would die a martyr and finally earn his father's approval. Even if he died foolishly, he would still be dead. He wouldn't have to live with the guilt, the shame of dying as he lived. Nothing more than a disappointment.

As far as Gator was concerned, dying would be a mercy.

But Gator didn't like thinking about what would happen next. Not spiritually. Not with his soul, or whatever—truth be told, he didn't believe in the afterlife. Heaven, hell, it was all bullshit to him. He had lived in purgatory long enough to know the only fate for him was the one where he would never wake up.

No, Gator was worried about more than where his soul would end up. He was worried about what they would do with his corpse.

Gator already knew he wouldn't be buried with his family. His name would ruin the perfect image casted generations ago—matching headstones all marked with Roy Tillman. Even in his death, Gator would be a burden. Something to be ashamed of rather than cherished.

That was all he knew—how to be a failure.

Even before the incident, Roy's words used to cycle through Gator's mind constantly, punishing Gator for daring to breathe—to live, to be his son in the first place. Despite the torture, Gator remained strong, refusing to let the pain get to him.

As he grew up, Gator learned to think of his heart as a soldier. A soldier needs armour. Protection. Without protection, you allow vulnerability, and a war isn't won with vulnerability.

So Gator lived his life with a bulletproof vest—one he had spent a lifetime weaving into perfection. It was the one thing he hadn't messed up, and Gator would have rather died than allow anyone to see it. He would be damned if he let someone ruin it for him.

If he kept it to himself, no one could scoff in his face and test it out, firing until they found the weak spot.

There were days Gator couldn't handle the weight of the bullets. He was tired of the battlefield, of standing on the frontlines, of this war he was born into—a war of shame and blood that he couldn't wash off for it lived under his skin.

But there was no other option than to live.

It wasn't until he had lost everything that his vest failed. Blind, tortured, and broken down to nothing, his father delivered the fatal blow.

“If there was any use for you, it's gone now.”

Gator could still remember that moment down to the taste of his tears—rare and broken. Discarded on the ground—blind, hopeless, and abandoned by his father—he realized that sight must be the first thing you lose when you die.

When the bullet sinks too far. When you can taste the blood travelling from your gut up to your mouth, iron lingering in between your teeth.

But like everything else, death didn't want Gator. Instead, he was given a life sentence—the punishment the darkness.

Gator didn't know what monster he was in his past life, but if he didn't know any better, he was sure God had taken it out on him in this one—for Gator didn't believe in a devil so cruel.

Now, all he had was his father's voice in his ear.

“If there was any use for you, it's gone now.”

As much as the words killed him—stabbing him in the lung—the twist of the knife was the horror that kept him up at night.

Roy was right.

He was utterly useless now. More incompetent than his father ever claimed he was before. Anything he ever had before was gone—his heart purple now. Injured in the line of duty and sent home to rot.

Gator would never have anything ever again.

And you were proof.

Gator didn't know what torture truly was until he met you. It had been almost two months of knowing you and Gator still wasn't sure how he was breathing.

It was the second of November when he had his first brush with an angel.

He had heard rummaging sounds from his front lawn, catching his attention as he collected the mail from his entryway. It had taken him—well, his parole officer—forever to find a house that met Gator's needs. He had only been there for five months, half of which he spent trying to adjust to his surroundings. Blind and bitter, he stayed inside, resigning himself to a life of isolation. It was better for everyone.

He listened in on the sound from the other side of the door, trying to decipher whether or not it was an animal, or even worse—a person. It wasn't until he had heard a whispered "Goddamn it" that he sprang into action.

Gator rushed to unlock his door, hurtling the door open with all his strength. "The fuck are y'doin' on my lawn!" His shout echoed across the lawn. Damn, he had forgotten how loud he could be—especially in the open, nauseous air. Was it just him, or did something smell?

The gasp that followed quickly refreshed his memory as to why he never went outside. He hated people seeing him, even with his sunglasses, he still felt like a freak show. He heard the same voice from before stutter. "Sorry! Shit, I didn't realize anyone was home—"

"Someone's home. Get off my lawn."

"Sorry, I was just trying to clean up the mess—" Gator's brows furrowed. The mess?

"Fuck y'talkin' 'bout?"

Your voice struggled again. "The—the eggs?"

Gator promptly came to realize what had been invading his senses. "Eggs?" He questioned, covering his nose as he came to recognize the odor.

"Yeah, and the toilet paper? They've been here since Halloween," you answered.

Gator felt anger wash over him before a tsunami of embarrassment took over.

"I'm sorry. I know I should've knocked, but I didn't see a car, so I assumed you were out of town—I'm sorry. It's just I have a thing with smells, and it's been giving me a headache—I didn't mean to overstep or anything…"

Gator couldn't tell if it was out of guilt, annoyance, or some sort of siren song he was trying to avoid that caused him to stop you.

"Stop. Just—stop," he sighed. You immediately went quiet. The silence lingered like static—dragging on until you can't discern whether or not it's getting louder or you're starting to go insane. "How bad is it?" Gator asked.

He could practically hear your following wince. "It's not… good."

Gator groaned, rolling his head. "For fuck's sake—"

"Listen, with the two of us working together, I'm sure we can get it done a lot faster."

Gator scowled. "Two of us? The fuck y'think I need you for?" He spat. Somewhere deep in Gator, he knew he was being unfair—that he was lashing out. You didn't deserve his anger over offering to help.

"I—I don't—" you fumbled for an answer before Gator picked up on you swallowing, as if you were pulling yourself together. "You're right, I'm sorry. I'll go."

The dejected tone in your voice made something in Gator falter. He could practically hear his court-ordered shrink in his head.

"Shutting people out won't prevent the criticism you're scared of."

Scared. The word had lingered where Gator kept his anger, the new vest around his heart—fragile and weak—rippling from the shot.

Gator Tillman was not scared.

He felt the vest absorb the bullet, warping around his soldier.

"Wait," he sighed. "You don't need to go. Just—give me a second." Gator begrudgingly threw his mail in the basket by his shoerack, smoothly swung a nearby baseball cap on his head, and unhooked his cane. He rolled the tip on the ground beneath him, checking for the metal threshold.

Gator felt the static grow louder in his ears as he guided himself down to the grassy lawn. You hadn't said a word since he grabbed his cane.

"What?" He barked, already irritated. His back straightened, his shoulders squaring up, ready to intimidate. Gator Tillman was not scared. Gator Tillman was n—

"You sure you don't wanna put on shoes?"

Gator froze.

What?

No pity? No comment on his cane? Not even a hesitant stutter? He wasn't prepared for someone to be blind to his faults. It felt like his heart had stopped, struggling to adapt to a new atmosphere—one where he wasn't criticized for living.

"I hardly think it's comfortable," you continued, filling in the silence.

Gator cleared his throat, trying to unclog his airways so he could fucking breathe.

"It, er—I… It helps me feel the terrain better." His voice had lost all of its bite. Pathetic. You had him bowing down to you in seconds.

You clicked your tongue, most likely nodding at the explanation. "Fair enough." You replied.

Gator didn't know what to say. Now that he thought about it, he might've been better prepared for social interactions had he not isolated himself for months. You went quiet. He couldn't tell if you expected to reply or not—

"Well, I don't know how we're gonna do this anymore," you sighed. His brows furrowed.

"What d'ya mean?"

He picked up on a second worth of hesitation before you answered. "Well, frankly, I'm not sure how you can help clean up something you can't see." Your response caught Gator off guard. Not because it was mean or cruel—no, he would've expected that, anyway. But it wasn't laced with pity, either. You didn't say it like you were walking on eggshells.

It was… casual. Like you were just saying what you thought instead of carefully arranging your words. It felt refreshing and overwhelming—like the first breath you take after almost drowning.

"I—I can still feel just fine." Gator's throat burned. The words scratched on their way out, clawing against his throat the same way his lies used to. "Y'said there was toilet paper, yeah? I use m'cane to find the toilet paper, you clean up the eggs, done."

"Really, huh?" Your tone sounded lighter. "And how do I know you're not just putting me on egg duty 'cause you don't want to do it?" You teased.

Gator's smile broke across his face like it was a new expression for him, his heart warming despite the chilled air.

"Think that lowly of me already, huh?" Gator teased back. He could feel something inside of him opening, loosening.

"How about we just see how good you are with your cane, hmm?"

"And then?" He inquired, stepping closer to you with a smirk. He didn't even care about your choice of words. If you were anyone else, he probably would've cursed at you for saying "we". But with your warmth radiating so strong he could feel his cheeks flush—he found he didn't have it in himself to care.

"We'll go from there…" you answered. The smile Gator could hear in your voice made his heart feel like it was beating to the rhythm of a song instead of a fistfight for the first time in his life.

"You got it, sweetheart."

"Hold your hand out," you told him. Gator's brow raised curiously at your demand. Nevertheless, he extended his palm outwards for you.

Warm fingers met his hand. A match—gentle and giving—landing in a pool of gasoline—violent and taking. You rotated his hand vertically, shaking it once you did as you introduced yourself. The sound of your name felt like a prayer.

Gator fumbled for words—the touch of your hand rewiring his brain. "Um, Gator." He waited for the teasing, the questioning—it was as familiar for him as his name was to damnation.

"Nice to officially meet you, Gator."

His grip on your hand loosened from surprise before tightening, as if he could hold on to how you treated him.

"You too, neighbor." Gator only pulled his hand back when he realized every second of contact was counting down on a time bomb—rigged to explode like everything in his life before. "Let's get to work, then."

With a lot of trial and error, both you and Gator had finally found a rhythm. Gator had struggled for longer than he'd ever admit, but he couldn't lie to himself—his determination to impress you had overridden his insecurity, allowing him to slowly find a technique to his work great enough to have him finish before you.

Gator raked his cane through the lawn one last time for good measure before directing his attention to his front door where he could hear you muttering to yourself.

"Think 'm all done, sweetheart." He called, complacent in his victory.

Your reply came out too low for him to pick up—muttered under your breath as if you didn't want him to hear you.

With no response, he carefully guided himself to his porch. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Good job," you spat at him.

"'M pretty sure most folks'd say it's wrong to lie to a blind man, sweetheart." He heard a sigh fall from your lips. He had heard enough sighs of annoyance or impatience to last him a lifetime—yours wasn't one. "…Have a feeling you're not angry 'cause of me."

"I'm just—I'm just having trouble getting it all off," you admitted. "Fuckin' idiot punks got you good."

Gator almost smirked at your unexpected colorful language. Maybe it was his childhood, or his own propensity for swearing, but you swearing made him feel closer to you—as if he had known you longer than the last forty-five minutes.

You huffed. "It's fine. I'll figure it out—"

"Put me to work."

You paused. "What?"

"I finished my part," he started, pulling closer to you. "J's tell me what you wan'me t'do, and I'll do it."

You didn't respond for a while before he heard a light chuckle.

"Alright then, neighbor," you replied. "You have a mop?"

Gator bowed his head, scratching the back of his neck. "…Kinda," he mumbled.

"Kinda?" You echoed.

He huffed through his nose. "I got a roomba."

"…They make mops?"

"Yea, they, um—have mop attachment things you can put on the bottom…" He explained awkwardly shuffling his feet.

"Really?" He nodded in response. "Huh," you thought out loud.

You were silent for another moment, most likely thinking of a solution. "I got it," you perked up. Gator could hear the pride you were trying not to reveal. He knew that sound like the back of his hand.

"Let's hear it," he encouraged—something he always wanted from someone.

"Go get two towels."

He nodded, bowing the tip of his hat. "Yes, ma'am."

"You're gonna need a bucket of water with soap in it!" You called after him as he walked through the doorway. He gave you a swift thumbs up, making his way to his bathroom.

He came back to your voice greeting him. "Perfect, thank you." Gator couldn't help it, he beamed like a kid on Christmas—receiving the one gift he was too scared to put on his list. Your hand brushed his as you took the bucket from him, setting it down on the ground.

"The towels?" You asked. He grabbed them off his shoulder, holding it out for you. He stood there in the silence, trying to listen for any sign as to what you were doing—only the vague sounds of fabric whooshing to clue him in.

"Alright, now…" you trailed off. "I need your cane."

His eyebrows furrowed. "My cane?"

"Just trust me."

Gator hesitated before tentatively extending it towards you, his shoulders tense with anxiety as you carefully took it from him.

It's not like he even needed it. He wasn't helpless. He could get around just fine on his own. He never wanted a stupid fucking cane, anyway. If anything, he thought it slowed him down. But his heart raced at the idea of you doing something to it. What if you ran away with it? What if you tried to snap it in half? What if you were about to make fun of him for using one in the first place—

"Here you go."

Gator snapped back to reality at the return of your voice. He reached out, scanning the space for his cane until he found your hand, patiently holding it out for him to take. As he held it in his hand again, he noticed the unfamiliar weight, seemingly coming from the bottom.

"Makeshift mop." You said, answering his question before he could even form it on his tongue. He brought his other hand to the end of the cane, noting the bundle of soft fabric.

"How did you…" he trailed off in amazement.

"I balled up one towel, wrapped the other one around it from the center, pulled up the edges, around the end of your cane, dropped a hair tie from the top and used it to tie the edges—" Your explanation left Gator speechless. It was so simple, and yet he felt like he had never heard anything more brilliant.

"—Now you can use your cane to clean the walls, you know? Like you do on the ground, just… on the walls." There was something so beautiful to Gator about the growing shyness in your voice, as if you were nervous to have a solution.

Gator broke out into a smile. "That's fuckin' genius, sweetheart."

"Really?" You asked, making Gator laugh.

"Y'kiddin'? Y'just made a fuckin' makeshift mop fer me." Gator returned his focus to the bottom of the cane again, admiring your handiwork.

"It was no problem, really…" Gator didn't need his eyes to see the flush on your cheeks.

He laughed again, shaking his head. "Well, c'mon then, sweetheart. Go on n' show me where y'want me." Gator picked up on the sweetest laugh he had ever heard as he picked up the bucket of water, ready to go wherever you wanted him to.

You grabbed his arm gently, helping guide him off his porch. Gator wasn't used to having someone else guide him. He had gotten used to the layout of his house a long time ago. Every corner, every light switch, every cabinet had all been mapped out in Gator's mind. In the outside world—whenever he dared to go—he would use his cane to direct him, warning him of every danger he was walking into.

But giving his trust to you? That felt like walking on water.

"Alright, and now turn…" you directed him, delicately spinning him around. "Okay, you'll start with the garage door and the driveway," you told him. "You're facing the middle of the garage right now." Gator couldn't tell you how perfect you were. Not only did you treat him like a regular person, you accommodated him. You guided him, saw for him—Jesus, you turned his cane into a mop. You aided him instead of giving up on him, giving him every chance to do it on his own.

"Thanks, sweetheart."

Gator was never one to thank people. He tried to, after the incident—to be kinder than before, to properly show his appreciation. But the more he thanked people, the more he realized no one was letting him do anything on his own. He had become a charity case instead of a human. A good deed instead of a person.

Eventually, Gator went back to being unappreciative—to not having room in his heart for others. All he had was anger. Fury that masked his misery. It was the easiest version of him he knew how to be.

But you? Something about you made him want to be someone convoluted—someone that would take effort to be. To put his corpse and his last name behind him and dwell on whether or not his soul was headed to the same place yours was. If he deserved a fate like yours.

You patted his arm, letting him know you were still there. "Have fun. I'll just be a few feet from your right cleaning your porch, okay?" Gator smiled as you once again gave him directions.

Your hand fell from his arm. "Try not to finish before me, yeah?" You called from his right. "Or I might just have to leave all the cleaning to you."

Gator chuckled. "Not my fault y'made me a super cane," he teased, hoping to elicit more laughter out of you—more sounds he could store somewhere when it came to you.

You laughed back, filling Gator's heart with warmth. "Don't make me take it back."

Gator smirked again.

"Wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart."

Time flew between the two of you as you both cleaned. Every now and then, Gator would ask you if he had missed a spot, and every time, you had said no, occasionally teasing him.

"You still have to ask?" You had replied after the fourth time, making Gator smile.

"C'mon, darlin'. Humor me."

Gator listened to your nearing footsteps, facing the approaching sound. "So?" He teased. "I pass?"

You tsked your teeth, most likely shaking your head. "I'm afraid not, Gator."

He tilted his head, a coy smile on his face. "Really? Whyever not?" Gator never liked being laughed at in the past, but the beautiful sound that spurred from your lips made Gator want to be responsible for that sound for the rest of his life.

"Seems you missed a spot," you answered. "At the top." Gator turned his head towards the top of the garage door. He extended his cane upwards, reaching the top. "No, a little to the left," you pointed.

Gator followed your direction. "Like this?"

"No, hold on." You joined his side, placing your hand atop his. You maneuvered him, steering him towards the spot he had missed. Gator smirked smugly as your touch electrified him. It seemed your touch was worth Gator being incompetent for once.

"There you go," you validated, letting go of his hand. "Looks like you're all done then."

"Yeah? How'd I do?" He tilted his head innocently, unable to contain his grin.

You chuckled. "No notes. A plus."

Gator beamed in your direction. "Never been a model student before."

"Must have had a great teacher, then."

"Oh, I did." Gator flattered, stepping closer. "Fuckin' genius one if you ask me."

You giggled. "Careful there, handsome. You're gonna get yourself into trouble."

"Oh, I don't doubt it, sweetheart." Gator smirked, leaning closer to your warmth.

Gator picked up on what sounded like you running your fingers through your hair. "So…" you started, "We're finished cleaning now."

"That right?"

You hummed. "Looks as good as new."

Gator nodded solemnly. "Lead me back to the door?" Gator held his hand out for you.

"Of course," you said softly—a lullaby that could soothe him to sleep—as you took his hand.

Gator felt bitterness rising in his chest. He didn't want to stop being with you, yet. How was he supposed to part ways with the one good thing he had ever known? It was when you had led him to his door—his hand on the doorknob—that Gator realized something.

He didn't want to be alone.

But Gator knew there was no other life for him.

He would be destined to a life of solitude—too infuriated with the world to allow himself a chance for happiness—

"Hey," you called before he could shut the door.

"Yeah?" Gator held the door open, unwilling to let you go so soon.

You paused. "Maybe… Maybe I could see you again sometime? When we're not both drowning in eggs and toilet paper?" You chuckled.

Gator went as still as a statue.

"You.. Y'want to see me again?" You must have nodded—a silence lingering before your audible confirmation. "Why?" As much as he wanted to beg for your company, he couldn't find one reason why you should say yes—let alone, want his as well.

"I enjoyed cleaning with you, today." There was a smile in your voice that Gator felt like he had to get rid of—self-sabotage ingrained in his bones.

"Y'enjoyed cleanin' up rotten eggs n toilet paper?"

"Okay, I think you're actively ignoring the with you part," you pointed out, still smiling. Gator couldn't keep back the corners of his lips from lifting at your quip.

"…So?" you asked. "What do you think?"

Every instinct in Gator was telling him to run—that this was a bad idea, that you were a bad idea. For all he knew, you could just be waiting to humiliate him, or worse—pitying him.

"I think you're an idiot, teach."

To Gator's chagrin, you didn't fall for his attempt to push you away.

"And here I thought I was a genius?" You argued back, catching onto him.

Gator didn't respond. He didn't know how to. All his life he had wanted more, and now that he had finally accepted he would never anything ever again, here you were to throw him off. Gator was afraid of losing what he just found.

Gator Tillman was not a coward, but he was a coward for you.

You must have taken his silence for an answer. "That's okay. Maybe I'll see you around, yeah? Who knows? Those punks might come back for more." You sounded awkward, unsure. Gator hated it.

"It was nice meeting you, Gator." Your solemn tone was fading into the distance, leaving him to rot like everything else—

"Wait." Gator stopped you. It was now or never. "I want to see you again, too." With nothing to see, Gator only had the drumming in his ears—pulsing at the speed of darkness, ringing in his ears like a warning bell, signaling the oncoming train—

"Be ready at noon tomorrow."

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