His farce was a practiced one.

He was ever so clever, so witty and suave, so well-constructed and well-versed and ever so slowly losing himself to the rushing waters of circumstance. He found it more and more amazing that he could keep a straight face when talking to her, rather than succumbing to the madness and ripping her to pieces. Figuratively, of course. Of course? The red behind his eyes never traveled to his face, but the black had long since migrated to his soul. And, oh, the secret little metaphors and sick little allusions he made, all the things he said when no one was listening. As beautiful as she.

It made him sick. Sick, sick, sick, sick, sick, how many times should he list it before it was no longer true? Sick in a good way, in a way that tore at his guts and his mind and his heart, that organ so unrelated to love, and his lungs and his groin and his mind again. A cycle, a vicious, whirling cycle. Of something he would not call love. Not love. Never again would he love, he had sworn that would be ripped from him along with his wife and daughter. No love, never love, all he could think now was love. Ripping his mind apart to find the reason for his torture, all he could think was love. And again, love.

She was beautiful- no she wasn't! She was perfect- no she wasn't! She was a goddess, a work of art created by a god- no she wasn't! He was five again, fighting the truth with petty cries of disbelief. It was all the defense he had against the wrenching, terrible pain of not having her, of not wanting to want her but wanting her nonetheless. And she, so oblivious and wonderful in all her oblivion, so lovely in her relative innocence- for who wasn't innocent when seen next to him?

His mask was irksome. Irksome was the word. Nothing was as important as maintaining the mask, as keeping his carefully constructed façade standing between him and the rest of the world and especially her. But nothing was more desirable than ripping it apart and casting it in pieces at her feet, showing her the true man and begging for forgiveness. Forgiveness for what, he was not sure, but he was certain that by loving her he was doing her some irreparable wrong.

And the water pounded a death-march into his skull.


Jane is not nearly so smooth as he pretends, nor so human. He might become more so if he could admit to himself that the pain is pain and not a desire for revenge. But he's more afraid of life itself than he is of his inhumanity. He's comfortable in the narrow-sighted territory that holds only himself, death, and Him. His problem is not that he doesn't realize he's in love with her, but that he doesn't know how to go about telling her. To be honest, he may have already lost what chance he had.