On the evening of the third day, she smiled at him as she brought him tea- the same cheap, synthetic stuff as she had made for them that morning, but a fresh pot, he could taste it. He wished, later, that she hadn't smiled; that she didn't smile at him so often, or so prettily, or with such genuine compassion. When had anyone last smiled at him and meant it?
Of course, in the course of those three days and nights he had come to wish many things, a useless indulgence he would not have allowed himself in what he already thought of as his "other life." But here, he was lying in a lumpy, old bed in the backroom of a hole-in-the-wall flat, waiting for his unexpectedly brittle body to heal, and he had nothing to do but think- and sometimes read- but mainly think. Which brought on the ineffectual wishing.
He wished that someone else had found him. He wished that instead of her, it had been some complete degenerate- much like the one that had knifed him without, of course, realizing who he was- who had taken him out of the alley where he had lay, humiliated and, of course, also bleeding. If only it had been some media caricature of a twilighter, some disgusting old whore wallowing in her own filth. Better yet, he wished that the mugger- he had nearly been done in by a mugger!- had slashed some other part of his body than his throat, which he had done so ineptly that he had completely missed the jugular, scarring the vocal cords instead. Then he would be able to speak understandably and would tell whoever found him who he was. And perhaps they wouldn't believe him, but at least then the normal dynamic could be restored between them. Then, even if it still had been this girl, this Niama, who found him, he could have revealed himself to her. Then, she could have been like all the rest of them- awed, cowed, obsequious perhaps (although he hoped not, for that would be a true disappointment), and secretly revolted.
Then, she might not smile so much.
He also wished she didn't have those damn books. Most of them were the modern nano-discs, of course, not like the physical books, the codex-style tomes his master had collected. All but two, in fact. One of the two was a well-read thing on cheap flimsiplast, a romance penny dreadful, some blather about an alien princess trapped in a space station by pirates. It was mostly melodrama and sex, but when he read it- he was so bored he read them all- he detected a certain sadness in the tale. The events, though absurd, were communicated with an emotional depth that could cut as deeply as the knife had. He understood why she loved the book, especially after he learned about the death sticks and the pimp. She was the princess; she couldn't go home, and she was waiting in this slum to be rescued. But this was no novel- they both knew the rescue wouldn't come.
But even understanding that, it might have yet been all right if only she hadn't had the other codex-book. She handed it to him one night before she went to work. "I've read it a million times," she'd said graciously. "You seem…intellectual. You probably need something to read that doesn't kill your brain cells with all that romance sucrose." She seemed to perceive his unspoken question. "I don't know if I understand it. I didn't get far enough in school to read it for class, and I've heard it's a really deep book. But my mother always used to say it was the greatest poetry ever written, and the most romantic book ever." He had read the cover, and felt genuine surprise. It was Kamus' Ten Thousand Years of Darkness. Your mother was right, he imagined saying- damn those vocal cords!
But when he stopped wishing and fantasizing- his fantasies in that bed were the stuff of awful novels like the one about the princess; he nearly made himself sick- he realized it could not have been otherwise; as soon as he met her, it was too late. It wasn't just the books. It had started when first he had opened his eyes and seen her peering down at him. The slender form, the majestic neck, and the sweet young face, tired and prematurely worn from drug use, too little sleep, and sorrow. The silky, light brown hair, golden in places from natural highlights that caught the crude fluorescent light and glittered faintly. The hazel eyes, so vivacious but so afraid, not yet dead-looking, as so many of her colleagues' eyes were. And the smooth, fair, pliant skin. In the dimmed lamplight, she had seemed to glow, surrounded by a sort of corona. He had always been gifted with sensory sensitivity, and in his time he had found that most beings stank, that they exuded an unwashed, waste-like odor. She did not, not even beneath the cheap, pungently alcoholic perfume she wore.
He was glad when he learned what her profession was, because it meant that he could hire her some evening, when he was healed and back and this part of his life was over. He wondered if she would remember him, and fancied she might. He imagined giving her another dress to wear, instead of that awful, neon spandex thing she wore out at night, and what she would look like if she washed off the cheap makeup, as well as the perfume. He imagined giving her a good meal, and maybe even allowing Ten Thousand Years of Darkness to be performed again at the Opera House, just so she could see it.
Thus ran his fantasies until that night, when he sat up to take the tea, and his eye was caught by the horrifying image across from him. It stared at him with red eyes sunken deep in sockets of yellow skin. All its skin was sallow white-yellow, like pus or melted candle wax. It hung on the thing's skull in furrowed, wrinkly layers. It had no hair- not anymore- and its teeth were stumpy and gray in its sneering, pale-lipped mouth.
He jumped and for a moment, his only thought was, Dear Force, what is that thing?
It was then that he realized the image was surrounded by a rectangular frame, and he understood that he was staring, with revolted fascination, into a mirror.
He knew then that he was not going to hire her. What was the point? He would know how she felt, would know that she felt nothing but the same revulsion he was feeling, no matter what she would say on such an evening. Even her smiles would be hollow, as hollow as the fawning looks the rest of them gave. And somehow, that thought also cut him. Besides, what a poor reward it would be for all she had done.
But he did want her. He had in a sense been two people for most of his adult life, and they were quite different, so much so that if they were two separate men, they would probably despise each other. But they were both accustomed to getting what they wanted. It was only a question of how.
Sometimes, as he healed and grew more lucid, he heard her crying. Sometimes, it was after she had been using- he could smell the fumes in the air. The other time, it was after the male had come to the flat, had damn near broken down the door. That day, he had heard the sounds of things crashing, breaking- and she had screamed, and then cried for a while. And he understood in his intellectual way that it was more than the pimp, more than the drugs- it was everything. The disappointment in herself, and the loneliness. He knew she could never have been a great scholar, captain of industry, or galactic leader- as surely she did, too- but she could be more than this, and she hated that she wasn't.
And she needed someone to love, who would also love her. Many beings needed that; until he had met her, he hadn't really understood why. In many ways he still didn't, although he no longer looked down so much on those who had the need. But that was what the drugs were for, that was what the awful novels and the Kamus epic were for. The inescapable loneliness.
That realization made him happy, truly happy, when he had it. Because now he knew what he would do for her. Now he knew what he could give her that would also give him what he wanted. He would give her a chance- a chance to get clean, and a chance to have someone to love. And, of course, when he was able to, he would give her the necessary monetary support.
That night he slept well, less fitfully than he had in a very long time. He had a plan. He always felt better when he had a plan.