Look at him.
Just look at him.
Sittin' there grinning that gold-toothed grin like he isn't
cheating
people out of their hard earned money. He makes them smile. Makes
them laugh. Charms them all into forgetting he's takin' two
weeks of
their pay to buy yet another fancy silk shirt he don't really
need.
He ought to be better than that. With all that learnin' he's
got
inside that head of his, learnin' I had to fight to earn even the
smallest scrap of, he ought to know better than that. Somewhere
inside that gold-plated bastard he is better than that.
I swear sometimes it's all I can do not to knock that gold tooth
right back down his throat. I listen to that honeyed drawl, the same
as the voices that tormented me for years and haunt my nightmares
even now, and it takes every bit of patience and self-control I got
not to hurt him every time he opens his mouth. I hear him talk. See
him about to run some con and the anger rolls in my gut, burns
through my muscles and clenches in my fist.
And then I look at him.
I really look at him.
And somewhere in him I see just the smallest part of myself staring
back. I watch him hide in plain sight. I see him bury his pain and
anger behind a mask so smooth most wouldn't even know to look for
the
difference. I see him use tricks every slave learns. And I wonder if
either of us, if any of us, are every really free from our own past.
Damn him for that. Damn him for making me think about that. And damn
him for that smile and that voice and what they do to me. Damn him
for his pain. And my pain. Damn him.
But I can't quite damn him so I damn myself.
I look at him.
I just look at him.
The End
