when I open the door to her room, Bonnie is kneeling beside her bed, the silver gown pooling about her legs like liquid mercury. The scars on her wrists are pink from where she has worried them. Her eyes are rimmed with red.
She doesn't look at me as I settle on the bed beside her, and wrap my hands sharply in her hair. I tug her head onto my knee.
"That was a careless stunt you pulled in there, Bonnie. It's not in your best interests to raise my ire, teacup."
"Where is she?"
"Sleeping"
She gives me a skeptical glance.
"I gave her an injection of Morphine. I wanted some time with you, unimpeded."
It is evident by the slant of her angry and defeated eyes that she does not believe my sentiments to be genuine.
"You're jealous, aren't you?"
"Yes."
Her candor is refreshing.
"Why is that?"
"I don't know. I think it's the way you look at her."
"I see. And by the converse, I you wish I looked at you like that."
"Yes."
Again, completely honest.
"Why?"
"I don't know."
Her lack of pretense diffuses my anger like a silk curtain hovering over a shaft of light.
"I look at her like that, Bonnie, because she is a unique and beautiful creature, who stirs my passion merely by walking into a room."
I can feel something twist inside her and crumble. She seems to shrink in on herself. She hugs her knees.
"But you are just as unique, Bonnie, and no less desireable. Your memory will continue to haunt me long after you have departed."
The tears do come now, but they are less bitter I think. There's a cathartic glow to her cheeks that seems to betoken the fact that she'd suffer through anything – even death – if only someone would see her as a thing of value.
"You're so alike you know. And different as night and day."
I pet her hair softly, and let her cry. When she finally looks up at me, there is a gratitude radiating from her that I haven't seen since Mischa wrapped her chubby hand around my outstretched finger. Bonnie kneels up, setting her palms down on my knees, and raising her face to eye level. And then she presses her lips to mine.
I haven't ever been truly kissed by someone who knows who I am. I had never expected to be. And yet, here she is, supple, young and soft, her full lips pursing over my own. There is a surprising gentleness to it. How she could learn to be gentle without ever being offered a tender caress is a mystery. How she can handle so much pain herself, and yet still retain a place in her heart for affection is as enigmatic as the feeling that wells up inside my chest. The urge to destroy can keep time beside the urge to protect. My arm aches along the pathways of old breaks. I faintly bite at her lip, she responds by sliding her hands up my shirt, reaching for the buttons. She begins to unfasten them, the sides of her hands brushing my chest. I capture her wrists, and still them. She looks me dead in the eye, unafraid. She can see my arousal, but she can also sense my reserve.
"Can we…"
I ponder the question. Can we? The thought of a bit of rough sex before I dispatched her had occurred to me. But this? This softness and gentle understanding? Her willingness is so unexpected. When I raise my hand to my face, I can still smell the faint traces of Clarice. She is sleeping on the other side of the thin wall.
"I'm afraid I must go and check on our guest. I want to make sure she is sleeping comfortably."
She sinks back on her heels, the liquid silver pooling out around her. Her eyes are downcast once more, the gratitude recessing into the dark black cavern of her pupil.
"I'll be back for you in a little while, Bonnie I'd suggest you use this time to gather your thoughts and put yourself in order."
"Yes, Sir."
She looks as if she's about to start crying again. I wonder if she feels rejected.
"And Bonnie, don't think too harshly of Clarice. For all her confused and bumbling modes of morality, she wants exactly the same thing you do. She wants to be put out of her misery."
I turn to go, but her curiously empty voice stops me.
"I know why I feel jealous, now. It's not the way you looked at her at all. It's the way you stopped looking at me the moment she walked into the room."
I have no response to comfort her. I leave the room in a cold sweat.
She doesn't look at me as I settle on the bed beside her, and wrap my hands sharply in her hair. I tug her head onto my knee.
"That was a careless stunt you pulled in there, Bonnie. It's not in your best interests to raise my ire, teacup."
"Where is she?"
"Sleeping"
She gives me a skeptical glance.
"I gave her an injection of Morphine. I wanted some time with you, unimpeded."
It is evident by the slant of her angry and defeated eyes that she does not believe my sentiments to be genuine.
"You're jealous, aren't you?"
"Yes."
Her candor is refreshing.
"Why is that?"
"I don't know. I think it's the way you look at her."
"I see. And by the converse, I you wish I looked at you like that."
"Yes."
Again, completely honest.
"Why?"
"I don't know."
Her lack of pretense diffuses my anger like a silk curtain hovering over a shaft of light.
"I look at her like that, Bonnie, because she is a unique and beautiful creature, who stirs my passion merely by walking into a room."
I can feel something twist inside her and crumble. She seems to shrink in on herself. She hugs her knees.
"But you are just as unique, Bonnie, and no less desireable. Your memory will continue to haunt me long after you have departed."
The tears do come now, but they are less bitter I think. There's a cathartic glow to her cheeks that seems to betoken the fact that she'd suffer through anything – even death – if only someone would see her as a thing of value.
"You're so alike you know. And different as night and day."
I pet her hair softly, and let her cry. When she finally looks up at me, there is a gratitude radiating from her that I haven't seen since Mischa wrapped her chubby hand around my outstretched finger. Bonnie kneels up, setting her palms down on my knees, and raising her face to eye level. And then she presses her lips to mine.
I haven't ever been truly kissed by someone who knows who I am. I had never expected to be. And yet, here she is, supple, young and soft, her full lips pursing over my own. There is a surprising gentleness to it. How she could learn to be gentle without ever being offered a tender caress is a mystery. How she can handle so much pain herself, and yet still retain a place in her heart for affection is as enigmatic as the feeling that wells up inside my chest. The urge to destroy can keep time beside the urge to protect. My arm aches along the pathways of old breaks. I faintly bite at her lip, she responds by sliding her hands up my shirt, reaching for the buttons. She begins to unfasten them, the sides of her hands brushing my chest. I capture her wrists, and still them. She looks me dead in the eye, unafraid. She can see my arousal, but she can also sense my reserve.
"Can we…"
I ponder the question. Can we? The thought of a bit of rough sex before I dispatched her had occurred to me. But this? This softness and gentle understanding? Her willingness is so unexpected. When I raise my hand to my face, I can still smell the faint traces of Clarice. She is sleeping on the other side of the thin wall.
"I'm afraid I must go and check on our guest. I want to make sure she is sleeping comfortably."
She sinks back on her heels, the liquid silver pooling out around her. Her eyes are downcast once more, the gratitude recessing into the dark black cavern of her pupil.
"I'll be back for you in a little while, Bonnie I'd suggest you use this time to gather your thoughts and put yourself in order."
"Yes, Sir."
She looks as if she's about to start crying again. I wonder if she feels rejected.
"And Bonnie, don't think too harshly of Clarice. For all her confused and bumbling modes of morality, she wants exactly the same thing you do. She wants to be put out of her misery."
I turn to go, but her curiously empty voice stops me.
"I know why I feel jealous, now. It's not the way you looked at her at all. It's the way you stopped looking at me the moment she walked into the room."
I have no response to comfort her. I leave the room in a cold sweat.