I spend restless nights at the bar, muttering my woes to the bartender as I slam shots of whiskey.

I don't take Jerusaleme with me when I go to the bar. I don't want him to see me like this.

I lay my face down on the table, my head burning as if on fire.

The bartender tells me I should go home, try to get some rest. I tell him I can't, that the nightmares have taken over my dreams.

I raise my head as I hear a familiar voice. I look over my shoulder to see Ranuccio sitting at a table behind me, playing cards and smoking like when I first saw him.

I grin sheepishly and wave, but he doesn't acknowledge me.

The bartender refills my glass. My hand trembles as I tip it into my mouth.

...

The days slip by almost unnoticed. A simple passing of shadows from one room to the next. Warmth and light, fading in and out as the sun makes its journey. Such unimportance the days held.

What good is a day, when it is the same as the day before?

I paint, using sullen models with sour expressions, conveying something both terrifying and utterly hopeless.

My paintings come to life with things unseen in person: Blood shoots from the neck of a man as he is decapitated, a look of horror on his anguished face.

I glance at the models, seeing merely three people, one bending over while the other two lay hands on him.

Dark smatterings of black reveals the loss of hope, the loss of life.

My stomach knots at the sight.

As I gently sweep my brush along the suffering man's eyes, causing them to stand out with their pain, my eye suddenly itches. I rub it with the back of my hand, and wipe the warm wetness on my pants.

...

Ranuccio brought me supper one evening while I was in bed. Wine and cheese. A small roast chicken.

I could tell by the nervous look in his eyes that he prepared it himself.

I put down the book I was reading and turned to him with a smile, wearing nothing but my underwear.

"What, no grapes?" I asked jokingly as he put my food on the table.

He looked up, startled. "I can get you some, if you'd like." He offered, taking a small step backwards.

I waved at him to stay, and he stood still.

Taking the glass of wine, I winked at him, then took a drink.

He relaxed and sat down on the bed beside me, reaching forward and pulling the table closer to us.

I put down the glass and reached for the chicken, but Ranuccio quickly sat up and grabbed the fork and knife. He began carving the chicken as best as he could, though it probably would have looked better if he had handed it to a dog first.

I sat back and watched him quietly. His strong hands looked so delicate and uncertain as they sliced into the meat.

When it was carved to his satisfaction, he stabbed the fork into a piece and held it up. Even in the dusky haze of the room, I could still see the steam rising from the chicken.

He scooted closer to me, our knees nearly touching. He looked at me with eyes so fierce I could not bear to look away. He offered the fork to me, letting it hover inches from my lips.

I gazed into his stoney gray eyes before parting my lips. He stuck the fork in my mouth, careful not to bang into my teeth or stab my tongue. I closed my mouth around the fork, and he pulled it out, grinning.

I chewed and swallowed. The chicken was a bit dry, and rather bland, but I did not tell him any of this. What would have been the point?

His eyes drifted down my bare chest to my scar, and I saw his jaw clinch together. He quickly speared another piece of chicken and held it out to me, and I bit it off the fork and ate it.

I coughed once, the dryness of the chicken tickling my throat.

He snatched the wine off the table and held it to my lips.

I opened my mouth and he very gently tilted the wine inside, biting his lip in concentration.

His expression was more than I could stand. I snorted into the glass and pushed him away, laughing and coughing at the same time.

He held the glass close to his chest as if protecting it, blinking and staring at me in confusion.

"Are you al-"

I interupted him by taking the wine and slinging it in his face.

He squeezed his eyes shut and wiped them with his arm. He blinked at me in shocked silence, licking his lips as the wine dripped down from his hair.

I took a cloth napkin from the table and gently dabbed his face. He grabbed me by the wrist and held me there, his eyes blazing.

I stared at him, slightly afraid, knowing what he was capable of.

He took his other hand and cupped his fingers around my chin, then he leaned over and kissed me. His eyes squeezed shut and his forehead wrinkled together as he pressed even closer to me.

Heat erupted from my body in a violent surge of passion. His lips parted and his tongue slipped out, forcing apart my own lips. His hand left my wrist and wrapped around my head, his fingers digging into my hair.

Our mouths moved as one, our tongues dancing together. The breath that panted from his nostrils was hot and moist.

I opened my eyes, not realizing I had shut them, and marvelled at his beauty. He suddenly opened his eyes and pulled our lips apart, and, placing his hand on my chest, he coaxed me to lay on my back. He straddled me, his body trembling, and pulled off his shirt.

I stared up at him, the ape-like grin on his face sending ripples down my spine.

His chest sparkled with sweat, his muscles stood out in distinct lines. He bend down and placed his hands on either side of my shoulders.

His face melted into a seriousness so genuine he almost looked sad. His eyes grew wet and dark, and he closed them and placed his warm lips against my chest.

His lips caressed and tickled my chest and moved slowly down to my stomach. My eye twitched with uncertainty as his tongue wormed its way into my belly button. I squirmed a little, so he stopped.

Carefully, gently, with the compassion of a mother kissing her sick child, his lips pressed sweetly against my scar, the one he himself had given me. A hot tear dropped from his eyes and onto my belly.

I raised my hand and ran my fingers through his hair.

He looked at me, his face full of sorrow and regret.

I gave him a small, understanding smile. That was enough. His face flew down against mine, and his lips found my own. His body arched, then settled down on top of me, grinding our pelvic bones together as he rocked his hips.

My chest tightened and I let out a moan of delight.

Ranuccio giggled like a little girl, and licked tenderly around my earlobe.

I kicked out my leg, knocking the wine glass from the bed. It shattered on the floor. Then I heard footsteps. Quickly, I threw Ranuccio sideways off of me. He thudded into the floor and his elbow crashed into the table.

He cursed the Holy Lord and sat up, holding his arm.

Jerusaleme appeared seconds later, waving his arms and blowing his whistle.

I held up my hand to calm him down.

"It's all right, Jerusaleme," I said lightly. "Ranuccio just tripped over a pebble or something."

Ranuccio stood up slowly, his face striken with anger. But he nodded at Jerusaleme. "Yeah.." He looked at the broken wine glass and the stained-red sheets. His eyes flickered at mine, full of delight. He looked back at Jerusaleme. "I'll clean it up." He promised solemnly.

Jerusaleme eyed me carefully. How silly the two of us must have looked to him. Both of us shirtless, him drenched with wine, both of us sweaty and out of breath. I grinned and he made a face.

After taking the sheets from my bed and providing me with clean ones, Jerusaleme left us alone.

I sighed heavily and laid down on the bed. Ranuccio scuffed his feet against the dirt floor. He scratched his forehead and glanced out the window.

"It's late I... I should let you rest," he muttered shyly.

Before I could say anything, he hurried out of the room and was gone.

...