That Company Girl
Gabriel Gray. You taste his name just once more in your mouth. Silently. Because here, in the company, the walls have ears. And you don't want anyone to know how much he meant to you, or how much he still means to you.
Those days with him, in his little shop, eating peach pie and talking about everything and nothing all at once, are both the dearest and most torturous memories of your existence. You wouldn't take them back, and at the same time you wish they had never happened.
Because they changed everything. Life was simple before Gabriel. There was pleasing daddy, and being an agent, and playing with your toys. Sure, sometimes you had wondered what the world was like. Yes, you had still missed the mother you never knew. No, you weren't quite happy. But it was all you knew. Until beautiful, terrible Gabriel Gray had come and shattered your universe.
You tried to forget him. You really tried. You threw yourself even more into the company work. Please daddy, be that perfect company girl. But it wasn't enough anymore. It had never been enough. But you hadn't known how much life had cheated you until Gabriel had opened your eyes to how peaceful and simple and happy it could be. Or how much you could feel. You hadn't felt all that much before. Not after the experiments.
But Gabriel healed something in you. You felt whole around him. You felt something else, too. Something strange. You can't put your finger on it. He never told you that you weren't enough. He never asked more of you than you were. For once in your life, you were enough. You play in your mind over and over the little moments that you had with him. Remember what he called you? Angel.
Angel. You've been called many things, none of them so pretty as this name. Company girl. This label you took on willingly, because it was the path to making your father happy with you. Agent. Something you aspired to but seldom reached. Why do you always screw everything up? Psychopath. This you push to the back of your mind. Who cared if toys called you hard names?
There was another name. Daughter. One you've been called far, far too rarely. Maybe if you had been called by it a little more often, treated like it a little bit more, your twisted life would be different. But you weren't. And it's not.
You toss and turn, trying to fix your mind on something else. It catches on Gabriel, like it always does. You had wanted him to kiss you. You had really wanted him to. It was the first time you ever wanted someone like that. It made you feel normal. That was it. That was how you felt around Gabriel. Normal.
You had let Peter kiss you. If you couldn't have that certain toy, then surely you could have this one. And it was good. Feeling something again was good. But it wasn't quite what you wanted to feel. It wasn't what you had been craving all this time. Because he wasn't Gabriel. You had been wrong in thinking that the toys were interchangeable.
Gabriel wasn't a toy. He was real. And apparently Peter was real, too. Because he used you. And your toys aren't supposed to use you. You're supposed to use them. And you're wondering if maybe you shouldn't have. You're beginning to think maybe they were all real. You aren't crazy about the idea, so you shove it aside. You've always been good at ignoring what you wanted to forget.
But, see, that's the problem with Gabriel. You can't forget him. The memory of the day you lost him still haunts you. But no matter how often you trace the events in your mind, counting them over like rosary beads, you can't see what you could have done differently. And you hate it that you didn't have a choice.
Life is never fair. But it should at least give you the dignity of your own choices. You should at least have the freedom to choose your cage. You were born into yours, and no matter how often or how hard you beat against the bars, it won't open, because there's no one to free you and there's no escape. The walls in the bedroom seem to close in around you . . .
So you get up, put on some clothes, shut away the thoughts. It's time for the toys to come out and play a little. Maybe their pain will help your own. But then you glance at the clock—2 AM. Hmmm. You pause. Then you toss your blonde head and a twisted smile crosses your face.
All the better.