Chapter 11
"Hey, Spike," Faye said quietly, sucking on a cigarette and fingering the skin of her inner thigh, "Have you ever been in love?"
He looked up but didn't answer.
"Oops!" She laughed, "sorry I forgot."
He remained silent.
"I've been in love once," she said with a smile, "and it was wonderful. I swear, it was!"
He was annoyed, but did not say a word.
"And all that touchy-feely shit, that was wonderful; but what really got me was---"
"Faye---" he tried.
"No listen!" She exclaimed, "Anyway, where was I? Oh yes! What really got me was the sex."
He looked up and studied her face. She stared at him, holding out for a second before breaking into laughter.
"You know," She whispered, "James---Lord bless his little heart, always told me I was this---this---this---"
"Faye---"
"This tiger! That's what I was, a real tiger when it came to fooling around, yeah," she smiled, getting up and swaying her hips as she danced, "I'm a real tiger," she growled.
"Have you been to the bar again?" he asked her calmly.
"Just a few drinks-"
"How many?"
"Just---two---or six?" she thought to herself and giggled again.
"Maybe you should lie down for a second---" he told her.
"Lie down? I've only just gotten up, you silly little cowboy."
She walked up to him and pulled her arms around his neck, burying his face in her breasts. He pushed her away and held her by the arms.
"What?" she screamed indignantly, "what, I don't appeal to you tonight? Don't wanna fuck me on this particular evening?"
"I'm not going to hold this against you in the morning, Faye, when you wake up hungover and humiliated. Just make sure you don't push your boundaries."
"My boundaries?" she shook her head and ripped out of his grasp, laughing hysterically, "my damn boundaries!"
She lay on the bed and spread her legs, "Come on, Spike, I'm waiting."
"Waiting for what?" he asked quietly, diverting his eyes away.
"I'm waiting for you and your damn manhood. What? Why are you looking at me like that? I may not be Julia, but I'm great in bed!"
She had gone too far.
"Julia?" He asked quietly, staring her down with his fiercely silent gaze.
"Yes---" she replied dubiously, as if unsure of herself for the first time that night. But then she remembered herself and giggled again, "Yes, Julia. Tell me, who's better, me or her?"
He walked fiercely to her and grabbed her shoulders with all of his strength. His face dug into hers and she looked into his eyes. This reminded her of another time when she was confronted with those magnetic, dark, brooding eyes. Yet somehow it was different now. Then he was but a man who had lost hope. Now, he had become a monster.
"You want to know who's better?" he asked her roughly, his hot breath against her face, she shook in his grip, "you forgot to specify: better at what?"
She pushed her face away but he caught her chin and harshly confronted her visage with his again. She suddenly couldn't speak.
"Because you're better at many things, so many things."
For a moment, a light of expectation appeared on her face, but soon vanished when she saw the look he was giving her.
"You're better at whoring," he pushed against her face, "at selling that worthless outer image to the highest bidder, although seldom ever bid high. You're better at giving up, and crying, lying and cheating your way to the top and still not succeeding at anything. You're better at being closeminded, and meddling in others' affairs without being invited. You're better at repulsing, at making people hate you at first sight because of your fickle nature, because of your lack of respect for anything that any normal human being could ever value. You're better disappointing people, at never keeping your promises, standing up for what you believe, or taking responsibility for your foolish actions. You're better at being afraid, being afraid of anything that requires any human sensitivity or dignity. You're better at disgracing the name we give to women. Hell, you're better than---" he paused, as if afraid to say her name, "---her---in so many things."
"Spike---" she wanted to defend herself, she wanted to say something but she could not figure out what.
"So you wanna know what I want to do to you right now?" he asked, breathing in the smell of her hair, a smell that he hated and lusted for simultaneously, "I want to rip off those clothes, expose you entirely, hog you, feel you, touch you. I want to fuck you, to slide myself inside of you and fuck you, that's what I want, I want to fuck you. But do you want to know what I don't want to do? I don't want to kiss you. Hell, I pity any man who is ever going to want to kiss those lips. You've really got to be trash to love trash."
He released her and she fell back on the bed. Spike watched her lying there, exposed, ready to give up her last shreds of dignity simply because she was afraid of being alone. He could have taken advantage of it, but he didn't. He turned away and walked to the door.
"Can I tell you a secret, Spike?" she suddenly asked and he stopped, without turning to look at her.
"Yes?"
"I'm drunk," was all that she could say.
He nodded, "It's a shame, Faye. You could have been a lovely woman, have you only not been a bitter hag."
He left the room and locked the door behind him.
.
.
.
Spike,
Listen, I can't do things like you. I don't have the heart, or lack thereof, to make possible this sort of innuendo. I have not a talent, or a skill, to perpetuate that coldness, and I still shudder at how easily you can discharge a lifetime of memories simply because you are tired of it all. You live your life freely, moving boldly from place to place, striding, impressing, and becoming. You move and move in constant continuation but you never seem to get anywhere. It's as if you've reached a dead end but cannot break it to your joints and muscles that the grand finale had come and it was not as grand as you imagined it to be. You will push against that until it destroys you, consumes you in its cold indifference, in its motionless demeanor. But even then you will not care. You would rather die on a search for what your heart entitles freedom than live confined to the secure luxuries of staying in one place. When you are gone, the world will be a little different, those little things that effect the big picture in the long run. You are just one little person, but you believe into great things that little people do, you have an overrated value system. I always wondered things about you. Do you believe in waking up to a fresh cup of coffee on a crisp, autumn morning, or feeling the rush of wind against your face as you look up at the stars from the highest peak of the highest mountain? You probably wouldn't much care for these, and yet the smell of a pretty girl's perfume can incite you in ways unimaginable, causing your consistence to rush into a wave and break dauntlessly, fearlessly, awkwardly, yet simultaneously gracefully, against the white, blissed out shores of so many pointless islands.
And now, I cannot look you in the eyes and say that I don't feel for you the greatest of emotions. But what can I do with these emotions? My heart resents its uselessness deeper every day, and maybe it will be healthy for me to go and find that trash that will not mind kissing my lips. You will go west and I will go east and never again will our paths cross. Some people might think it's a shame, since we have such a history together. I know that I will be lonely again, and you will be dead inside (you might have always been, who knows?) But that is just the price we have to pay for being who we are. I'm sorry for being the second woman to ever love you; believe me; I am being punished harshly for my sins.
Faye
He found the letter on the nightstand, folded awkwardly and printed in a haste. Faye's things were gone from the room, and it felt relatively empty. Spike stood there for some moments before stirring. If he had never cared for her, he thought to himself, why did he suddenly feel so devoid?
"Hey, Spike," Faye said quietly, sucking on a cigarette and fingering the skin of her inner thigh, "Have you ever been in love?"
He looked up but didn't answer.
"Oops!" She laughed, "sorry I forgot."
He remained silent.
"I've been in love once," she said with a smile, "and it was wonderful. I swear, it was!"
He was annoyed, but did not say a word.
"And all that touchy-feely shit, that was wonderful; but what really got me was---"
"Faye---" he tried.
"No listen!" She exclaimed, "Anyway, where was I? Oh yes! What really got me was the sex."
He looked up and studied her face. She stared at him, holding out for a second before breaking into laughter.
"You know," She whispered, "James---Lord bless his little heart, always told me I was this---this---this---"
"Faye---"
"This tiger! That's what I was, a real tiger when it came to fooling around, yeah," she smiled, getting up and swaying her hips as she danced, "I'm a real tiger," she growled.
"Have you been to the bar again?" he asked her calmly.
"Just a few drinks-"
"How many?"
"Just---two---or six?" she thought to herself and giggled again.
"Maybe you should lie down for a second---" he told her.
"Lie down? I've only just gotten up, you silly little cowboy."
She walked up to him and pulled her arms around his neck, burying his face in her breasts. He pushed her away and held her by the arms.
"What?" she screamed indignantly, "what, I don't appeal to you tonight? Don't wanna fuck me on this particular evening?"
"I'm not going to hold this against you in the morning, Faye, when you wake up hungover and humiliated. Just make sure you don't push your boundaries."
"My boundaries?" she shook her head and ripped out of his grasp, laughing hysterically, "my damn boundaries!"
She lay on the bed and spread her legs, "Come on, Spike, I'm waiting."
"Waiting for what?" he asked quietly, diverting his eyes away.
"I'm waiting for you and your damn manhood. What? Why are you looking at me like that? I may not be Julia, but I'm great in bed!"
She had gone too far.
"Julia?" He asked quietly, staring her down with his fiercely silent gaze.
"Yes---" she replied dubiously, as if unsure of herself for the first time that night. But then she remembered herself and giggled again, "Yes, Julia. Tell me, who's better, me or her?"
He walked fiercely to her and grabbed her shoulders with all of his strength. His face dug into hers and she looked into his eyes. This reminded her of another time when she was confronted with those magnetic, dark, brooding eyes. Yet somehow it was different now. Then he was but a man who had lost hope. Now, he had become a monster.
"You want to know who's better?" he asked her roughly, his hot breath against her face, she shook in his grip, "you forgot to specify: better at what?"
She pushed her face away but he caught her chin and harshly confronted her visage with his again. She suddenly couldn't speak.
"Because you're better at many things, so many things."
For a moment, a light of expectation appeared on her face, but soon vanished when she saw the look he was giving her.
"You're better at whoring," he pushed against her face, "at selling that worthless outer image to the highest bidder, although seldom ever bid high. You're better at giving up, and crying, lying and cheating your way to the top and still not succeeding at anything. You're better at being closeminded, and meddling in others' affairs without being invited. You're better at repulsing, at making people hate you at first sight because of your fickle nature, because of your lack of respect for anything that any normal human being could ever value. You're better disappointing people, at never keeping your promises, standing up for what you believe, or taking responsibility for your foolish actions. You're better at being afraid, being afraid of anything that requires any human sensitivity or dignity. You're better at disgracing the name we give to women. Hell, you're better than---" he paused, as if afraid to say her name, "---her---in so many things."
"Spike---" she wanted to defend herself, she wanted to say something but she could not figure out what.
"So you wanna know what I want to do to you right now?" he asked, breathing in the smell of her hair, a smell that he hated and lusted for simultaneously, "I want to rip off those clothes, expose you entirely, hog you, feel you, touch you. I want to fuck you, to slide myself inside of you and fuck you, that's what I want, I want to fuck you. But do you want to know what I don't want to do? I don't want to kiss you. Hell, I pity any man who is ever going to want to kiss those lips. You've really got to be trash to love trash."
He released her and she fell back on the bed. Spike watched her lying there, exposed, ready to give up her last shreds of dignity simply because she was afraid of being alone. He could have taken advantage of it, but he didn't. He turned away and walked to the door.
"Can I tell you a secret, Spike?" she suddenly asked and he stopped, without turning to look at her.
"Yes?"
"I'm drunk," was all that she could say.
He nodded, "It's a shame, Faye. You could have been a lovely woman, have you only not been a bitter hag."
He left the room and locked the door behind him.
.
.
.
Spike,
Listen, I can't do things like you. I don't have the heart, or lack thereof, to make possible this sort of innuendo. I have not a talent, or a skill, to perpetuate that coldness, and I still shudder at how easily you can discharge a lifetime of memories simply because you are tired of it all. You live your life freely, moving boldly from place to place, striding, impressing, and becoming. You move and move in constant continuation but you never seem to get anywhere. It's as if you've reached a dead end but cannot break it to your joints and muscles that the grand finale had come and it was not as grand as you imagined it to be. You will push against that until it destroys you, consumes you in its cold indifference, in its motionless demeanor. But even then you will not care. You would rather die on a search for what your heart entitles freedom than live confined to the secure luxuries of staying in one place. When you are gone, the world will be a little different, those little things that effect the big picture in the long run. You are just one little person, but you believe into great things that little people do, you have an overrated value system. I always wondered things about you. Do you believe in waking up to a fresh cup of coffee on a crisp, autumn morning, or feeling the rush of wind against your face as you look up at the stars from the highest peak of the highest mountain? You probably wouldn't much care for these, and yet the smell of a pretty girl's perfume can incite you in ways unimaginable, causing your consistence to rush into a wave and break dauntlessly, fearlessly, awkwardly, yet simultaneously gracefully, against the white, blissed out shores of so many pointless islands.
And now, I cannot look you in the eyes and say that I don't feel for you the greatest of emotions. But what can I do with these emotions? My heart resents its uselessness deeper every day, and maybe it will be healthy for me to go and find that trash that will not mind kissing my lips. You will go west and I will go east and never again will our paths cross. Some people might think it's a shame, since we have such a history together. I know that I will be lonely again, and you will be dead inside (you might have always been, who knows?) But that is just the price we have to pay for being who we are. I'm sorry for being the second woman to ever love you; believe me; I am being punished harshly for my sins.
Faye
He found the letter on the nightstand, folded awkwardly and printed in a haste. Faye's things were gone from the room, and it felt relatively empty. Spike stood there for some moments before stirring. If he had never cared for her, he thought to himself, why did he suddenly feel so devoid?