Lucidity

by The Noble Rot

Beverly Marsh has returned to Derry after only five years, drawn by the memory of something she can't come to terms with. When did someone so strong have such terrible nightmares? When did the unbreakable girl begin to crumble? When did anyone shed tears over a fallen monster? And when did 'it' become 'him' in her mind? Rated for violence, child abuse, sexual situations, language.

12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve: Love

The man ringing up my purchases at the grocery store is infuriating. He keeps staring at me, trying to chat me up, and he's hinted at his availability on Saturday night about four times. I ignore it as best I can, hoping he gets the hint.

"That's a whole lot of meat. You grill out a lot? Having a party?" He asks, scanning one of six steaks I picked up. I want to make you dinner, even though you probably won't enjoy it as much as I enjoyed the meal you 'manifested' for me. You said you could eat anything. Steak seems like a natural choice. I selected the bloodiest looking ones.

"Nope, no party. I just like steak."

"You know, I make really good steak. You should let me show you. Come on, how do you know if you like me or not when you won't even give me a chance? That's pretty rude. I bet if I was an asshole to you, you'd totally want to hang out with me. Pretty girls always seem to…."

"I don't 'have' to give you anything." I interrupt him. My temper finally rises. It's not even this jerk. It's every man who has ever made demands, been manipulative, pushed me, groped me, tried to take something that wasn't theirs. I reach across the counter and shove my purchases to the end where the plastic bags are. And I begin bagging my own groceries. "You think that just because you smile at me, I'm somehow compelled to smile back? That just because you happen to have a cock, I should give you the chance to shove it in me?! Let me tell you something," I lean closer and read his name tag, "Troy, I am not going to just capitulate and come have dinner with you for the sake of politeness. Here's a little news flash. You don't get to have me. You can't have every woman you're interested in. That's the way of the world, boy. You can stand there and whine about how girls only like boys who treat them badly and the good ones always get friendzoned and blah blah blah. Whatever incel shit you want to mumble about under your breath while I walk out of here. But the truth is, women are turned off by your whiny pleading. We are disgusted by your transparent, desperate words designed to compel us to fuck you. Every single year, we as a gender lose more and more respect for your gender. You are not kings anymore; you're weak little bitches who need a safe space to recover from the trauma of being shot down by mean nasty women. It's men like you who make me wish I was a lesbian. But I'm not. I have someone already, and he's a thousand times the man you are."

I throw the last steak into a bag, loop them all over my wrist, and turn away from him. Storming out of the store before he can respond. Fuck him. Fuck his whole kind. I am done with human men and their frailties. I am ready to take on something bigger, better, stronger. Someone more confident and more assertive and more masculine than any human male could be. I am ready for you even if it kills me.

I stop by the florist for a big bouquet of lilies and roses and carnations. You left enough money for about ten trips to the grocery store. By the time I arrive back at the house on Neibolt, parking carefully down the road so that no one will see my car and think I'm visiting the 'haunted house', I am calmer. I carry everything inside in two trips. Canned food, fresh food, flowers, cleaning supplies. I put everything away in its proper place and lock the front door. Turning the dead bolt may be the most satisfying sound I have ever heard. There. Locked away from the rest of the world. Locked in here to await you.

I take three steaks out to marinate them in the red wine I found in one cabinet earlier. Two for you and one for me. Pouring the bottle over them, I look out the kitchen window at the dilapidated back yard. There's an apple tree out there, gnarled and overgrown. Weeds. Garbage blown in from other areas of the town. It's a mess. I wash my hands, drying them on a towel decorated with red balloons. Nice touch. Then I am furtively slipping out the back door to further investigate the little area behind the house. There's a fence, at least. And it's still standing. A few boards missing here and there, but largely intact. Tall. Offering a modicum of cover against prying eyes. I wander over to the apple tree and reach up to tug down one of the red fruits. Are they cursed? Is the land here so soaked with blood and tears that everything growing here might be poisoned? I take a bite, the juice dripping down my chin, and am instantly relieved at the clean, healthy taste and the firmness of the white flesh. I wander the rest of the yard, eating the apple, the barest bones of a plan beginning to form in my mind.

This small space could, with your permission, become beautiful. Of course I can't very well manicure the front yard. It would attract all kinds of notice. But the back? If I repaired the fence somehow and left the hedges as they are? I could plant a little garden here. Tend to the apple tree. Keep the grass trimmed as best I can without a gas powered mower. It would give me something to do as well as offer up the possibility of bringing my own sort of beauty to this place. A way of making it right somehow, the way the Losers disrespected the Well House five years ago. Bandaid on a bullet hole, I know. But it seems only right now. Only fair.

You are not evil, you said. Neutral, if anything. Not evil…just hungry. And you did whatever you needed to do to increase the merit of your meals by inspiring terror and revulsion – things you can and do eat. As I unravel everything I know of you, looking at it all through this new lens of neutrality, it makes sense. You're manipulative, lethal, vicious, cruel, sarcastic. You preyed upon our very worst fears. All summer you seasoned us and readied your meal with the attention to craft of a master chef. And we played right into your claws.

I move back to the apple tree and pick as many as I can reach, gathering them into the long skirt of the dress I chose for today. I'm barefoot, hair still damp from a bath, no makeup, and the white dress is beautiful. I've never worn clothes like this before. Never been able to just….take baths without being harassed. Never been able to eat as much as I wanted. Never been listened to. There are a lot of 'nevers' that are suddenly happening now under the watchful yellow eyes of a monster. I carry the apples back inside the house, careful to shut and lock the door behind me. I'm not leaving the house again today. Just waiting right here for you. The way you left, the words we exchanged, the intimacy of this morning; it's all leading somewhere that I very much want to go.

In the kitchen again I peel and core the apples, then slice them carefully into chunks. Flour. Sugar. Butter. Salt. Brown sugar. Cinnamon. I barely know how to cook, but I can look up a recipe on my phone easy enough. I kneel down by the antiquated stove to try and figure out how it works. Oh my God, I think I actually have to light it. As in, set flame to it. Getting up again, I begin the hunt for a lighter or matches. They're discovered in a drawer to the left, and I take the little book of matches and kneel by the stove again. It takes me sixteen matches and a whole lot of cursing to get the stove lit. But once I've done it, I feel a sense of pride that rivals an Olympic Gold Medalist.

Regulating the temperature takes about twenty minutes of fiddling with knobs and dials and more swearing. But eventually I manage this incomprehensible task as well. An hour after I began the Herculean quest of learning How to Use a Stove…..I have an actual pie baking in the oven. A pie made from apples that grew right here in this yard. This yard that had been watered by blood and tears for centuries. Apples filled with the essence of how many victims, I will never know. Am I sick? Am I a worthless traitor to my own race? Maybe. But this worthless traitor is making you a pie. And while it cooks, I tentatively begin exploring the house.

The sheer attention to detail is amazing. In one room, I find toys. At first glance it just looks like a normal child's playroom. But when I light a lamp and move into it to open the curtains and have a better look, I have to sit down almost immediately. And then the tears come. Covering my mouth with both hands, I stare around me at the treasures you've conjured from nothing.

There's the doll I gave you the first night I came back. Sitting on the floor nearby is the dollhouse I had as a child and loved so much. The dollhouse Daddy kicked in one drunken day during a rage. He'd thrown it out the day after. But here it is, whole and clean and looking brand new. The little fabric curtains Mom made for it are fresh, the felt she glued to the floor as carpeting doesn't have even a speck of dust on it. I stumble to my knees to see it better. Every tiny doll is freshly dressed and neatly seated at the dining room table, just as they were the day Daddy destroyed it. I shift my attention to the low bench nearby, and scoot forward to open the lid. Inside are stuffed toys, each one of them pulled right out of my memory and looking as though they'd just come from the manufacturer. I pull a few out to hug them. Here is Big Kitty and Brown Bear and Muffin and Froggy. Chubbs and Mallow. My arms full of toys, I get up and wander over to the corner, where the beloved books of my youth are neatly organized on a very familiar yellow book shelf. The porcelain figurines I'd collected are all here, whole and clean. My father used to throw out my toys if they were in his way. All of them are here now. It's like you've unmade the past. And there are new things, too. A chess set I'd coveted and never had the money to buy is here. Porcelain dolls from catalogs I could never have afforded. This room is filled with all the treasures I'd lost, and all the treasures I'd never had. I spend an hour in the room, until the delicious scent of cinnamon and apple reaches me.

I run downstairs, still carrying a teddy bear with me, and open the oven to behold a perfectly cooked pie. Brown on top with apple juice and sugar bubbling out of the holes I poked in the crust. I lift it out carefully and set it on the counter to cool. And then it's back to the second floor to explore some more.

Morning turns to afternoon. Afternoon turns to evening. I've changed into clothes from my own house, and I'm out in the back yard just before sunset, eight bags of trash and weeds and dead branches lined up neatly against the fence. I'm covered in sweat, bleeding from a few scratches, and gloriously, completely happy. There were other houses up the road. I could use the old rusted wagon to take the bags of trash to the curb near them and just leave them there. The garbage truck will pick up anything left on the curb, right? I load up as many as I can and slowly pull it around to the front of the house. Cautiously looking all around to make sure no one sees me. And it's fine. The trip takes about ten minutes, and then the bags are on the curb. I go back for the rest, and wheel them toward the road as well.

And that's when everything goes wrong.

A car slows down as I walk up the road. I ignore it at first, focusing only on getting the trash to its destination. But a voice, a hated voice that I recognize immediately, pulls me out of my happy reverie.

"Beverly Marsh? Is that you?!"

I stop dead in my tracks, turning slowly to behold Greta Keene seated behind the wheel of a sleek gray Audi. All the rage and hatred and sorrow and jealousy floods back to me, washing away everything good that had been building in me since this morning. I swallow hard, forcing a smile to come to a face that feels like it's made out of concrete.

"Greta. Hi." That's about all I can manage. She looks beautiful, slim and perfect, her blond hair pulled back from her pretty face with a silver barrette. The smirk she gives me as I stand with a shitty old wagon full of trash bags, sweaty and gross and wearing my most ragged jeans and filthy tshirt. We stare at one another for an awkward minute.

"I didn't know you were back in town. Not much here for you, is there."

Bitch.

"I uh…I came back a couple weeks ago."

She just sits there, her car idling in park, clearly enjoying how different we are. I feel a trickle of sweat running down my forehead, and I wipe it away with a grimy arm. Greta snickers.

"Oh my God, same old Beaverly. You look like shit."

"Thanks, Greta. Good to see you've grown up since high school."

"Oh, I HAVE. I'm married now! Only just three weeks ago. To the new dentist here in town. He's older than I am by a bit, but who CARES. He makes a ton of money. Do you like my car? David bought it for me as a birthday present! And you should SEE the diamond earrings he gave me. I'd invite you to come look, but I can smell you from here. What the hell are you doing?"

My face reddens, and I straighten slightly.

"Just a little yard work."

"For whom, may I ask? You don't live anywhere near here." Her eyes shift to the nearest house, which thank God isn't the Well House. "Wow, so you're like doing yard work for people now? What a cute job that would have been when we were kids. Just think of all the calories you're burning!"

She laughs again, and I feel like screaming.

"Well Greta, it's been great to catch up. But I really need to get back to work."

"Mmm, I'm sure you do." She studies her manicured hand casually, then looks back to me. "You poor thing. I'll say a prayer for you."

And with that, she drives away again. I feel like a deflated balloon. When I was younger, I was never given to bouts of weeping. But for the second time today I find my eyes welling up. This time with sorrow and anger, not with joy. I pull the wagon to the curb and unhappily dump out the contents. My day is ruined, just like that. The reminder of what a little shit I am was all it took to make me feel helpless and defeated and thirteen years old again.

Sadly, I make my way back to the house in the crimson light of the sunset, and I slip into the back yard to store the wagon under the steps. I need to get cleaned up before you return. You said you'd be back before midnight. That could mean anything.

In the kitchen, I light the lamps and get the steaks out to warm up a bit before cooking them. I'll wait until you're actually here to do that part. Cold steak is never pleasant. Wearily, I climb the stairs and head for the Master bedroom, looking forward to nothing more than a long hot bath and a change of clothes.

I am met with a blaze of cheerful firelight.

There are flowers in a dozen vases throughout the room, flowers of every color. A box is on the bed, wrapped in pretty red paper and gold ribbons, with the words 'Open Me' written across it in spidery black lettering. I am alone in the room, but it's plain you've been here. My heart lifting slightly, I shuffle over to the bed and wipe my filthy hands on my filthy t-shirt before reaching down to unwrap the present.

Inside is a gorgeous deep blue nightgown with a matching lace robe, and on top of the silky fabric a diamond necklace sparkles brightly.
A real diamond necklace. Oh my God, nothing that flashy and elegant could be fake. It must have cost more than a new car. More than a new gray Audi, certainly. I lift it up, my mouth open slightly as I stare at it, unable to believe my eyes. It's the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life.

"Do you like it?"

The voice comes from the corner. Your corner. And there you are, crouched like a cat in your resplendent costume, looking quite pleased with yourself. If I were a little braver I would throw myself into your arms and cover your face with kisses.

I hug the necklace to my chest, my eyes sparkling almost as brightly.

"Like it?! I love it! Nightmare, you didn't have to do this! The house…the clothes and the books and all my old toys…you've done more for me than I even know how to thank you for!"

Sniffling from my earlier cry, I wipe my face with the hem of my sweaty shirt. The sorrow melting away by degrees now that you're home.

"You were weeping downstairs. Why."

There's no point in lying to you. I shake my head, reluctantly putting the necklace down on the night stand and moving toward the bathroom to get out of these filthy clothes.

"I just ran into someone I didn't like. That's all. I…hope your hunting went well?"

You stalk after me, sniffing the air to catch my mood.

"Do not change the subject. Something has upset you. I will hear it."

I plug the drain in the tub and begin to fill it, not meeting your scarlet gaze. And after taking a deep breath, I softly relay to you the brief meeting outside when I was taking away the trash. Every horrible detail. Every emotion that bubbled up from the haunted depths of my worst memories. And I tell you even more. The bullying I endured at Greta's hands. The way she made me feel. The names she called me.

"Then today, just before she left, she actually told me she'd pray for me. It was so condescending and so cruel. Pretending she even gives a shit whether I live or die. I'm sure she can't wait to tell all her friends, all the girls who hated me back when I was a kid, that she ran into me today and I was doing yard work for some family. I felt awful. I still feel awful."

Through it all, you simply listened as you always do. You may be the best listener I have ever met. When I fall silent, peeling off my clothing and stepping into the warm water, you creep to the edge of the tub and grip the side. Your black claws clicking against the white porcelain.

"She really should pray for herself rather than you." You growl, and the smile that lifts your perfect red lips is anything but pleasant. "I shall torture her for days before I finally allow her to die."

"WHAT?!"

"You cannot expect me to allow such disrespect to be shown to my future mate. I will taste her fear and flesh, and she will torment you no longer. It is a simple enough venture. I have her scent. I could find her no matter where she tried to flee and hide. But she will not flee and she will not hide, Beverly. She does not know that I am coming for her. Would you like to watch?"

"Oh my God!"

"Hush. Groom yourself, you have had a very long day and you have clearly worked quite hard. The yard looks superb. And I can smell that you cooked something. I wondered whether you would know how to use an antique stove."

"Penny…"

"You may call me Deimos now, if you wish." You lean forward to lick the side of my face affectionately. I'm stricken, shocked at what you've just said. I may hate Greta Keene, but I would have to really, really loathe a person with every fiber of my being to want to see you unleashed on them. Talk about a fate worse than death.

"You don't have to kill her! I didn't tell you all this so you could hunt her down!"

"You promised never to interfere with my hunting. What did you bake?"

"Apple pie." I say faintly. There's no color in my face at all, and I can barely feel the water all around me. Nonchalantly, you shift around behind me and push me forward with your giant paws. I hold still as you pour water down my back, and I make no protest when you wash my hair and ease a lathered cloth all over my body. I don't even know what to say. Am I secretly happy at the thought of Greta's upcoming suffering? Am I really that terrible? I don't know. I shouldn't be. I know only a fraction of what you're capable of, and it was enough to inspire a hell of a lot of nightmares.

When I'm cleaned to your satisfaction, you lift me from the tub and wrap me in a towel like a child. Purring as you carry me to the bedroom.

"I ate well today, but I am certain that there is room for pie. There is never a time when I am not at least a little hungry."

I say nothing, still trying to find my voice.

You set me on the edge of the bed to continue drying me, and I begin to calm down at the soothing sensation of your hands on my body.

"I…I love you."

"I am aware. Lift your arms now."

Obediently, I do so, and a few minutes later I am dressed in the blue nightgown. You fuss with my hair a little before slipping the robe over my shoulders and tugging my hands through the sleeves. Then you clip the diamond necklace on me. I suddenly feel like a prize poodle being prepared for a dog show. But when you sit back on your haunches to admire the effect, the feeling vanishes to be replaced by a shy sort of pleasure.

"Do I look nice?"

"Good enough to eat, Dream. Come. I smell meat."

You prowl out of the bedroom door and into the dark hallway. After a moment I follow you. Barefoot, I pad down the stairs that I know you didn't bother to use. But when I reach the kitchen, you are already there. Crouched in the corner, watching me with eyes like lamps.

"How do you want me to cook your steaks?"

"Body temperature will be fine. I will even be a gentleman monster and sit at the table."

"Or I can sit on the floor with you."

"A kind gesture. Unnecessary. The chair will bear my weight well enough."

As if to prove the point, you get up and come to the table to sit down. The legs creak, but the chair does hold. I sigh, letting the tension ease away from me. Before going to the stove to light it again, I come to your side and touch your unruly mane of orange hair.

"Can I kiss you?"

"If you must."

Your lips are warm, soft, inviting. How can something so terrible be so enticing? It makes no sense. I wrap my arms around your neck, and you pull me closer with a contented growl as the kiss deepens. I am shaking by the time you release me. I make my way unsteadily to the counter, and begin seasoning the meat. Not that it will matter much to you.

So often over the past few days with you, there have been these little moments of gradual melting. An unexpectedly kind word. A claw on my skin that is gentle instead of rough. A look just a touch longer than the others. I'm not stupid enough to think that you're changing. People don't change. Neither do monsters. But you're showing me a side of yourself that is less guarded. Maybe I'm finally seeing you as you truly are when you're not hunting or feeding or trying to keep the world at a distance.

"I have thought about the subject of our mating a great deal today." You suddenly say, apropos of nothing.

The salt shaker slips from my hands and rattles against the counter. I pick it up again, focusing hard on the little white crystals as they hit the meat.

"Oh?"

"I believe that your body would rip and bleed and you would experience agony on par with childbirth if I took you without proper preparation. And so I have decided to undertake these preparations."

People don't TALK like this! My stomach feels like it's full of pterodactyls and my head is light.

"You…what…prepare?"

"Eloquent as always. I will show you later. I believe, if my knowledge of human anatomy is as complete as I think it is, that you will find it very enjoyable. Oh, did you purchase flowers as well? I have just now noticed them on the sideboard there. How lovely. I am very fond of flowers."

Well now I really can't think. My mind settles into numb shock while my hands keep working. I put the steaks under the broiler, first mine and then, ten minutes later, yours. Turning mine when I do so. Yours will be practically raw. Mine, medium rare. I don't know how I know this. I only skimmed the instructions on my phone once. And I'm certainly not thinking now. In fact, I don't have any coherent thoughts whatsoever until I'm already seated at the table some time later, my steak half gone, the candles shimmering in pools of wax, a knife and fork in my hands. I look up with a start when you suddenly straighten in your chair and turn toward the dark window.

"What is it?! What's out there?!" I ask in alarm, looking wildly to the window as well. You side-eye me, blinking.

"Absolutely nothing as terrible as what's in here, I assure you. There isn't anything outside the window. I simply felt my brother shift over a thousand miles to the west all at once. I do not know why. Neither of us have a need to escape anything, especially not in haste. But he tends to travel like this on occasion. I believe he is the more restless of the two."

"Phobos."

"Yes. I spoke too quickly, perhaps, when I told you never to seek him out. He would not harm you, not with my scent all over you. But you might find that you like him better."

"Deimos, that could never happen. Don't be silly."

"I am never 'silly'. It is a valid concern. I have decided that I wish to keep you, and I am not gentle. He is. And you seem to very much warm to tenderness." You snap, the annoyance coming to the surface again. You turn away from the window and pick up your steak again, biting off a chunk of the bleeding meat as though it were softened butter. I reach across the table to touch your other hand, fully expecting you to scratch me. You tug your hand back a little, but you don't snarl or bite.

"I'm going to live and die right by your side. Loyal to you and nobody else. If there were a thousand clowns and all of them wanted me, I would still choose you. I didn't fight so hard to get close to you just to leave you for another monster."

You say nothing, but your posture relaxes and you seem to be comforted by my words. I dare to push a little more, pleased that you'd worry about losing me when you were pretty eager to kill me off not long ago.

"You're going to be a wonderful lover. No one else in the world would even think about foreplay for a whole day just to make sure that their partner is ready for them."

"Four-what, then? I do not intend to play with you. I intend to pleasure you and ready your body for the blinding trauma that I will eventually put it through. You are no good to me dead. Well, not completely useless. I would eat you, of course. But it would bring me no joy."

You lick some of the blood from your fingers, and suddenly my eyes are fixed on your tongue. It's got to be at least four inches long. Oh my God, what are you thinking of doing to me? My eyebrows rise as a wave of pure erotic need floods through me. But then your last sentences sink in.

"Wait. You're…planning on EATING me after I die?"

"Of course. Waste not."

"But that's barbaric! What about carrying my body to a sacred place and building a cairn of white stones and laying a red rose on top of it every year for the rest of your life?"

Now you're the one who looks shocked.

"Heart of the Void, Beverly! Who, or what, do you think you are speaking to? Do you see these teeth? Do you see these claws? Do I look like the sort of being who would build a cairn of white stones, and call that romance? I shall eat you before you cool, and you will become a part of me."
You take another bite of meat, and continue speaking as you chew.
"It should warm your heart to know that I will not leave a single morsel of your body to rot."

"I guess that's…..no! Deimos that's just gross!"

But you're not paying attention. You sniff at me curiously, and swallow the mouthful without taking your eyes from my face. When you speak again, your voice is low.

"You smell of desire."

"I…"

"Was it something I said? Are you perhaps so mentally ill that you find the subject of being eaten alluring?"

"N-not like that."

But the redness rising to my cheeks yet again is a dead giveaway. You seem pleased at the effect you're having on me. I drop my gaze to my plate, then scrape my chair back and stand up.

"You have to try the apple pie I made. I brought in apples from your tree in the back yard. And looked up the recipe on my phone. I think it's going to be amazing."

"I have never made anyone scream for a reason apart from fear and pain. This will be a new experience."

…damn you.

"I put in cinnamon and butter and sugar."

"I wonder how long it will take before you lose consciousness. And how much force I will need to exert to hold you down."

"I thought t-tomorrow I'd maybe make…um…chicken."

Chuckling, you wrinkle your nose at me playfully. I am reminded of the malicious glee you always took in my discomfort. Some things haven't changed. I bring the pie to the table and cut it in half, putting one entire side onto a plate for you. I cut a slice for myself from what remains, and safely put the table between us as I pick up my fork with a trembling hand. I want you. I fear you. I need you. I can't anticipate your reactions from moment to moment. There's too much HERE for me to deal with.

"Chicken sounds dead and boring. But I shall eat whatever you put before me out of politeness."

"When are you ever polite?"

"I brought you a pizza your very first night here."

"The box was covered in blood!"

"Well then. We both had a little treat, now didn't we."

It's strange, how precious I find the sight of your huge hand trying to hold a fork. But I love it. I love this. The delicious tenseness of our flirting. Actually FLIRTING with one another. Bantering like a normal couple instead of putting me through the gauntlet of rage and threats like before. My whole body feels like it's been shot through with electricity. I feel twice as alive as I ever have before, and extremely eager to finish dinner and go back upstairs with you to the bedroom.

The pie is pretty decent for my first try, and between the two of us we finish it off completely. Eventually, I end up sitting on your lap feeding you chunks of sticky apple, giggling when your teeth graze my fingers. You pretend to snap at me, causing me to squeal. I didn't think it was possible to die of happiness for real, but right now I'm closer than I ever have been. I kiss you, messily, and the taste of cinnamon and apples lingers on our tongues. It begins as a few light kisses, turning swiftly into more.

This has to be some kind of pleasant dream, like the ones I used to have back in Portland. But no, it's real. You're real, real enough for me. I lean back a little, touching your face, and you growl happily.

"Deimos."

"Mmm?"

"Did you ever imagine….well…this?"

"Of course not, don't be ridiculous. Have you ever fantasized about a cow or a pig?"

Wow. Such romantic words. I'm about to ask you if that's how you see me when your long fingers tangle in my hair again, pulling me against your lips. I don't even want to struggle, but some deep portion of my animal brain registers that I am too close to a predator and must therefore be in danger. So I do struggle for a few seconds, until I can silence my instincts. It happens every time, I'm realizing. You seem to think nothing of it. But then, you are used to prey fighting back.

"I keep forgetting that I started out as just food to you." I whisper against your lips when you let me breathe. You grunt an assent to this, then tug me back in for another draining, intense kiss. Clearly you are beginning to enjoy this activity that you'd never done before. Now I'm faced with, instead of a beast who wanted nothing to do with me and found physical contact to be somewhat repulsive…a creature who likes it very much and is constantly wanting more. How can I deny you anything? I don't even want to. Because the truth is, I am enjoying this too.

My tongue encounters teeth. God, so many teeth. Your fingertips are velveted, no claws protruding to tear my skin as you begin unlacing my robe. Oh…oh wow. Here? Right here? I guess…I guess we're doing this.

The whole table moves when you push at it with one hand, rising to your feet with me in your arms. Still kissing, my eyes closed, I am unprepared for the freezing cold and dizziness that slams into me. My eyes fly open, and we are in the bedroom. No climbing of the stairs. No walking down the hall. Just a moment of profound discomfort, and here we are. I wobble a little when you set me down, trying to talk around the distraction of you grooming the last of the apple pie off my face.

"Dei…mos….that…come on…you….what was….dammit….I'm clean!"

And I'm laughing again. You are too. Not the jeering, mocking, screechy cackle that you used to taunt us all the summer we met. A real laugh. Husky and soft and genuine. You are a creature that laughs. You are a creature that gets hungry, thirsty, sleepy, cranky, happy, jealous. You are a creature who has likes and dislikes, who can think and communicate and change your mind. Who can reason, who feels pleasure and pain. You are a creature like me. I take your white face in my hands and kiss you as though my life depended on it. You gently pick me up and settle me on the bed. The mattress sinks under our combined weight as you join me. My heart is pounding in my chest. I'm terrified and excited all at once.

My hands pull insistently at your clothing until you begin to remove it, and to finish removing mine. Within a few minutes, we are naked together. My perfect, belly-buttonless clown. The oil lamps dim by themselves until the room is cast into shadows. I touch your chest, and our fevered movements still as you look down at me in the dark. I can't see your face. Just the baleful glow of those eyes. God, those eyes.

"I'm scared."

"I know. I smell it. Would you like me to stop? You must be tired. I would watch you rest."
And this in and of itself is shocking, because you want something and you are willing, for the first time, to deny yourself what you want in order to make someone else more comfortable. It's a shift from selfishness to compassion and generosity. I don't know what to make of it, and your words make me pause for a moment.

"N-no. No, don't stop. I don't want you to stop. I'm just scared because I want this, and I want you, and I love you and I don't want to disappoint you if I'm not any good at anything because I've never done most of the things girls my age have done."

"I do not expect you to be an expert. Relax, Dream. I will not hurt you."

"Have you ever said those words before?"

"No. I never lie."

I don't close my eyes. I keep them open, watching your vast nightmarish shape as you gently part my thighs and lower your head. The softness of your tongue against my inner thigh makes me jump, but your hands are firm on my hips. Holding me still and steady. This is tender, for you. But I will have bruises there when I look in the mirror tomorrow, perfect hand imprints one to each hip.

"Wait. Wait, before you do this….do you love me?"

I feel you sigh, and your voice is soft. Honest.

"I do not know what love is."

"You know everything! You know everything about human beings and all our…our frailties and everything that makes us strong. You know what love is. It's what makes one person throw themselves to you to save another."

"Are you suggesting that there is anything at all in existence strong enough to pose a threat to me? If something menaced you, I would kill it."

"That's not the point." I fight back tears, suddenly emotional now at the moment of intimacy. You lean up again and gather me into your arms, and I have no fabric to cling to. Just your shoulder. I hold on, going limp and letting you just cradle me.

"I love you. I love you and I need you to love me back."

"Child…"

"You know what it is! You haven't killed me! You comforted me, you fed me, you protected me, you gave me beautiful things. You kissed me, you bathed me, you let me cuddle up to you while I slept."

"Oh for pity's sake! Hush! Stop your worrying. I care for you. This is as close to love as I wish to get at this moment. Be content with it or go home."

Exasperation in your voice, but the words themselves are infinitely touching. You care for me. I slide my hand to your cheek, then to your lips. And the razor-sharp teeth that they hide. Deliberately, I prick my fingertip on one of them. You growl as the blood trickles into your mouth, and a moment later you are sucking gently on the injury. I can feel the healing tingle. You must be able to do that at will. It would ruin your food if you healed everything you licked.

"I'm content. I'm sorry. I'm being silly now."

"Yes, you are. But I forgive you. Now lie back, little morsel, and stop it with these childish worries. You are in bed with a monster. One would think you had more important things to worry about than whether he loves you or not."

"It's important."

You rest me down against the pillows, lightly caressing my body as you move back again. My legs are shaking when you ease them apart, lifting the hem of the nightgown. Your voice is as soft as breath. Softer than dandelion down brushing against a cheek.

"I know. That is why I will not say it until I fully understand. I will not…..insult you with half-truths, Beverly. Perhaps this is love. I do not know. But I will explore it with no one else. I will learn with no one else. If I do not love you, then I will never love. It is very simple."

Somehow, this is enough for me. It's more than enough. You really do get it, why I'm here and what's wrong with me and how much everything in my heart hurts and how your claws and your fiery gaze are the only things that bring any healing at all.

I grip the blanket so tight that my knuckles whiten when I feel the first contact of your tongue. This is more than I imagined I would ever experience. Almost more than I can bear. A tidal wave moving up the shore, washing away everything broken and crumbling in its wake. Leaving only smooth sand behind. My soul calms. The first whimper that rises to my lips is soothed away by one of your hands moving up to hold mine. Not a human. You are not a human. Is this bestiality? I guess so, in some odd way. I don't care. It's probably just as weird for you as it is for me.

You are patient and gentle, as gentle as a creature you size can be. I am weeping within seconds, helpless tears because this is too much and it feels too wonderful and I'm afraid of how high the pleasure will rise. It's already almost painful in its intensity. Pleasure and pain are very close together, the nerves can sing so loud that they scream.

I struggle. You let me struggle. When I desperately push at your white shoulders, you lean back and allow me to catch my breath for a few seconds before returning to the sensual play of tongue and skin and nerve endings, the shivering candlelight on a tear stained face. After every glorious, terrifying crescendo, there is the gentle weight of your hand on my face. You don't recoil from the flood of emotions that this pleasure releases. When I cry, you allow me to cry. When I scream, it's alright…you are used to screams. I beat at you with my small hands when a sudden fury overtakes me out of nowhere after the earth shattering release of another climax. You withstand the onslaught silently, and when I have run out of energy you hold me against you and groom the sweat and tears from my face.

This is more than foreplay. This is soul-surgery. Pain, fear, sorrow, elation, joy, love, need. All the things that a human being is capable of feeling rise out of the dark waters of my mind and explode against the immobile bulwark of your white body. Barely visible in the gloom. Torture and lovemaking are not so different. They both require immense patience. They both require skill. They both result, if done correctly, in a release of everything pent up inside. You don't break me. But you come close. Very close.

When it's all over and I can take no more, you carry me to the bathroom and sink into the tub with me once more. My body is so sensitive that I flinch from the lightest touch, but I'm too exhausted to stop you. With the tenderness of a lion bathing a cub, you clean me thoroughly. I am cradled against your broad chest as though I weighed nothing, a little naked thing in the arms of a giant.

"…love…" I whisper to you as you carry me back to the bedroom. Under the sheets, my head lolls like a broken toy against your shoulder when you adjust me protectively against your side.

"Love." You echo.

The last thing of which I am aware before the veil of blessed darkness covers my mind is the warmth of your arms around me. And the deep rumble of your drowsy purr.