I try to drink myself to sleep tonight. The whisky dulls the pain; fades the memories.
In the dark, we use each other. Desperate fumbling, sweaty sheets, liquor on our breath, stale cigarettes. We both have memories we want to forget. Sometimes he's rough, but not tonight.
Afterwards, he watches me out of the corner of his eye. He doesn't think I know, but I know. I can feel his eyes on me. Regardless of how comfortable we've gotten with each other's pain, it's still his job. That's what he's programmed to do.
I can't save him, and I can't save myself. I couldn't save Dad, either.
When I met Charon, he changed me. Everyone called me a monster – and I was. I stopped slaving because of him. Every time I tried to clap the slave collar on anyone, I saw his face. I couldn't do it...not having bought him like I did. Eulogy was pissed – his most productive "contractor" had retired, with no explanation. We were making caps hand over fist – him more than anybody else. I have enough to last me for a long time. I might never have to work again.
I changed my ways; found a conscience. So many lives ruined, by little ol' me. Tell your problems to the bottle, you heartless bitch.
Everyone in the wasteland knows who I am. I started doing good things for people, and word got around. The people – dirty, desperate – talk gratitude, but they look at me with hungry eyes. They all want a piece of me. They'll take and take and take until there's nothing left.
I know he feels helpless. There's nothing he can do to fix me. It must be hard for him – he loves me, or at least, he said he did. But everything's changed now. Nothing's clear. He tries to get me out of the suite, into the wasteland, thinking that if I shoot something, I'll feel better.
I do, but it doesn't last.
He doesn't drink as much as I do. He's had a long time to deal with his grief and regret. Besides, the things he did…he had no choice. I had choices, and I made the wrong ones. It was my life, and I fucked it up. I'll own that.
In the morning, we sit outside on the balcony in silence, smoking.
"Mallie..?" he asks. It's short for Maleficent. I remembered it from an old storybook from when I was a kid; an evil witch's name. I picked it on a whim, when I flipped Vault 101 the bird and ran after dad. Fuck that place – I'm glad I destroyed it. Amata will get what she deserves – begs me to save the vault, then tells me that I can't go back in….fuck that place, and fuck her too.
Fuck the world. I hope it all burns. Again.
He wants me again; I can feel it. I'll let him sit and stew for a while – it's better after I wind him up tighter than a two-cap watch. Maybe I'll order him to smack me around a bit before; make things interesting. That kind of thing always turned me on anyway. Freddie called me a sicko – the pussy never could muster up the courage to give me a good, solid, open-handed slap.
I glance over at Charon's hands. When I first told him to do it, he was hesitant. I had to call him names; piss him off. Angry fucks are the best; he didn't hold back. I walked bow-legged for a week. Now, he's more than willing to pop me one every now and then, when I request it – you'd be surprised what you could get used to, given time.
I light a new cigarette with the cherry of my old one; flick the old one over the balcony, and onto the courtyard below. I hope I hit that Wellington broad on the head with it; burn her hair off. She gives Charon the stink-eye whenever we go downstairs. It would serve her ass right, snooty bitch.
Still staring out into the distance, I say to him, "You want me?"
He replies, something that's somewhere between a moan and a growl.
"You gotta soften me up a little first." I toss the remainder of my cigarette over the railing. I turn as I get to my feet, and stride over to him, stopping at arms-length. "Just a couple." Just thinking about it makes me wet.
My orders to him tend to be short nowadays. A handful of words; a brief sentence. I imagine that after years of Ahzrukhal's constant inane chatter, he appreciates the brevity.
I meet his cloudy blue eyes, and give the command: "I'm yours."
WHACK! The back of his right hand connects with my right cheek – hard enough to sting. My head compensates a little, turning to the left. The pain is delicious.
WHACK! Open-handed, to the left cheek. I feel the heat gather in my groin. Ooooh, yes. Yes…
The fire inside me burns for him and threatens to consume me.
Effortlessly, he hauls me up by the collar and drags me bodily to the patio table, and savagely bends me back. He tears off my boots and leather pants, tossing them carelessly away. I hear him unbuckle and unzip, a rustle of clothing as his trousers fall to the floor.
Rudely, he pulls my shirt up, to get a look at my tits. He pinches my left nipple, causing me to buck in a violent wave of pain and pleasure. While I'm distracted, he thrusts up inside me, ferociously, like an animal. I yip in surprise, as he clamps his left hand on my mouth. I must be quiet – there are few taboos in the wasteland, but humans fucking ghouls is one of them. They can call me a ghoul fucker all they like, I don't care – but he says it's best that we don't push our luck. Besides, I get a thrill out of him clamping his rough hand over my mouth, muting me, dominating me. He likes to watch my eyes roll into the back of my head, likes to hear my muffled moans – only he can control me like this. In this brief moment, he's free, and I am his to command.
I wrap my legs around his muscled waist, drawing him closer, deeper. As he leans in, I claw at him like a wild cat, and he growls, pumping vigorously – he likes it when I fight a little. My body starts to writhe and buck against him. I stiffen; scream into his rough hand, my cunt squeezing his dick like a vise. An explosion of ecstasy; stars spread before my eyes, blackness at the edges of my vision, threatening to take me with it. My toes curl, my eyes roll back, and he comes – loosing a deep guttural cry, releasing himself inside me.
He takes his hand off my face. We're both panting, breathing heavily, slick with my sweat. Abruptly, he slides out of me, gives my fleshy hip a heavy slap, leaving a red handprint that will last for at least an hour. Marking me, like a possession – his very own smoothskin fucktoy. He lifts up his pants and buckles them. I stand, shirt still pushed up, and feel his wetness running down my leg, sticky.
"I'm taking a shower."
He grunts his assent.
I climb in the shower, and he towels himself off with a washrag in the sink.
When I climb out, he's dressed – full armor, shotgun holstered, waiting. "I thought you'd like to go shoot something." he says. I do. So I get dressed in my good combat armor, the shit I snatched off the body of some dead Talon Company fuck that got what he deserved – and we went downstairs. Heading north, we come upon a lone mole rat. As its head explodes, I think – how long can I live like this?
Which is worth more to me – misery or happiness? Right now, I don't know. Maybe tomorrow, I'll look into Charon's eyes, and see me like he sees me: Beautiful, proud, and redeemed.
I can drink, fuck, kill, and smoke until I figure it the fuck out; until I'm ready to put this mess behind me.
Fuck the world. I hope it all burns.