"Will you let me tell the story my way, woman?" He rolls his eyes, but there's a smile tugging at his lips.
"I got the disease beating a guy half to death. He'd borrowed money from the gang. You know the kinda deal - you gotta pay a lotta interest, and if you don't pay up in time, the muscle comes and intimidates you." He gestures at himself: the muscle.
"Coughed on me. Weren't until months later that I found out. You know, the doctor told me, and I thought serves me right. I put his wife and son out of a house, on account of him havin' given me all his money. He died because of me. So now he was gettin' back at me, after death."
June fidgets when he mentions the transmission, remembering the disease - or whatever it had been - that had passed from Tess to her to William. It's not the same, she tells herself - and yet it feels like it is, at least in part.
It's not as immediately destructive as the cordyceps had been, but it's certainly as deadly, in his time. He grimaces at the sight of her fidgeting, but he's glad she isn't interrupting.
"I was an angry man all my life, but this time - I don't know, I didn't get angry. I felt it was my due. And somethin' about that situation made me realize I had so little damn time left, and what was I doin'? Shaking down widows? Robbing carriages? For what? The money wasn't goin' nowhere."
He shrugs and takes a drink. "Started small, doin' some things to help people. And then it's most of what I did, my whole day. It made me feel good. It made me happy, and I had not felt that way most of my life. And I talked to the people I cared about, for the first time in my life. You know - I let 'em know me. Before I was gonna die, I was at least gonna try an' be remembered, for the bad and the good stuff."
"The bad and the good stuff?" June echoes, with special emphasis on that and. All this sounds reasonable, and understandable enough; her own legacy has never been something that's much occurred to her, but she at least sees why it might to someone else, especially someone nearing the end of their life.
But in that case, she thinks, why not try to bury the bad? Why not try to forget it and move on, and do all you could to make sure that others did the same?
"Wouldn't be me if it wasn't also a load of bad stuff. I didn't want people
to think I'd been a good man, all my life. I wasn't. They wasn't gonna
think that, period. But maybe - I could at least try and make 'em remember
something good. Something real."
"Some people might still hate me. Some might forget. But I left some of
those conversations feelin' like I'd finally made an impact on the
world that wasn't selfish. People started tellin' me I was a good man - I
didn't believe 'em, but they said it. No one ever said that to me before."
He takes a drink, and admits: "It felt damn good. I know that's selfish,
but I don't care. It felt good."
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no subject
He nudges her shin with the toe of his boot.
"Will you let me tell the story my way, woman?" He rolls his eyes, but there's a smile tugging at his lips.
"I got the disease beating a guy half to death. He'd borrowed money from the gang. You know the kinda deal - you gotta pay a lotta interest, and if you don't pay up in time, the muscle comes and intimidates you." He gestures at himself: the muscle.
"Coughed on me. Weren't until months later that I found out. You know, the doctor told me, and I thought serves me right. I put his wife and son out of a house, on account of him havin' given me all his money. He died because of me. So now he was gettin' back at me, after death."
no subject
This time, she doesn't interrupt.
no subject
It's not as immediately destructive as the cordyceps had been, but it's certainly as deadly, in his time. He grimaces at the sight of her fidgeting, but he's glad she isn't interrupting.
"I was an angry man all my life, but this time - I don't know, I didn't get angry. I felt it was my due. And somethin' about that situation made me realize I had so little damn time left, and what was I doin'? Shaking down widows? Robbing carriages? For what? The money wasn't goin' nowhere."
He shrugs and takes a drink. "Started small, doin' some things to help people. And then it's most of what I did, my whole day. It made me feel good. It made me happy, and I had not felt that way most of my life. And I talked to the people I cared about, for the first time in my life. You know - I let 'em know me. Before I was gonna die, I was at least gonna try an' be remembered, for the bad and the good stuff."
no subject
But in that case, she thinks, why not try to bury the bad? Why not try to forget it and move on, and do all you could to make sure that others did the same?
no subject
"Wouldn't be me if it wasn't also a load of bad stuff. I didn't want people to think I'd been a good man, all my life. I wasn't. They wasn't gonna think that, period. But maybe - I could at least try and make 'em remember something good. Something real."
no subject
no subject
"Some people might still hate me. Some might forget. But I left some of those conversations feelin' like I'd finally made an impact on the world that wasn't selfish. People started tellin' me I was a good man - I didn't believe 'em, but they said it. No one ever said that to me before."
He takes a drink, and admits: "It felt damn good. I know that's selfish, but I don't care. It felt good."