I.
He loved to watch her.
Not in an intrusive way. Closer to the way a child watches his mother put on makeup, or the way a man watches a woman as her dress slithers down her legs to the floor. Curiosity mixed with a bit of apprehension. You're never alone here. Nothing is private. Nothing is sacred.
There was something pure about the way her mouth turned up while she dreamed. He wondered darkly if even the nightmares offered some relief from the reality that was living in this...place.
And then he began torturing himself, like he did sometimes without even trying. He remembered her as a little girl.
When did the smile of an innocent young girl, his hand
in hers as they walked up the shoreline, laughing at seagulls...when
did this turn into her kissing him in the hallway of his saccharinely
yellow house?
(Her hands reaching for
his shoulders awkwardly, the noise that had escaped as he tried to
protest)
II.
Guilt.
How Ben had ordered Isabel to detain Karl, lock him in the chair in the room with the fast-moving, over-saturated images, and the repetitive, blasting mantras. Teach him not to lure his daughter out to do God-knows-what in the middle of the night. Teach him not to play games.
Richard could only nod along to Ben's anger-driven diatribe.
And now he watched her sleep. He needed to rouse her, tell her to crawl back into her own bed, get up at a reasonably early hour and maintain appearances.
He glanced over at Alex, the figure wrapped in sheets, illuminated in the moonlight that flooded his room, cast a bright slice over the bed and the wardrobe. Her mouth was turned up.
Ben wouldn't be up for a few more hours.
He let her dream.