[The bed dips slightly under Alfred’s weight and he feels his shoulders hunch up, his spine pulling tight. It’s not a question he was expecting at all, and Oswald thinks about Jim again. About how he had swung the barrel of the gun on him back at City Hall and how he could look him square in the eye and accuse him, now, with the same unflinching, unfeeling certainty, of bringing this on himself. How Harvey, grimacing, would suggest that he should feel grateful a woman had thought to touch him at all. Neither would come as a shock to him, not anymore.]
No one who is not already dead.
[He answers, aware of the sick, lingering throb low in his belly. He has no desire to confront the pity or disgust he thinks he’d find in Alfred’s face.]
...my own stepsister attempted to force herself on me when I was in a compromised state. Had I been myself, I surely would have killed her sooner.
[Would Alfred have stormed in, eyes blazing with righteous fury, and torn Sasha off him, thrashing her senseless, too? He nearly chuffs another sad, bitter laugh at the idea - the only kind he has left in him. But he swings the bottle back for another gulp instead, the last of the whisky sloshing against his lips.]
no subject
No one who is not already dead.
[He answers, aware of the sick, lingering throb low in his belly. He has no desire to confront the pity or disgust he thinks he’d find in Alfred’s face.]
...my own stepsister attempted to force herself on me when I was in a compromised state. Had I been myself, I surely would have killed her sooner.
[Would Alfred have stormed in, eyes blazing with righteous fury, and torn Sasha off him, thrashing her senseless, too? He nearly chuffs another sad, bitter laugh at the idea - the only kind he has left in him. But he swings the bottle back for another gulp instead, the last of the whisky sloshing against his lips.]