8
Simon Walker is not used to having the phone ring twelve times before it is answered, though he cannot possibly know that she- who he thinks is Julia- is, in fact, not even home.
He's sitting in the living room, watching a hockey game on television when she comes home for the day, her briefcase banging against her knee as she struggles with the door. He has learned to tune out the obnoxious ringing of the phone, but she drops the briefcase and slams her knee into the table the phone is on, glaring at him as she answers the phone and starts with a breathless, "Hello?"
It barely registers that the person on the other end is yelling, and when it does, he turns to watch her expression. He finds he cannot place the emotion. "Of course," she says, and her voice trembles in a way that he is certain only he noticed, and she places the phone down on the receiver.
"You have got to get out of here." she says loudly, and she changes the channel on the television and turns it off, picking up his glass and striding to the kitchen. He stares at her, stunned. "Now!" she snaps. "If he comes and finds you we are both dead! Go!"
She is anxious, pulling at his arm to make him move, pleading with her eyes as if the glance alone can soothe the sting of her words. "Who?" he stutters, taking note of her cream-colored sweater and the woolen skirt of gold. The "J" around her neck is twisted.
Pulling him to his feet, she lies, "No one you need to worry about," and she pushes him towards the door, snatching his coat and shoving it towards him. "Just go."
He tries using her given name as leverage. She merely glares.
He thinks on the elevator ride down that maybe he should've asked who it was he had to hide from. He knows once he enters the apartment three hours later that he should have.
There is a fire going in the fire place, and the whole apartment is bathed in a golden glow one wouldn't expect on a February afternoon in London. As the door shuts behind him, he knows he is an intruder.
The murmur of voices in the kitchen cease, and the only noise is the crackle of wood burning. He wonders if they will shoot him as he enters the kitchen.
She is cool and prim and leaning against the counter, no signs of foul play or roughness. He- the one he had run from- is sitting at the kitchen table, his legs stretched out carelessly towards her, slouching comfortably. Smoothly as a waltz they both turn to face him, the trespasser.
He does not like the look on her face- passively dangerous, with a flicker of disgust in her eyes. He can almost hear it, Mommy's not done, go to your room and play. Only he's not supposed to be there. The look the man gives him is feral and possessive. He thinks, oh, dear. He thinks she is his.
This makes him want to indignantly cry out, no, she's mine, but she's not, no more than she belongs to the other man, no more than she belongs to anyone. Were you ever mine? He almost asks, but he keeps his mouth shut.
She introduces him as her supplier, the man, he learns, is Simon Walker. He is one of Them. He also seems to consider her his property, after introductions are made he stands up beside her and runs a hand down her side, bringing her to him before crushing her lips to his. Morbidly fascinated, he finds he cannot look away.
When her lips have been soundly bruised, she has the decency to not be able to meet his eyes.
He knows better than to hang around, so he goes to her office to pretend to be earning his keep by playing on the computer. Three games of solitaire later, Simon Walker leaves.
She lays, limp and broken, on their bed, her eyes the vacant stare of the doll she has created: her hand-crafted porcelain features, her lush wardrobe, her dream penthouse, her mindless prince, her frantic, wind-up actions. Her chest rises and falls erratically and her face is tracked with tears.
He remembers, now, how once she was everything that was good and right in the world, the pristine epitome of virtue and every value known to man. Sometimes he thinks it would kill her if he left. Sometimes he knows she wouldn't notice.
She reaches for him weakly, incoherent words tumbling from her lips, the china doll begging to be put back together. The cracked utterance of his name is what breaks his resolve: against his will, he gathers her to him, and she wilts into him. Her swollen lips press fretful, fervent kisses to his face and neck, forgive me for I have sinned, it has been two days since my last confession. When she weakly puts her lips to his she tastes of blood and smoke and vodka and someone else. She inhales his breath, stifling him, taking his life from him to sustain herself, her eyes wide and unseeing and desperate, some gorgeous wild thing that he would die to touch. She has the fingers of a shaman and the birthright of a siren and he wouldn't be surprised if she could suck his life out with her fingertips, suck them dry and leave his shell.
But not now, no, not now. Now she is dry and barren expanse of nothing.
He is her lifeblood and her savior, as he's always been. And he allows this madness to continue because he knows no other way.
This life is killing him.
Yeah, I know. I know. Yell at me in comments. I will cower accordingly.