1.1 Just A Little Bit In Love With It
He thought I'd never find out. Thought that even though I knew his mind better than my own, I would never know. Thought he could keep it from me, when there are no secrets between us, no secrets he can keep from me.
I tell him everything. I can choose not to. He has no choice, and yet keeps this from me. I should kill him for it. I could. I feel it every time, that distant taste of death, the shadowy figure looming over him, before I let him sink to the bed into a sleep so deep he won't wake for days.
It's an arrangement. It works. He's allowed to let the animal out, to fight, to feel blood slide between his fingers, sticky and red and mine. I take from him to heal the wounds, like we did that first night I was in his bed. His claws through my chest, his claws inside my flesh, his mind inside my head, him, in me, body and claws and mind.
He's mine, and always will be.
She can't have him, even though she doesn't want him.
He can't want her, though I know he does.
He is mine.
She's my Marie, and everyone knows it.
The admirers she'd gained where lost just as swiftly within days of my return. There were rumours, as there always are, and disproving voices, as there always are, but we were so glad to see each other, it faded to nothingness.
I tried to give her the photograph back, but she told me to keep it. She tried to give my dog tags back, but I told her to keep them.
I thought we no longer needed the thread back to each other they had given us, but I find myself staring at the old photograph more and more.
I don't analyse that too much.
But she's my Marie, though she's changed. Of course she has, I tell myself. She's older. Almost eighteen. Did you expect her to remain fifteen forever? And in a curious way I am hers. She contains everything that it me, thoughts and desires, memories even I cannot remember.
She knows that too of course, but we pretend she doesn't, because otherwise it would all fall apart.
Ignore the fact that it's falling apart anyway, because everything it is cannot be maintained, lust and pain and terror and death.
"Hi Logan."
"Hi Jean. How's Scott?" He kept his eyes guarded as he began to empty his lunch onto the table.
"He's fine. Thank you. How's Marie?"
"Fine, thanks."
"Good."
Logan stared wistfully at her, then, suddenly aware of it. "How are you Jean?"
She kept eating, the moments silence stretching out beyond them.
"Logan, I think we should talk."
"It's just a question." He mumbled.
"You're with Marie. I'm with Scott. And I'm sorry, I think you feel something I don't return . . ." A hand on his, so casually done. "I'm sorry. Can we still be friends?"
"I hate it when they say that."
"Say what?"
"'Lets be friends.'" Marie looked at him, challenging him.
"Yeah."
"You love her." Not a question.
"Marie. . ."
"Not an answer. You love her?" A question.
"Yes." An answer.
"Do you love me?"
"No."
"Good. I don't love you."
"No. Good."
"Can I stay here tonight anyway?" He heard something he hadn't heard since she was fifteen. A slight tremor in her voice.
"Of course you can." He reached for her gloved hands.
"I don't want to. . . "
"No."
"I don't love you."
"I don't love you either."
They could never understand why. Why I slip out every night and stand on street corners. I'm not trying to pick guys up, it's just a routine. And then they drive by, and it's too tempting and instinct takes over.
Body count's rising. Scott and Jean keeping staring at me. The Professor and I had a little talk.
I'm heading for jail, or worse, he said. I told him I knew that. Death is looming over my shoulder but she's not looking at my victim anymore. She's mine, my saviour, ticket out of here. So where the hell is she?
He thought I'd never find out. Thought that even though I knew his mind better than my own, I would never know. Thought he could keep it from me, when there are no secrets between us, no secrets he can keep from me.
I tell him everything. I can choose not to. He has no choice, and yet keeps this from me. I should kill him for it. I could. I feel it every time, that distant taste of death, the shadowy figure looming over him, before I let him sink to the bed into a sleep so deep he won't wake for days.
It's an arrangement. It works. He's allowed to let the animal out, to fight, to feel blood slide between his fingers, sticky and red and mine. I take from him to heal the wounds, like we did that first night I was in his bed. His claws through my chest, his claws inside my flesh, his mind inside my head, him, in me, body and claws and mind.
He's mine, and always will be.
She can't have him, even though she doesn't want him.
He can't want her, though I know he does.
He is mine.
She's my Marie, and everyone knows it.
The admirers she'd gained where lost just as swiftly within days of my return. There were rumours, as there always are, and disproving voices, as there always are, but we were so glad to see each other, it faded to nothingness.
I tried to give her the photograph back, but she told me to keep it. She tried to give my dog tags back, but I told her to keep them.
I thought we no longer needed the thread back to each other they had given us, but I find myself staring at the old photograph more and more.
I don't analyse that too much.
But she's my Marie, though she's changed. Of course she has, I tell myself. She's older. Almost eighteen. Did you expect her to remain fifteen forever? And in a curious way I am hers. She contains everything that it me, thoughts and desires, memories even I cannot remember.
She knows that too of course, but we pretend she doesn't, because otherwise it would all fall apart.
Ignore the fact that it's falling apart anyway, because everything it is cannot be maintained, lust and pain and terror and death.
"Hi Logan."
"Hi Jean. How's Scott?" He kept his eyes guarded as he began to empty his lunch onto the table.
"He's fine. Thank you. How's Marie?"
"Fine, thanks."
"Good."
Logan stared wistfully at her, then, suddenly aware of it. "How are you Jean?"
She kept eating, the moments silence stretching out beyond them.
"Logan, I think we should talk."
"It's just a question." He mumbled.
"You're with Marie. I'm with Scott. And I'm sorry, I think you feel something I don't return . . ." A hand on his, so casually done. "I'm sorry. Can we still be friends?"
"I hate it when they say that."
"Say what?"
"'Lets be friends.'" Marie looked at him, challenging him.
"Yeah."
"You love her." Not a question.
"Marie. . ."
"Not an answer. You love her?" A question.
"Yes." An answer.
"Do you love me?"
"No."
"Good. I don't love you."
"No. Good."
"Can I stay here tonight anyway?" He heard something he hadn't heard since she was fifteen. A slight tremor in her voice.
"Of course you can." He reached for her gloved hands.
"I don't want to. . . "
"No."
"I don't love you."
"I don't love you either."
They could never understand why. Why I slip out every night and stand on street corners. I'm not trying to pick guys up, it's just a routine. And then they drive by, and it's too tempting and instinct takes over.
Body count's rising. Scott and Jean keeping staring at me. The Professor and I had a little talk.
I'm heading for jail, or worse, he said. I told him I knew that. Death is looming over my shoulder but she's not looking at my victim anymore. She's mine, my saviour, ticket out of here. So where the hell is she?
