Darkness

Blackness is all. It is everywhere. It was back then, and it is still now.

Darkness encroaches like a dead sea. The tides bring forth monsters from the abyss, ones who would devour us if we do not beware. I try to run, but I am bound. I try to scream, but I cannot breathe. My chains hold tight and pull me back into the darkness. I do not wish to return to that place. I like the light. It is warm. It is kind. I feel the monsters behind me, dragging me down into this ocean of horrors. I cannot breathe. I am going to drown. . . .

I wake with a start, sweaty and out of breath. My dream is over and I am safe, but I know I will not be able to go back to sleep now. Rather than torture myself with tossing and turning on a cramped, sweat-soaked mattress, I tiptoe from my bedroom and into the kitchen in the next room. I don't care that my lacy red bra and panties have left me halfway indecent, even if I must share this house with two other people, a man—Rayotte Steinberg—and a young girl—Kapelteta.

I just want a drink, and I find it.

Rayotte has never been very good at hiding his booze. Even Kapelteta knows where he keeps it, but she is mature for her age so she does not go near it. The part of her that is demon ensures that. I lean my forehead on the countertop, thankful for the cold surface that soothes my feverish skin. In one hand I hold a bottle of eighty-proof Malt liquor, enough alcohol to put someone my size under the table after four shots, but I am not worried. Booze has little effect on me. In my other hand is a clear glass, half filled with oversized cubes of wonderfully cold ice.

Again, the cold feels good to me, but I know it will be much better in my gullet than in my hands. I fill the glass and listen to the clinking the bottle makes as the two things rattle together. Shaking hands have never been a thing I enjoy seeing in myself, but I drink down the glass in three long gulps so that the trembling stops. The liquor burns my mouth and throat and it leaves a horrible, fuzzy taste on my tongue, but it helps to divert my thoughts from that dreaded nightmare.

I drink another glass and make it through half of the next before I finally put the bottle down. The alcohol does not give me a buzz like it would for any other human. It does not change my mood, nor does it make me even the slightest bit tipsy. I wish it would. It would provide me with a much better escape that way. A sigh escapes me and I slump foreword onto the cold countertop again. The cool temperature makes goose bumps rise along my arms and I manage to avoid all thoughts of my dream.

I do not like that dream, but it appears to be quite fond of me. Nowadays, it has been reoccurring more often than I would ever care for, serving as a nightly reminder of the huge chunk that is missing from my life. From ages five to twenty-three, I have absolutely no recollection of anything that may have happened to me. It's all one big mass of darkness from the experiments those damn scientists did to me. Whatever they did, they wanted me asleep for the whole thing. My visions were apparently more reliable when there was nothing to influence false information.

It frightens me to think that I would have spent my entire life in comatose had it not been for that scientist who went demon during an experiment. I am eternally grateful for that day, and especially that it was Rayotte who defeated it and found me among the rubble. Whatever they did to me while I was asleep, they made me part demon—almost like Kapelteta, but not naturally.

I pinch the arch of my nose and groan softly, listening to the rustle I now hear coming from Rayotte's room. He must not be able to sleep either, I think, but the noise I have made makes him curious. I pretend not to notice him as he enters into the kitchen, his bare feet padding softly on the hardwood floor. There is only the slightest ruffling of cloth, so I figure that he must be in his boxers. He stops beside me and I feel the warmth radiating from his body, but the cold hand he places on my shoulder comes almost as a shock. His voice appears as a low whisper. Alluring and oh so soothing to my weary ears.

"Can't sleep?" he quietly asks.

I shake my head and his hand falls away.

"Yeah, me neither."

He says nothing about his half-empty bottle of Malt and the glass I have in my hand, and it is that which makes me realize he knows why I am awake.

"That nightmare again?" he says, almost as if he has read my mind.

I nod, thankful that he understands what it's like to feel haunted by something, so he chooses not press the subject any farther. He has his demons and I have mine; though, both these demons are true "demons" in a literal sense, neither of us has any desire to open the wounds of the others' past. Although I know his whole story and vice versa, there is an unspoken rule between us to never discuss the matter. I do not mind it. I have nothing to talk about anyway.

"How's Kapelteta?" I say after a silence, not entirely sure of why I wanted to ask in the first place.

"Sleeping," is all he replies. He is not much for conversation right now and I understand why.

I nod again and finally turn to face him. There are no lights on anywhere in the house so it is very dark, but the glow of the moon comes in through the windows and lets me see his face. There is a certain allure to him in this context, what with the faint shine of the moon making the long trestles of his dark hair shimmer under the pale light. His skin glistens ever so slightly, the light dancing over every ripple of toned muscle on his upper and lower torso. He is beautiful, and I can tell by the way his eyes wander over my body that the light has a similar effect on me.

I reach up and move a few messy strands of hair out of his face just to entertain myself, but when he decides to do the same, I pull him down and kiss his lips deeply. I have caught him by surprise. So much so that he hesitates at first, unsure of what he should do, but then he just lets his body do what it wants and closes his eyes. Just as I have told him to do in times before. His hands lace in my short, silvery hair and he draws me in closer, our half-naked bodies pushed together in such a wonderful, sensual manner. The smell and taste of booze is enough to make him a little light headed, but not enough to deter him from the moment. I am glad for it.

Our kiss is long and passionate, both of us yearning for the touch of the other, but I can feel that uncertainty has him holding back. My forwardness has surprised him and I can sense that as I pull away, allowing my lips to linger for a second longer.

He presses his forehead against mine and silently asks, "Are you sure?"

All I can do is nod and he pulls me back in for another kiss, but this one is longer, harder, and with much clearer intentions behind it. Rayotte is not the kind of person who will blatantly admit to his desires, even if those desires are something as basic and natural as making love. As such, he either lets his body do the talking or, more oftenly, waits for me to make the first move. I do not mind it, but he only asks me now because of my dream. That nightmare is hard for my mind to recover from. Words are of no comfort. I would rather have our bodies do the talking for tonight.

The kiss grows more intense as he makes quick work of what little cloth I have on, groping my hip and scrunching our faces together so much that it is smothering. But it is a good smother, one that I greet with a tight, almost strangling hold around his neck. Such sensuous sounds escape us by the sheer earnestness of the other's desires. There is a slight fear in me that we might wake Kapelteta, but the way he steals my breath makes the thought disappear. He lifts me onto the counter and pushes the glass and bottle of Malt away, making me laugh from his boldness but he stifles it with another feverish kiss. My hands hold his face as my legs are locked around his waist, keeping his body on mine and I gasp when he enters me. My nails leave long scratches all down his back.

We are so different, Rayotte and I, and yet we are the same. He, who allows his demon to haunt him; and I, one who is her own demon. He is a man who will never forget the sins in his past, and yet I have no past that I can remember. We are both alone, and yet we are together. It is for those reasons that I sometimes pity him, but he says that I should not. He believes that his crimes require punishment, but I do not think so. If only he could see himself the way that I do.

To this day I am not certain of what our relationship truly is. We are lovers, but whether or not we can be considered a couple bound by emotion, I cannot be sure. There is a passion between us; a passion so strong that it does not need words to be expressed. As I think about this, I am compelled to hold him closer, closer to my bosom where my heart beats strongly.

I am in love with this man, though, I will never admit it. He is in love with me, but he will never admit it. It is an unending cycle, but nevertheless, I am satisfied, for we have opened each other's eyes to a light unseen by any other human. But in doing so, we have also let in the darkness. . . .

The next morning, I awake in Rayotte's bed with the sun shining in my eyes. The bottle of Malt liquor is tipped over on the nightstand, empty, with the glass cup a quarter-way filled by severely watered down booze. Our garments are heaped up in a pile on the floor with my less-than-modest bra set on top, but Rayotte is not beside me. Instead, I can hear him talking to that woman from the Sorcery Management Bureau, Detective Nerin Simmons. I'd forgotten she intended to meet with him today, still intent on convincing him to be a "licensed Tactical Sorcerist."

"She never gives up," I mutter and drag my hand down my face. The liquor has left my mouth feeling fuzzy and stale.

I get myself out of bed and slip one of Rayotte's shirts on over my head, one that drapes down far enough so as not to expose me when I walk. I put my panties on as a precaution and then walk out to meet them.