Chapter Eight: Melting
I sleep like the dead that night.
The mattress is absolutely perfect, not too firm or too soft, and it seems to cradle my body and soothe the sorest parts. A few times, my eyes would open in the room to blurrily half-focus on flickering firelight, lit oil lamps still burning, and a massive shadowy figure in the corner. It's well after midnight when my bladder wakes me up, and I slip out of bed to wobble past you to the bathroom. What a bizarre, antique toilet. But it works. I yank on the chain to flush it, and wash my hands in the dark.
When I emerge, I don't return to the big warm bed just yet. It feels wrong somehow, with you here in this cold corner. I'm half asleep, groggy and tousle-haired. Gently, I put a hand on your arm.
"Please."
Just the one word. It's all that I can really muster. Maybe there's some kind of magic that suffuses the wee hours of the morning, the dark and the warmth before a blue dawn breaks and casts the world into stark reality again. Whatever it is, whatever compels you to follow me even though you're growling and aggravated, it leads to my pulling back the covers and climbing into the bed just to scoot all the way to the center. The whole mattress creaks under your weight as three hundred plus pounds of man-eating clown climbs up after me. You're sulking about it. Everything in you is urging you to claw me to ribbons and crush my skull in your hands…and you don't.
I curl up on my side, looking at you. Certain that I'm dreaming now. Because the beautiful monster is here beside me, on top of the covers but in the same bed. Only a foot away or so. We don't speak. I reach for your hand and find it, and though you jerk away at first…I clasp my small fingers around your glove. It comes off neatly when you pull your hand away, and I drop it and reach for the white hand with the black-tipped fingers and the razor sharp claws once more. This time, you snarl at me. But you don't pull away. I fall asleep again clinging to your hand.
And that's how I wake up. To a room awash in sunlight, my fingers wrapped around your thumb, my eyes opening to look straight into yours. You don't appear happy. At all.
"Um…good morning." I yawn, releasing your hand. You immediately tug on your glove, as miffed as a cat whose tail has been trodden on.
"The next human I hunt will suffer dearly for the aggravation you insist on causing me."
All that rest and the food beforehand must have worked wonders in me, because I don't feel the roiling discomfort of tension and fear and sorrow and hesitation in my chest and stomach. If anything, I feel fantastic. I move closer to you, attempting to cuddle, and only flinch a little when you snap your jaws a fraction of an inch from my face. My eyes close again, cheek resting on your shoulder while you lie stiffly nearby and all but ripple with anger. I put a hand on your chest, but that's all. Pushing my luck any further would be suicide. And suddenly, that's the last thing on my mind. You smell good, like cotton candy and peppermint ice cream and popcorn. The persona of the White Clown is perfect down to the most minute detail. This might be both the most bizarre and wrong moment of my life as well as the most fitting and greatest moment. I hold still. You hold still. Outside, the birds are already chirping in the birch tree.
"Are there more of your kind?"
"I ate them."
"Even the girls?"
"We are not a species that is fully one or the other."
"So you're the last one of your whole species?"
"Not exactly."
My fingers close over a dark orange pompom on the front of your costume, and I stroke its softness.
"Where do you come from?"
"The Macroverse. You ask a great many questions for a broken little girl with a death wish."
Before I can stop myself, I snap back at you.
"If you're going to kill me, I can't stop you! I'm done running. And you fed me and gave me somewhere to sleep. You came to bed when I needed you to. I don't know how this is going to end. I don't know what you're going to do to me. But I'm not going to fight you and I'm done trying to figure out ways to hurt you or defeat you! Alright? Just…do what you're going to do. Until you tear my head off or eat my heart or whatever, I'm going to do what I'm going to do! And I want to touch you and ask you questions!"
This time, your growl is like thunder. With an abrupt shove, you push me away and sit up, the pillow in your hands, and as I sit up too and rub the sleep from my eyes you shred the fabric and feathers viciously with your claws and teeth. Throwing the pieces to the floor in rage. Feathers everywhere, still floating down around us from the tempest of your angry destruction. My eyes are wide. I don't try to touch you, not when you're breathing harder and your stare is the color of fresh blood. Teeth bared, saliva shining on your lips, your black claws still twitching on the pieces of the pillow in your hands.
For a long time, you glare at me while I clutch the blankets to my chest and try to steady my heartbeat.
Then you move off the bed, your back to me, the intricate woven braid down your back raised slightly like the spine of an agitated animal.
"I am going hunting."
"Pennywise…."
"SILENCE. You are an intrusive, skinny wreck of a human not even worth devouring! I would cast you out into the gutter if it were not so perilously close to my domain! Insolent, worthless little sow!"
Tears spring to my eyes, and I cover my face. Suddenly overcome with sobs. I cry because of everything, the harshness of your words and my own tangled emotions and the trauma of not even knowing what to do, how to feel, where to go. When I lift my head again, feathers sticking to my wet cheeks and catching in my hair, the room is empty. And that just makes me cry more.
It takes me an hour to muster the will to go into the bathroom and wash my red face. I undress and take another bath, intermittently weeping and angrily wiping away the tears. What the hell did I even expect? Compassion? From you? Your hatred of me and my whole species drips from every word you say. You feed on us! The fact that I'm not dead yet is the most mercy I should expect. That wasn't cuddling last night. It was tempting fate, pushing you to your limits and damn near getting myself killed in the process. I feel embarrassed and sad and sick and angry and hopeless.
I'm still rubbing away the occasional tear two hours later as I clean feathers and torn silk from the floor and the bed. Dumping the ruined pillow into the wastebasket by the desk. When the mess is gone, I make the bed and open the wardrobe to find something to wear. Long, stupid Victorian dresses. I pull out the least ridiculous garment I can find, a pale lavender dressing gown, and pull it on.
Will you even come back? Should I try to leave? Do you want me to go? You told me not to leave the house. But that was before I disrespected you. Have things changed? Should I make a run for it and not stop until I'm back in Portland? I don't even know. I don't know anything.
When hunger finally tugs at me with its discomfort, I eat a few pieces of cold pizza and wash it down with wine. A lot of wine. I've been drunk before, a couple times. But never on anything this nice. After drinking half the bottle, I calm down a little. Just a tiny bit. Enough to take the edge off and stop my tears. Miserably, I search through the room, finding all the items you manifested here for me. Looking for some hint that you have any emotions apart from anger and annoyance. Warm socks, underthings, books from another era. A painting on the wall of ships at sea. What does any of this mean? I kneel by the fireplace and pick up the crusty blood-caked ruffled collar you dropped there last night. And I carry it to the bathroom and draw some water into the sink, soaking the stained fabric to loosen the gore. Scrubbing at it with the creamy white bar of soap over and over until the stains begin to fade. At least it gives me something to do. I hang it to dry on a sill, opening the window above the desk to let in the fresh afternoon breeze.
You're still not back when the sun is directly overhead. Not back when it begins its descent into the west. I eat the rest of the pizza and rip up the bloody cardboard to throw into the fire. I drink the other half of the bottle of wine. My head hurts, so I drink a little morphine too. More time passes. I take a nap, waking every so often to look at the empty corner. I consider leaving. When the sun begins to set, I consider it a whole lot more.
Finally, after dark, I dare to open the door to the hallway and step out into the musty, decrepit reality beyond the illusion you created for me. I hesitate in the doorway for what seems an eternity before closing it again and going back to the loveseat. And I just sit there. My hands in my lap. Waiting. Not moving. Desolate and confused, but resolute. You will return at some point. And you'll find me here when you do. I lie down when I'm tired of sitting, curled into the fetal position against the crushed velvet cushions. I'm hungry, but there's no more food. That's alright. I've been hungry before. I can go days. Drifting in and out of troubled sleep for a little while, I finally succumb fully to the emotional void that's been looming on the edge of my thoughts since I snapped at you sixteen hours ago.
When I wake up again, the room is cold and dark and I have no idea what time it is. The fire went out. The lamps ran out of fuel. I don't have the energy to do anything about it. So I lie in the darkness and listen to the trees moving in the wind outside.
Some time later, the stairs creak out there beyond the hallway. I sit up, heart hammering in my chest, and stare into the pitch black. God it's cold. If I could see anything at all, it would be my breath rising in tendrils of steam from my lips. But I see nothing. Not even when the door eases open and then closes again. Any normal, sane person would be terrified. But I feel only relief. I reach up blindly, both arms extended, and when my fingertips encounter satin I clumsily get up and press closer. Fumbling to find your shape, to stand on tiptoe and put my hands on your shoulders, tears running down my cheeks. I don't have anything to say. I just don't want you to go again. I don't want to make you angry. I don't want to be broken anymore. I know I will never be whole…but I at least want the pain to stop.
And miraculously, there are clawed hands on my back a moment later. I burst into fresh sobs at the contact, burying my face in your chest. You stand still as a statue until I calm down a little.
"My presence is supposed to frighten you. Not bring you tears of relief."
I can't even whisper. I just nod, clutching you tighter. And I can feel you sigh deeply.
The fire blazes to life behind me. Lamps lighting themselves, replenished with oil. In the illumination, I open my eyes to find you covered in blood again, as you were the last time you hunted. It's everywhere, viscous and dark and awful. Even smeared on my face where I rubbed it on your shirt. Your crimson eyes are trained on me, watching my reaction. At least you're not snarling, your teeth aren't bared. But you're not smiling either. I do the only thing I can do, the only thing that seems right to do. I take both your gloved and sticky hands in mine and silently pull you toward the bathroom.
And you follow.
The water is blessedly hot after the long chill of my isolation. I fill the tub and then turn to look up at you, a question in my eyes. When you don't move, I loosen the belt of the soiled dressing gown I'm wearing and slowly drop it to the floor. Still, you don't move. So I step into the tub alone to wash away the blood. Letting you make your own choice whether to join me or not.
"You are very damaged, Beverly. This is not a healthy or safe obsession."
"I know. I don't care."
"If you continue down this path, you will end up even more damaged."
"That's fine by me. It can't get any worse."
"Yes it can."
I tilt my head back to wet my hair, and when I come up again I blink the water from my eyes and look at you. Quiet now, just watching. You could be anything at all, take any shape in the world. But you choose to stay in this form, as this immense Thing wearing the guise of a clown. In a clown's attire, with a clown's painted face and a clown's crazed hair and a clown's red nose. But you are as much a clown as I am a Victorian damsel. And dressed in our bloody lies, we eye one another across a chasm that can never be crossed. You will live forever, and you are not broken. I won't last a century, and I'm a thousand jagged pieces that are bright with fleeting mortal life.
The oil lamp in the bathroom flickers, and goes out. In the dark, there is the soft rustle of satin and the jingle of bells. With an easy grace that is completely at odds with your size, you step into the water and settle on the other side of the tub, invisible. I don't try to touch you. I just listen to the gentle splashing and feel the ripples of something huge in the water with me. The strangeness of this moment is beautiful. When I feel your claws on my shoulder, I don't move forward or pull away. I move in the direction of your push, turning my back to you. And when you cup water in your large hands and pour it across my skinny shoulders I lower my head and sigh with pleasure. Of course I can't handle you. I know that. Nothing alive could. But I'm at peace with that. I accept it the way a mouse accepts the talons of the owl in the instant before death. There has always been a natural rhythm to my life, a pendulum swinging between moments of precarious happiness and moments of horrible pain and suffering. I've sought out the biggest monster in the world and handed him the pendulum now. There's so much relief in just letting go and letting the choices fall on you instead. A pet, a slave, a morsel, a Dream, a sow…whatever you name me, that's what I'll be. I'm too tired and too injured to be anything else.
But your hands are careful on my back as you lather the soap against my skin. I hold still as you wash me, then my hair. I wait for some sign that you'll allow me to return the favor, but it doesn't come. Clearly there is a boundary you aren't willing to cross yet…..if ever. When you've rinsed me, you rise to your feet with a great churning of the water. I stand too, your hand on my wrist pulling me up. You step out of the tub. I do too. A towel is wrapped around me, huge hands patting me dry. Pulling a fresh nightgown over my head. I raise my face in the darkness just in case you want to kiss me, but no such contact comes. Your hands on my shoulders turn me firmly away from you, and guide me back into the dimly lit bedroom. Without speaking, I walk to the bed and climb in. You don't follow, and when I roll onto my side I can see you in your corner. Eyes gleaming in the dark.
"Your wrist…."
"What about it."
"You have a symbol on it. Like a tattoo. What does it mean?"
You wait a bit before answering, but when you speak there's no annoyance this time. Perhaps I am not the only one who has resigned herself to this situation.
"Deimos. It is the name I keep for myself. Pennywise is what my prey calls me. What the mewling wretched masses of humanity know me as in the moments before I kill them. You know I am not a clown. I am not human. I am nothing you can ever understand."
"I don't have to understand you to love you."
"You do not know the meaning of the word. Be still, Dream. I am allowing you more than I have ever allowed anyone or anything."
So it's Dream, then. I didn't imagine that last night. You really did call me by a nickname. I prop my head up on one hand, not tired at all now that you're back.
"I'm a little hungry." I tell you, and you huff out a sigh and vanish. The air molecules rushing in to fill the void with a soft 'pop'. Less than five minutes later you're back, and a grocery bag is dropped on the floor at your feet, tipping over to let an apple roll out. I pull back the covers and come over to you to collect the food. No blood this time, although I know better than to imagine you strolled into the supermarket to purchase some provisions. It's probably best not to ask where this came from. I dig through the bag, finding more fruit, some bread, a container of orange juice and a whole roasted chicken. It's still hot. I look up at you, trying to fight down a laugh.
"Did you steal this from some mewling wretch of humanity?"
"Yes."
"You could just let me go shopping, you know."
"You are hungry. There is food. Eat."
I sit on the floor by the table and pry open the box of chicken while you settle into your corner again. Watching me, always watching.
"Can I call you Deimos?"
"You have not earned that privilege yet. Be grateful that I even told you."
"What about Nightmare?"
After pondering the question for a moment, you nod slightly.
"If you must. It's accurate, after all."
I rip off chunks of meat and eat them, pausing to take a few swallows of juice from time to time.
"I have never actually watched a human eat before."
"No? Come to think of it, I've never watched you eat either."
This time there's no mistaking your soft laughter.
"Be careful what you wish for."
I smile, tucking another piece of chicken into my mouth. It's macabre as hell to find that funny, but somehow it appeals to me. What do I care of you eat the whole town? The only people who were ever nice to me have all moved away. Well, except Mike. But I didn't know him as well as the others. I hold out a drumstick, offering it to you.
"Come on. Just try a little."
"You are not hand-feeding me, Beverly. Just because I was kind to you in the washroom does not mean you have tamed me."
My grin vanishes, and I lower my hand.
"I'm sorry. That's not what I meant. I just….God I feel stupid and awkward around you. And nervous about saying or doing the wrong thing."
"You were hardly this coy when you were shoving an iron spike through my eye."
"I'm REALLY sorry about that."
"Save it. Battles are never pretty things. I made a series of tactical errors that will never be repeated. Your friends, the moment they set foot in Derry again, are dead. I will not eat them in front of you, as a courtesy. But I will have my revenge."
Suddenly not hungry anymore, I close the box again and set the food on the table. I wipe my lips with the back of my hand and get up to slip into the bathroom. Gripping the sink to steady myself. There's never going to be a way to get around the horrible eventuality that you just mentioned. You're going to fight them again if they return. And what will I do when that happens? I can't watch another vicious gang-beating like what happened underground near your tower. My feelings for you are too complicated. But they're my friends. Bill is almost more than that. Ben wishes desperately to be. I turn on the tap and rinse my mouth, splash my face, hold the cold water to my eyes for a moment just to clear my vision.
When I look up, you're right behind me. Reflected in the mirror, leaning over my shoulder.
"Whose side will you be on then, I wonder." Your voice is a dark hiss.
I turn around, and before you can straighten up again my hands are on your cheeks and I'm pressing my lips against yours. Hard.
I can't read minds. I don't know your history. But at the moment of contact I'm suddenly one hundred percent sure that you've never been kissed before. You only freeze in shock for a heartbeat before gripping my short hair in one clawed hand and violently smashing my back to the wall beside the sink. This isn't the brief peck I'd intended. In the span of time it takes to form the words 'uh-oh', I'm being deeply and thoroughly kissed by a creature whose understanding of the word passion is all-encompassing. Your teeth sink into my tongue just enough to draw blood which your own tongue licks away a moment later. I struggle against the steel embrace that pins me against the painted tiles, my feet lifted off the floor. And then my arms are around your neck and I'm trying to give as good as I'm getting. Letting you in, INVITING you in, and not shying away from this raw and bloody expression of desire. Not hiding from who and what you are, showing you that yes…I will bleed for you. I will accept the beast, accept the monster, accept the clown, accept the It in a way no human ever has before or will again. Claws tear down my back, shredding the nightgown and grazing my skin underneath. This is what it is to be mauled by a tiger. I dig my nails into your back too, and bite down on your lower lip with a tiny growl of my own. Only to be met with the deep bass of yours. The ornate wall sconce beside me is knocked from its cylindrical holder and shatters on the floor. Pulling me away from the shards, your claws tangle in the curtain. We rip it down together under our weight, tumbling to the floor where I am pinned beneath you. I tear futilely at your costume, unable to make the tiniest rip, until your hands slam my wrists to the floor hard enough to bruise them. I'm breathless under your weight, kissing you desperately, ready for this to go all the way to its potentially life-threatening finish.
But just as abruptly as it began, you break off the exchange. Releasing my hands and lifting your weight off me, your arms slowly straightening on either side of my head until you are looking down at me in the moonlight pouring through the exposed window. There's blood on your lips and blood on mine. We are both out of breath, both stunned, each eyeing the other cautiously. I test my tongue against the roof of my mouth, checking the damage. Seems to still be all in one piece. You lick your lips, blinking down at me with eyes that have gone a dangerous and glorious orange. Gently, you bring the fingers of one hand to my mouth and wipe away the blood on my chin.
I take a deep breath when you roll off of me and haul me to my feet. But I don't let go of you, and you don't push me away. I'm shaking. My knees won't hold my weight. You pick me up easily enough, and carry me over the broken glass and out of the bathroom, depositing me on the bed. There's something almost docile about you now. It takes me a minute to realize that you're exerting a considerable amount of self-control to hold yourself in check. Not docile….disciplined. I move over to make room for you. But you stop me.
"Don't be a fool. That was merely a kiss, and you can barely stand. You have no idea of the danger you're inviting."
"I trust you."
"If that is true, then listen to my words. You will never rise from this bed again if I give in to what you wish. You are fragile, and I am not built for tenderness. I am built for exquisite and complete destruction."
"I'm not afraid. I want you."
"Hush." Your voice drops to the softest, gentlest murmur I have ever heard from you, the anger gone. "Hush, Dream. Sleep. Your body needs sleep more than anything else. Rest. I will be nearby."
"Can you just…can't you hold me?" The pleading tone in my voice sounds pathetic to my own ears, but you don't look at me with pity. After hesitating for a few seconds, you lower yourself to the bed beside me. On top of the covers again, but here, close, and you accept me when I curl up tightly against your side. One thick arm around me, your gloved hand on top of mine on your chest. In silence, we lie in the warm room and are sleepless together, both hungry for something we can't even express. Only my hunger is just uncomfortable. Yours is and always has been deadly.
"What's going to happen with us?" I finally whisper.
"I do not know."
"Do you want me too?"
"I am a solitary creature."
"Have you ever been with anyone?"
"'Been with'. What a delicate term for the mating act. Are you asking me if I am a virgin?"
"I guess. Yeah."
"I have never mated. Why would I bother, when your kind are useless for such things, and my kind are gone."
I'm quiet then, cuddled against you and feeling the wonderful warm weight of your hand on top of mine. I don't want to ruin the moment by asking too many more questions. It seems like the wrong time to seek answers. Your body is huge and solid near me. You don't growl or swat me when I slip my fingers under the ruffled collar to touch the skin of your throat. I push it back, finding the way in, and lean up as much as I can to press a kiss to your neck.
"Beverly." Your voice is a warning. I shimmy down under the covers again, holding still. Just lying here with you and trying to match my breathing to yours.
"What do you want to do tomorrow?"
"I am doing nothing. You will be returning to your home to gather what supplies you require and to leave a note telling of your extended absence. If you do not return before nightfall, I will hunt you down."
"I thought you weren't going to ever let me go again! You said you couldn't!"
"That has changed. I trust you to return to this place in short order. Do you intend to flee?"
"Well….no."
"Good. Then we have an understanding. You will pack your things and make your way back here without being seen or followed. Do not make me come after you, child. I am in no mood."
"I won't. I mean, I will. Return, that is. I won't make you come after me. Sir."
"Go to sleep."
I can't keep the smile from my bruised and bitten lips. Whatever is going to happen, it's started already. You're holding still here against me for the second time in as many nights. And the kiss…
"That was amazing. In the bathroom."
You don't respond, but your hand tightens on top of mine for the briefest of moments. And in a little while, still thinking about your kiss, I fall asleep.