DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.
In The Forests of the Night
By Joodiff
The door opens and I look round, and there you are. So tall and square-shouldered in your long dark coat. Strange, you are little leaner than I remember. Is that just my imagination? Or has all the grief and pain been burning you away since your only child went alone into the dark? Oh, the games we're going to play, you and I. I smile at you. You don't smile back.
You walk like a tiger, full of muscle and confidence, and so very light on your feet. Tyger, Tyger, burning bright…
They go to close the door behind you, and you turn and say, "Just leave it."
…In the forests of the night…
Do I make you nervous, I wonder? Wouldn't that be so very amusing? I'm just a woman caught firmly in restraints and look at you, so very male, so very powerful. All muscle and bone and sinew. You could break me, take me, and I'd just laugh and bite that oh-so elegant throat of yours until I tasted blood. I think we'd both enjoy that.
"Hello, Peter," I say to you with a smile. I look at you looking at me and I say deliberately, "You're looking fit."
You don't rise to it. That's a beautifully schooled non-expression on your face, Peter. And bravo to you for keeping your exquisite, murderous eyes just as unreadable. For now. One day I think I'll tell you something about you and me and those striking, unfathomable dark eyes of yours. But not today.
"You'll have to excuse my appearance, they wouldn't let me pick my own wardrobe," I tell you, moving my hands just enough to show you the extent of the restraints. Does it please you to see me shackled? Does it tease you? I wonder, Peter… I really wonder. I think you might be the sort of man who's far too easily seduced into flirting with the darkness. In fact, yes, I'm absolutely sure of it. Would you bite me the way I'd bite you? Would you rip my flesh the way I'd rip yours? Shall we find out? You'd like to, I know you would.
You ask me, "Who killed McCarthy?"
Such a deep voice you have, my too-handsome predator. Oh, yes. I hear it in my dreams, night after night. The things you say to me, the things I say to you. We speak the same language, the language of pain and flesh and fire. The language of dark, carnivorous things.
I say, "So you know he was murdered? Good. Well, when you've found Sandra's killer you'll have found McCarthy's. The two are… beautifully linked."
You say, "Where's Sandra's body?"
I have to chuckle at your boldness. It's not naiveté that makes you ask the million dollar question so bluntly. Oh, no, no, no. It's audacity. And I like that. I really do like it. How dull our relationship would be if you weren't an audacious man. How bold can you be, my Peter? Very bold, or just a little bold? I smile and reply, "I think it's only fair that you give me something in exchange for my help.
And you're very nearly smiling, aren't you? Well, well. What are you seeing? What are you imagining? Do you see us locked together in blood and sweat and moonlight? Do you see yourself caught deep inside me, wanting me and hating me? Loving me and loathing me? I do. Go on, tell me what you see, tell me what you imagine. It will amuse us both. You shrug, "Like what?"
"Nothing much," I tell you. If I asked you for the moon, would you tear it from the night sky for me? Or would you seize the stars instead and choke me with them? "I'd like to be allowed back on the ward. My privileges restored, such as they are. I'd like my chess set back."
You shake your head, and now there's the faintest touch of menace in your voice, quiet though it is. It thrills me. What exactly are you capable of, Peter, if I really push you? Well, we're going to find that out soon enough. And it won't surprise either of us, I'm sure. So quiet, so ominous, "I'm not a pawn you can just play around with."
"You were never a pawn," I say. You must know that. You're a very smart man. I see you swallow and I wonder why. Fear? Of what? Of me? Or yourself? Or of both of us? Fear of the shadows we'll make on the walI together as we fight and pant and bite and moan? I add, "You're my opponent."
You turn away. You really shouldn't turn away from me, Peter, not yet. I move to follow you, restraints catching me back. Don't you dare walk through that door, Peter. How do you expect to play the game without collecting together all the pieces first? I call your name, "Peter."
You stop, and then you turn back. And I want you. Christ, how I want you. But look, now you're advancing on me like the great, dangerous predator we both know you are. And this time you come closer, much closer, and it makes me grin. You're so close I have the scent of you. Brutal masculinity and just a touch of madness, a spicy, sensual cocktail. I say, "You can see Sandra from the clock tower."
I think perhaps I will kiss you. Or perhaps you will kiss me. Do you dare? Do you even dare think that you might want to? Just what sort of creature are you really? What are you on the inside, where we are all nothing but blood-red?
Tyger, Tyger, burning bright…
Who holds the end of your leash, Peter? Silly question. She's there, deep under your skin, and look how frightened you are that you might lose her… Do you know that I know? Do you know that I only dream in red, and that every single beat of your heart is bringing you closer and closer to the moment when that leash simply won't be strong enough to hold you back? You're already dancing to my tune, and we're going to have such fun playing this game, you and I…
Shall we kiss now, do you think, my Peter?
But you're moving again, back to the door. And then you're gone and the door closes.
And I smile, because the game is on and only one of us already knows all the moves.
Dream of me, Peter, and I'll dream of you. And very soon we'll be both be dancing. Together.
Tyger, Tyger, burning bright…
– the end –
"Tyger, Tyger, burning bright…" - "The Tyger" by William Blake