Title: Games People Play
Author: Alexandra Bruderlin
Summary: Ben's afraid of you. That should have tipped you off right away, that things weren't right.
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to James Cameron. I am merely a poor fan.
Author's Notes: The fandom I shall never leave. Thank you to all the people who emailed me and begged me to continue updating; I have been slowly working on my WIPs, but I got sidetracked writing for "Lost" (under a different pen name). Never fear, I am back with many new ideas and almost as many new chapters.
This story was originally inspired by PoohBah, and originally meant to be made up of three chapters. I honestly don't know whether I'll leave this as a standalone or as a multi-chapter. I'll wait and see.
And I promise PissOff2 will be getting a new chapter very, very soon.
Review! I've just had four wisdom teeth out, and reviews seem to be the only thing that dulls the pain ;)
Who killed my sister? Was it you?
You stride into your apartment with a sense of purpose. You kick off your heels and sprawl out across the lounge. You pull a cigarette from your purse and an old lighter. Thank god for your genes; the cigarettes you smoke out of pure boredom.
You stand up after awhile, tugging your skirt back over your hips and head into the bedroom you never use for sleep.
You puff on the cigarette, staring in the mirror balanced on the bureau. You see someone in the mirror you don't recognize enough to name but someone you know better than anyone else in the word.
Ben's afraid of you. That should have tipped you off right away, that things weren't right. But fuck him. Fuck Ben.
You did, already. He's too scared to say no to you; you wonder if that constitutes as rape and decide you don't care. It's Ben. You've watched Ben drown little schoolgirls and slice into them like he was gutting a fish. You can recall the times Ben laid their corpses in flower beds and smoothed their hair away from their blue faces before rolling them over and cutting flesh out from the back of their neck.
And you told him to hurry the fuck up, standing behind him in your jeans and sweater. Watching with cold distaste. And when you asked him to stop killing little girls and cutting up their soft bodies, he stopped. Because if he didn't, he didn't know how far you'd go before you killed him.
He saw you with Sway that time. Beautiful Sway. Your jaw clenches as you think of her; all soft blonde-white hair and full-lipped smiles. She sat there in her pretty rose coloured jeans, her soft coloured hair and her lacy top and was everything you wanted to be. With little pearls at her ears and she was classy. Everything you wanted to be, whore.
Don't think about Sway.
You peel off your clothes – skirt and top. You trade it in for a mini dress in purple. Dark purple that looks more like black that's been tinted. You keep your tights with the run up the back of one leg. You've examined the run in the stockings before and have decided it's your lifeline.
Don't leave home without your lifeline, Jondy.
Boots this time, rather than heels. You can't kick Ben's ass in heels. And anyway, bootie calls had to get their name from somewhere. Your hair is down, and flat. Your eyes are wild and you wonder what it would be like to be pretty and smart and happy like Sway. You wonder how Sway feels when you try to strangle her with the telephone cord because she's too perfect.
Fuck you, Sway.
You don't worry; you can't kill Sway. Or Ben, as a matter of fact. They are your 'Get out of Jail Free' cards. But, you relish with a bemused smile on your face, that you will kill Sway one day. You'll slip away and slash Sway's wrists one night. She can't fight back against you, for some reason. She'll cry out and beg for mercy and I'll just keep on sawing across her wrists.
Fuck, you need to get laid. Fuck you! Need to get laid. Fuck! You need to get laid. FUCKYOUNEEDTOGETLAID.
You sling your tiny purse across ways before slipping out of your apartment. You hate it there. You couldn't feel more awkward if the walls were made of glass with people pressing their faces up against the window, leaving greasy smears… you shudder at the idea of something unclean in your apartment and slink down the street. You see some prostitutes and some drug dealers on the streets. You'd toss them some change, but you never carry it. Besides, what makes them different from you?
Control. That's what makes you different. You have control, power, and a plan.
Ben's apartment is far nicer than yours; you want his, but it seems almost petty to use your influence for evil rather than… whatever you use it for at the moment.
You slip up the fire escape; the other reason you don't wear heels here; the heels get caught in the stairs. You pull yourself up the ladder quickly, careful not to tear the black purple dress and climb through the kitchen window. You slide in, your ass getting wet in the sink. You swear under your breath and straighten out your skirt. Does it matter?
No.
You hear something in the rest of the apartment and you toss your purse on the kitchen counter, going into the lounge room.
"Ben? Are you home? It's me," you call prettily through the apartment, crossing your arms over your cleavage, pushing the neckline of the dress down a little. "I know you're home, I can hear you."
You can hear swearing and shuffling and you hide a giggle. Ben's probably dragged home some soft, pretty girl, rolling around in heavy flannel sheets and muttering pretty lies to each other. You always wondered what it was like to be with him like that. Soft and loving. You're all bones and sharp edges. The word, 'love,' has never crossed your lips as anything other than sarcasm.
"Ben!" Your voice is sharper than intended, as you tap your foot impatiently against the lino. You could go into that bedroom and hold the slut down, jam the pillow over her mouth and feel her body writhe under hers as she died.
You've got too much animal in you. You can feel it bubbling under your skin, like you blood is boiling, hissing and spitting. A woman looks at you the wrong way, and you want to tear open her throat. You see a man and you want to fuck around for hours. Heat is just another day for you.
"Jondy," Ben's in front of you, and wearing nothing but boxer shorts. His hair is tousled and his face is flushed. You can hear him breathing hard from across the room.
"Ben," you practically purr, sidling up to him. "Where's the whore?"
"You're right here, Jondy," he spits. "You have to go right now."
Your eyes darken in annoyance but you smile angelically. "Uh, uh. It doesn't work like that Ben. I want to see the piece of trash you brought home."
Ben grabbed my upper arm and dragged me towards the kitchen. "Jondy," he spat. "Not this. Not anymore. I don't love you, Jondy. I don't even like you, you bitch. I never want to see you again." He looked like he meant it. Except his eyes. They looked haunted.
And for a second you thought about his request. You really did.
You pull your arm back and then slam it forward, catching Ben in the chin, and he stumbles back, slamming against the cabinets. A glass falls to the floor, smashing into a thousand pieces. You nudge the pieces of glass with your foot and look up at Ben with your eyes bright. And your hand is around his neck, and his feet dangle a few inches off the ground.
"You bring home trailer trash and think I'm just going to smile prettily and agree with whatever you say?" You spit, before dropping him to the floor. As Ben watches you slip out of the kitchen, you can almost taste his fear. You resist the urge to throw your head back and giggle childishly.
"Ben, what's going on?" You slam into six feet of pure muscle and bright green eyes. Clutching a sheet around his waist. Your eyes trail down his body and for a second you feel a tingling in the put of your stomach. You just wish he'd drop that towel.
You eye Ben, who is watching you defiantly. You roll your eyes and grin at his 'friend'. "Thought it was only Micah and Tawny who kicked it for the same team."
"I'm Jared," he smiles at you, but it doesn't go all the way to his eyes. "You are…?"
"Jay," you smile prettily. "Ben's step sister."
Yes, you are a wicked stepsister. "Nice to meet you, Jared." Your voice is sultry and you can tell you're having an effect on Ben, looking at his boyfriend like that. "I wasn't aware Ben had a …"
"Jared's not my boyfriend," Ben blurts out, grabbing you by the arm. "Jared, I need to talk to her. I'll be back in a second."
Jared shuffles back into the living room and down the hallway, the sheet sliding slowly down his ass. Delicious.
"He's…" you smirk at Ben.
"Leave Jared alone, Jondy," Ben hisses. "I'll call Zack if you do anything. You're nothing but a bitter, psycho bitch." His eyes are wide and he's angry with you, but more scared and worried. You almost want to apologize to him that he just signed Jared's death certificate. You wonder how you'll do it, just for Ben, but you shake your head and pull Ben against you. You kiss him hard on the lips, trailing down his cheeks and neck, more slowly. Licking him gently and feeling him sigh against you.
He's always been easy to weaken.
You run your hands down his bare chest, nuzzling him, as your hands slide beneath the waistband of his boxers. You know what he wants – hard and fast. He can be quiet so Jared doesn't hear, but what would you get out of that?
You pull away and blow him a kiss. "It's not over yet, Ben," you say softly.
"Yet means it will end," Ben says, like he's asking you. You raise an eyebrow, and pick up your purse from the kitchen counter. Ben's watching you carefully, like someone would watch a dangerous animal. But those people are always the people who are mauled to the point of not being identifiable.
"Can I use your bathroom?" you simper, before spinning on your heel. You pull your lipstick from your purse and smear it quickly over your lips before sidling down the hall to Ben's bedroom, which has smelt like sex and sweat for as long as he's lived here. There's something else hanging in the air, a scent that isn't entirely pleasant, but you can peg that one on Jared. Strange men always brought strange scents.
Jared is there, pacing in his sheet. You smile angelically at him. "Hi, Jared. Ben's just coming."
Catching your double entendre, Jared looks up as you slyly grin. "You aren't his step sister, are you?" he asks, not smiling at all.
"I've known him since I was a child," you say, sitting on the bed where they were fucking just ten minutes before. It's the most honest thing you think you've ever said and you flash Jared another sultry smile.
"You screwed him in the kitchen just then, didn't you?" Jared accuses, standing in front of you.
You raised an eyebrow without flinching or saying a word, and crossed your legs. "Why does it matter, you're not his boyfriend, according to him."
Jared sank onto the bed next to you, clutching his sheet around himself. "I'm his boyfriend's ex. I needed… I needed to hurt them both." And he looks at you with that same controlled look that vaguely reminds you of concrete for some reason.
"Natural reaction," you smile prettily. "Revenge is an ancient art."
Jared gazes sidelong at you. "You know Ben…"
"I don't love him," you interrupt, standing up. "I don't even like him much. But…"
"I don't give a fuck," Jared says, standing up and towering over you. "I want to hurt them both."
Again, you want to giggle wildly. You wonder if Jared knows you're picturing blood and blue skin when you look at him.
"Call me," you say, standing up and slinging your purse over your shoulder. "Have a nice night with Ben."
You slide down the hallway and move towards the front door, but there's a blur from the corner of your eye and Ben's got his hand around your throat.
"What the hell did you do?" he spits and you close your eyes for a second. "What the fuck did you do? You're fucking crazy."
And you open your eyes to see his bright green eyes staring into yours. You're so close your nose is almost touching his. You lick you lips and kiss him gently. And pull back, stalking out the front door. Into the dark.
When you look in the mirror, you see something. You see the eyes of someone who isn't quite crazy, who has been taught far too much about control, someone whose fears about insanity haunt the shadows in their eyes. You also seem someone who's so far over the edge, they can't go back. Someone who has jumped, but hasn't hit rock bottom yet; mid air, free falling.
You go out to a club the next night, dressed in black jeans that are so tight they make your legs tingle, and a top that laces up the front. Not one guy tonight will look you in the eye. But Ben's occupied and you want to drink so much you'll pass out at the bar.
There's a cigarette in one hand. And you take a long buff. Your head pounds but you don't stub the cigarette out. You keep smoking.
You sit on the bar stool, spinning around like a giddy child, and you stop, crossing your legs. Your cocktail compliments your eyes; you did that on purpose. And you watch the other childrensorryadults in the room. You drain the cocktail dry and refocus on the room. You take a breath and focus on the room and the people in the room.
In the room.
In the room.
Your face feels hot and damp.
You feel sick; like you can't hold on, but. You close your eyes and hide behind a steel resolve. You grit your teeth. And it passes. Your face is cooling itself and you move to escape into the night.
Back to your apartment.
Ben is there. You feel yourself fall against him, unlacing your top and muffling a sob against his shirt.
"You told Jared to call you," Ben says softly to you, his hands in your hair. "Why did you do that, Jondy?"
Why do you do any of this, Jondy?
You wrench backwards, your top wide open. "Because I wanted to," you say coldly, remembering that Ben is notneverever your confidant. "Why did you come here?" Your eyes are unforgiving, are accusing. "I don't want you here tonight."
He bows his head like a scolded child. You pick up a sweater from the couch – your laundry, ready to be folding and put away neatly – and slip it on. You drop your top onto the pile of laundry.
"Go home, Ben." Your voice is hard and allows no argument.
"Let me stay, Jondy," Ben touches your cheek, so gently. You pull away.
"Go into my bedroom." Who said that? It wasn't you. Certainly not.
You wish for a man who'd take you in his arms and love you. But you follow him into your bedroom, divest yourself of clothing and lie next to him, not touching at all.
"Why are we here?" you asked. You don't like Ben in your soft bed, carefully made up with blue and white covers.
"My apartment smells funny," Ben cracked a smile, looking at you. And you roll towards him, kissing and stroking.
You wonder what you look like to Ben, with your long dark hair around your face, breathing hard, and sweat glistening against your skin. He never ever kisses you and you never ever kiss him. As he collapses next to you, you shake your head.
"Go," you order, no love lost, your hand sliding under your pillow. A decaying scent clings to him and you want him gone. So you can remake your bed, shower and rebuild your small sanctuary.
"Give me a second," Ben sighs, his hand cupping your hip. Your hand jerks out from under your pillow. A small blade glints in your hand.
"Go Ben," you insist, pressing the blade against his side. You press too hard too fast and the blade slides into Ben's soft flesh. Ben gasps, grabbing your wrists. You recoil, the blade still embedded in Ben's side.
"Yes," Ben whispers, his eyes bright as he looked at you. "Jondy."
He'd never spoken your name like that before.
"Getthefuckoutofmyhouse!' you manage, climbing out of bed, grabbing your sweater and underwear from the floor and struggling into them.
"Jondy…the blood. You understand," Ben reaches towards you. You slammed your fist into his face, his nose going soft underneath your hand. Blood flowed down his face. He grabs your wrist and jerks it backwards, hard and fast and only an instinctive slap with your free hand prevents you from nursing a broken wrist.
"You understand, Jondy. Doesn't it feel good?" Ben cooed. Blood and mucus cascading down his face.
You climb off the bed and move towards the door and only at the last minute do you grab some musty jeans and run barefoot into the street, the scent of blood clinging to you. You hurry down the dark streets; the filth of the city turning your feet black. It rained a little and you watched the grime run down the gutter.
You walk the long way home.
Your feet were bloody and dirty as you cross the threshold. Ben has gone and you run to the bathtub. There's no hot water but the cold surrounds you as yourself red raw and wash your hair so much, the dye fades just a little. You had to refill the bath twice, until the water didn't turn grey with filth.
You brushed your hair into a braid and shrugged on clean sweatpants and the softest purple sweater you can find. And then you go to your bedroom.
You don't sleep enough to warrant having a bedroom; it would be far more practical just to sleep on the couch every other-other night, but you don't.
Ben's scent and blood was everywhere and you ripped up the sheets, the pillows and the blankets from the bed. You hurl them onto the kitchen floor, and then you curl up on your naked bed and swear you'll go out tomorrow and buy yellow and pink sheets.
So you do.
And new curtains with lace around the edges, and new pillow cases – and new pillows! – And even a new toothbrush for good measure. You move your furniture around before cleaning everything – you scrub at the floors with an old t shirt and dishwashing liquid. You take a toothbrush with a mix of shampoo and face bleach to the moldings around the doors, and any small corners. And then you go and get a bottle of bleach and clean every orifice of your home.
You'd rather spend this month's food money on cleaning products than eat surrounded by the filth you have apparently been sharing your apartment with.
But you do manage to eat, at a sinister looking diner across the city; half a mug of black, inky coffee and half of a dry waffle. It felt heavy in your stomach; you felt lumpish and went home to admire your lovely clean, white, empty fridge.
And then you sit on your couch, cross legged, with a copy of some out of date magazine and read to the soothing scent of bleach. It makes your head light and when you crawl into bed hours later, amongst pink and yellow sheets, with lacy pillowcases, you have convinced yourself bleach is a more attractive scent than any of your perfumes, and more comforting.
It's only at four am, when the rain hits your windows so hard, they rattle and wake you up suddenly, you remember with a sick feeling Manticore used to smell of bleach and antiseptic. And you get up and put on your perfume and open the windows, letting the rain pour in, but savoring the fact the apartment won't smell like Manticore in the morning.
The next three days, you sit on your nice clean couch and read. Then you drink creamy coffee at the diner and pick at various wholesome meals. You make polite conversations with mothers on the street, complimenting their offspring, no matter how ugly or sticky or mentally challenged they look. You wear jeans and soft pastel sweaters, with a heart shaped locket and a ribbon in your hair. You smell like strawberry lip gloss and fruity perfume.
Then it runs out. You're not sure what 'it' is, but it's over. You smoke hanging out your kitchen window. You stuff the soft pink, yellow and white sweaters in the back of your wardrobe, with the hair ribbons and heart shaped necklaces. You wear your hair loose, and dark red lipstick and skirts you don't bend over in.
The fifth day, you get up at nine. You shower and get dressed slowly, drinking some black, cold coffee, which is thick and heavy like mud, and you like the why it feels, sliding down your throat. And you leave your apartment.
You're wearing long black pants, and a silky black top, with a white scarf knotted around your neck. You slide on a dark red coat and leave your apartment. You love this coat; you found it in one of those shops where moldy shoes are eleven bucks and coats like yours are fourteen dollars and buried under a pile of unwashed jeans. It has big black buttons that are cracked white in places. You went back to that shop to see if you could find another perfect piece of clothing, but you didn't. It was worse than the laundry room in the basement of your apartment building.
You slip through the rain, your lipstick red-black and your eyes heavily outlined in black eyeliner to the point of looking otherworldly. You go up to Ben's apartment via the elevator, as you'll feel ridiculous climbing the fire escape in the rain, and you really love the coat.
You knock firmly and resist the urge to kick the door open. You pull a tiny, cracked pocket mirror from your coat and examine your lipstick, your hair, your eyeliner and – my god! – You could almost pass for eighteen years of age.
Ben comes to the door, wearing a loose shirt and a pair of jeans. He smiles at you when he sees you and you feel cold, for some strange reason. This is Ben, for crying out loud. You look at him pointedly.
"I'm very sorry about the other night," Ben says, right on cue, as if you're enacting a play together. "I lost my head. Forgive me?"
You feel sad as he says that, as if he's showing you something you're never going to have – like people who get married and have babies. The people who taunt you with something you'll never ever get or some place that'll you'll never ever be. Your mind rolls her eyes and your heart pounds, utterly hurt. He sounds like he almost cares whether or not you forgive him.
"Whatever," you roll your eyes. But Ben grabs your arm above the elbow and pulls you in, with a slightly spooky smile on his face.
"Come in, Jondy," he half drags you down the hallway and when you try to pull away, hoping Ben doesn't mark your coat, you can't. He's gripping you hard and when you realize this, you attempt to wrench back – a reflex – but he just smiles at you and keeps dragging you into his apartment.
And you see a dark smear on the carpet, but when you turn to see what it is – coffee, red wine, grease from something? – Ben yanks you forward and you almost trip as he pulls you towards his bedroom.
"I am not having sex with you, Ben," you say primly, swallowing down the fear you felt bubbling in your stomach. "Let go of me."
"Oh, Jondy, you have to see this," Ben sighs with pleasure and swings open his bedroom door. And you clutch at Ben's shirt in horror, in fear. You want to faint, you want to scream, you want someone to hold you and make everything better.
There's Jared, that perfect example of masculinity, was tied to a chair against the wardrobe, his eyes dilated in fear. You notice the veins in his neck pounding like all perfect psychotics do. His shirt is torn down the middle, to his waist, and there are long dark stains on the thighs of his jeans.
You swallow and take in the other sights waiting you. There's little girl, who's only thirteen or so. You want to cry at the sight of her, lying on the grey carpet. She's got long curling red hair pooling at the side of her face, and a pretty little school dress on. The carpet is black with blood, and she's got long, thin cuts down both arms and one down her neck. She's pale like wax and she's not quite dead and she's different to the others… none of the others lived more than a few seconds once Ben had them. This girl is dying before your eyes and you want to cradle her and help her so bad. But as you shift your weight, feeling like the world would end if you moved at all; you realize that Ben still has a tight hold on you.
You step closer to him, and you feel him smile into your hair. And it's the final sight that makes your knees weak and reminds you of the nightmares in the barracks that sent you running, crying, for Max, Tinga, Zack. You swallow hard, and stare.
The sheet is a faint grey colour, as is the colour of the person on top of it. He's wearing torn plaid boxers encrusted with blood. And he's dead. He's so, so very dead. Grey, with veins dotting his body and dried blood all over his body.
The wounds on his calves looks like split fruit, all blue and purple, with dried blood all over it. Similar wounds dot his torso, shoulders, arms… everywhere. And there are bruises everywhere. Burns across his abdomen and neck look like the skin had bubbled and melted.
You feel woozy.
"Ben," you whisper. "What happened?"
He shakes his head. "You know how it feels, Jondy, you saw the others. You like the blood, remember?" he talks in a low soothing voice. "You watched the others. They weren't worthy."
You feel your knees buckle and it's like your world is a globe and someone just sent it spinning. Ben's still gripping your arm and you feel the bone clench as you try to regain some sense of equilibrium.
"Let me go, Ben," you say in a deadly calm voice, a voice that has come from nowhere and offers some sort of calm and authority you don't feel as you stand on weak knees. You twist around to glare at him. "Let. Me. Go. Now."
"Jondy, I did this for you."
And your other hand flies out of nowhere, punching Ben hard on the face. He reciprocates with a punch that leaves your head spinning as you sprawl out on Ben's bedroom floor. He straddles you as you try to gain a sense of self, a sense of purpose but all you want to do is get out.
He grabs both your wrists and snaps one backwards and you hiss in pain. "That's for everything you did to me, you bitch," he spits on you and you hope that he'll let you go now, but you aren't a lucky girl. His fist swings and you're sucked into darkness, like Alice down the rabbit hole.
You wake up with something cool against your face and you want to sleep your life away. When you open your eyes, it is the dead little girl's hand, and you swallow a scream. You recoil in horror; it's like you've woken up from a nightmare and found out the nightmare was reality. Your wrist throbs in time with your heart.
"He left," a voice croaks and you jerk around. Jared is next to you, his eyes already congealing as he dies very, very slowly. "A while ago. At least… it felt like a long time ago." He coughs and you don't need night vision to see the scarlet slip down his chin. You nod like a little girl and climb off the bed, unsteady in your boots. You brush your hair back from your face and you stare at Jared.
He coughs up more blood and looks right at you. "You're not going to save me, so don't pretend you're considering it," he gasps, trying to catch whatever little breath is left in his body. You want to walk away, but you don't. You walk over to him; take his head in your hands and then he slumps in your arms, the blood on his face staining your coat.
You leave then. You run from the apartment, like you're worried whatever has infected Ben will infect you too. You run ten, twenty blocks to a pay phone and you punch in Zack's number so hard that the keys are loose when you're finished.
"Zack, Zack, you need to help me, it's Ben," you gasp into the receiver, clutching it like a talisman. "Please, he's going to kill me. He's been killing people, Zack." You can feel dampness on your cheeks and realize with shock it isn't raining.
Before you can tell Zack's voice mail where he can find you, someone rips you backwards by your hair and you scream, like the damsel in distress from all those silent movies. Ben's face is black and red in fury, in rage. You drop the headset and it swings against the remaining glass wall in the payphone and you hear it crack. You yell for help and salvation and wonder if it was you who turned Ben into this monster.
You land a few good kicks and punches, and as you dart back into the phone booth, trying to find a piece of glass as a weapon but never taking your eyes off of Ben, you note with pride that his nose is broken, both his eyes are swelling and he's missing a tooth. He's favoring his left leg, too…
"You're not worthy!" he yells at you, spitting blood onto the pavement. "You were meant to be worthy!"
There's no glass amongst the dirt and you can take your eyes off your dangerous brother long enough to break the remaining glass into usable pieces.
"How was I supposed to be worthy?" you whisper, your hands falling to your side, the phone receiver loose in your grip, and you realize that Zack's voice mail might have picked up some of the scuffle. He might have heard the urgency of her situation.
"You were supposed to be happy when I showed you," Ben's voice falters and he looks away.
"You know you shouldn't have murdered them," your voice rises on the word 'murder'. "You killed them and you knew it was wrong!"
Any guilt or sense of conscience has vanished from Ben's eyes and he stares back at you with a blank look. "They weren't worthy either, Jondy," he says very clearly. "I did it for her."
You stare at him, not comprehending.
"I did it for the Blue Lady." He darts then, to grab you, and in a moment of perfect reflex, you smash the phone receiver into his temple and he groans, slumping on the concrete floor of the phone booth. And you run.
You run to your apartment to grab the necessities – a change of clothes, your wallet and your gun. You run across the state line to meet Zack in a filthy truck stop diner with dried blood still streaking your hair.
Zack isn't one to coddle weakness, but when he sees you and your damage; his eyes soften for one inexplicable moment. He buys you breakfast and takes you to a hotel, where you shower and change and let him bandage your wounds.
You lie in a bed across from Zack's; Zack, who sleeps solidly but will wake up alert and ready if anything disturbs the peace. You lie in the bed across from Zack's, that smells of cotton balls and zinc and you shake in terror of all the things you've done, all the things you haven't stopped and all the things you cannot be now.
You don't sleep in fear that Ben will slit your throat in the middle of the night.
And, while you're not a bit surprised, you throw up in the garden when Zack drops in on Sway and you both find her hanged from her bedroom door in her panties, her throat slit from ear to ear and her eyes closed forever.
You sit in the gutter then, and you cry like the little girl you never were and never will be. Zack turns away from your tears in disgust and you wonder when your games became your reality.