Fandom: "General Hospital"
Rating/Classification: PG, LoCa, angst, ficlet.
Disclaimer: Nope. I don't own him.
Summary: A filler scene in between Carly and Marcella leaving Lorenzo's
apartment and Deputy Dewey...er...Brian...showing up.
Glass crunches beneath his feet into the tight weave of the carpet. He
knows Ana, the cleaning lady, will have it taken care of in the morning before Sage returns. There will be no signs of his weakness left for his niece's impressionable eyes. It will all be swept away like his hopes, his infantile fantasies...so he is free to collapse into the chair and stare, unfocused, at the bottle of Crown Royal on the coffee table.
To ruminate on his foolishness.
Compassion. Compassion is futile. Senseless. It does him no good to
care so deeply.
He learned that long ago, after Sophie...after she...and he stopped his
heart. He never should have re-started it. Now it's broken just like the
decanters and the tumblers that he sent crashing to the ground in an
uncharacteristic show of temper.
Luis was always the emotional one. The one prone to violence, to
hotheaded displays. He was always the one able to think with a cool head,
to calculate odds, to anticipate outcomes.
Not this time.
He didn't anticipate being alone in the darkness while Carly goes home to the husband she does not love. Alone...and on his way to complete inebriation.
His hand doesn't shake as he pours out another double. No more shattered glassware tonight. That, at least, is gratifying. Control. He still has
a measure of it. The same control that bit off his words before he could say something to Marcella he would regret. The same control that kept his hand from flying on its own and marking her porcelain cheek.
The same control that he thought made him different from Sonny in Carly's eyes.
But, where it counts, he's not different at all.
He's a fool. He's betrayed her. He's hurt her.
And he's lost her.
Of course, the only place he truly had her was in dreams.
The cucumber-melon scent of her skin still lingers in the air above the
sharp tang of alcohol. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine her tucking
her head beneath his chin, curling into him as they fall, together, to sleep. He can imagine a lot of things...the edges blurred by whiskey and burning as they slide down his throat.
Love. Love is futile. Senseless. It does him no good to care so deeply.
But he can't stop.
Not this time.
November 25, 2003.