What I Want, Chapter Eleven.
"You just let her go?" Scott almost screamed at Charles. "You just let her walk out of here?"
"Scott, I can't stop her."
"Well, you damn well should have tried."
"I did." He said calmly, his tone placating. "But she's over eighteen. She always had the right to leave here whenever she wanted."
"And you let her." Scott replied, and walked out of the room.
He couldn't believe it. Couldn't believe it. But he knew it was his fault. For going off with Jean before explaining to her that he was only going to break it off. For not telling her how he felt.
He had been in lust with her at the beginning of the week, and now, he was almost certain, he was in love.
He ran his hands over his bristled jaw, and walked slowly to her room. He opened the door and slid inside.
She wasn't there, but he could smell her, he could almost feel her. Sitting down tersely on the bed, he groaned. Even when she wasn't there, he could feel her there, he could imagine her touching him, making love to him.
As he stood up, he tried to bank the lust that was fogging his mind. He would never have her. Never. And the realization hit him like a knife in his stomach.
He would never have her. Ever. The one woman he might have had a possibility of being happy with, and he couldn't even tell her how he felt. Couldn't ever know if she had left because she felt the same way, or because of her pride.
And damnit, he wanted to. Even if it was just her pride, he wanted to know. He wanted to try and coax the feelings he had in his heart out of her. He wanted to let her know that she was.just.perfect.
He wanted to see her too, to touch her, to make her feel all the pleasure that her body could contain. To kiss her until her lips were swollen and red, and she could hardly breathe anymore. Until she was on fire with him, and he with her.
He wanted to talk to her, to help her let go of everything inside of her that she thought was dark, or scary, or different. He wanted to tell her his secrets. He wanted her to understand.
And God, he couldn't even try.
He sat down at the desk.the vanity.whatever it was, and looked at himself in the mirror.
Everything he saw was red. He had almost forgotten what color other things were, blue, green, yellow, they all faded into the murky redness. He could tell light from dark, but blue, green and brown were difficult to separate.
That's why he'd had to ask her what color her eyes were, when they'd first met. After she'd recovered, he'd been struck with her eyes, they had the perfect shape, they were intense, sad, and dark. And they were brown. He remembered her softly bitter laugh as she had said it.she thought they were ordinary, he knew, but they weren't.they were beautiful, only someone who couldn't see color could see that.
And so it was only him.
He'd wanted her from the beginning. From the very beginning, damnit. And he hadn't done anything then.
And when he had, he went and screwed it all up.
He slammed his fist into the mirror.
He had screwed it up. All of it.
He felt the pain in his hand, and looked down. Blood. He was bleeding. It wasn't difficult to recognize the blood, even through the red tint of his world.
He went into her bathroom.
There was still a towel lying on the floor, one she hadn't picked up that morning. And, hanging from the door on a hanger, was the slip she'd been wearing the night when he'd seen her in the laundry room.
He smiled softly. It still smelled like she had that night. Sweet and clean, with a hint of her tears, and his sweat. He touched it, just one brief stroke against the soft material, and he couldn't stand it anymore.
He pulled the slip off of the hanger, and pressed it against his chest. "I love you, Kitty." He said, and then walked out into the bedroom, fell on the bed, and lost himself in his tears.
It was hours before anyone came looking for him.
"You just let her go?" Scott almost screamed at Charles. "You just let her walk out of here?"
"Scott, I can't stop her."
"Well, you damn well should have tried."
"I did." He said calmly, his tone placating. "But she's over eighteen. She always had the right to leave here whenever she wanted."
"And you let her." Scott replied, and walked out of the room.
He couldn't believe it. Couldn't believe it. But he knew it was his fault. For going off with Jean before explaining to her that he was only going to break it off. For not telling her how he felt.
He had been in lust with her at the beginning of the week, and now, he was almost certain, he was in love.
He ran his hands over his bristled jaw, and walked slowly to her room. He opened the door and slid inside.
She wasn't there, but he could smell her, he could almost feel her. Sitting down tersely on the bed, he groaned. Even when she wasn't there, he could feel her there, he could imagine her touching him, making love to him.
As he stood up, he tried to bank the lust that was fogging his mind. He would never have her. Never. And the realization hit him like a knife in his stomach.
He would never have her. Ever. The one woman he might have had a possibility of being happy with, and he couldn't even tell her how he felt. Couldn't ever know if she had left because she felt the same way, or because of her pride.
And damnit, he wanted to. Even if it was just her pride, he wanted to know. He wanted to try and coax the feelings he had in his heart out of her. He wanted to let her know that she was.just.perfect.
He wanted to see her too, to touch her, to make her feel all the pleasure that her body could contain. To kiss her until her lips were swollen and red, and she could hardly breathe anymore. Until she was on fire with him, and he with her.
He wanted to talk to her, to help her let go of everything inside of her that she thought was dark, or scary, or different. He wanted to tell her his secrets. He wanted her to understand.
And God, he couldn't even try.
He sat down at the desk.the vanity.whatever it was, and looked at himself in the mirror.
Everything he saw was red. He had almost forgotten what color other things were, blue, green, yellow, they all faded into the murky redness. He could tell light from dark, but blue, green and brown were difficult to separate.
That's why he'd had to ask her what color her eyes were, when they'd first met. After she'd recovered, he'd been struck with her eyes, they had the perfect shape, they were intense, sad, and dark. And they were brown. He remembered her softly bitter laugh as she had said it.she thought they were ordinary, he knew, but they weren't.they were beautiful, only someone who couldn't see color could see that.
And so it was only him.
He'd wanted her from the beginning. From the very beginning, damnit. And he hadn't done anything then.
And when he had, he went and screwed it all up.
He slammed his fist into the mirror.
He had screwed it up. All of it.
He felt the pain in his hand, and looked down. Blood. He was bleeding. It wasn't difficult to recognize the blood, even through the red tint of his world.
He went into her bathroom.
There was still a towel lying on the floor, one she hadn't picked up that morning. And, hanging from the door on a hanger, was the slip she'd been wearing the night when he'd seen her in the laundry room.
He smiled softly. It still smelled like she had that night. Sweet and clean, with a hint of her tears, and his sweat. He touched it, just one brief stroke against the soft material, and he couldn't stand it anymore.
He pulled the slip off of the hanger, and pressed it against his chest. "I love you, Kitty." He said, and then walked out into the bedroom, fell on the bed, and lost himself in his tears.
It was hours before anyone came looking for him.
