I don't usually like tears. Sometimes, I resent people for being so easy to break, so quick to roll over and show me their belly like I won't gut them for it. Sometimes it annoys me because it's so easy, such an easy way to pretend you can get away from something that hurts you. But I've worked damn hard for her tears, and she's put up more of a fight than most people, especially people from such a soft background. Her surrender was a foregone conclusion, the question was how long it was going to take to get her here.

I wasn't expecting it to take this long, to be honest.

She woke me up with them. I suppose I should have been annoyed, but I was actually touched. Or at least as touched as I get. She'd jammed her fist in her mouth, and had locked her muscles trying to hide the fact that she was crying. The result was that she was shaking the bed. I don't think she realized how much she was shaking it until I rolled over and she stopped breathing.

I'd been waiting for this. Tears are a sign of surrender, but they're also a plea to the world around us to pay attention to our suffering, because trust me, you never have to cry. You cry to show the world you're hurting.

I had to get a little firm with her to get her settled in my arms. She did not want to unbend, but an irritated growl unfolded her—conditioning again. Obey or get hurt.

And then I held her. She's such a tiny thing that I could have wrapped myself around her several times over. I've seen people do it before, so I stroked her hair.

She sobbed so hard she actually moved the mattress a little and made the bed screech against the floor. I held her until she had nothing left, very patient for me. She went limp afterward. I doubt she had anything left after that day and the fact is that the body is stupid. Even though she knows for a fact that I'm a dangerous son of a bitch, all that petting and patience fools her into thinking she can relax.

And, of course, sustains the illusion of intimacy. Intimacy is so beautifully selfish. Even when she knows better, she'll keep trying to believe I think she's important. Intimacy is the stubborn belief that we're important to someone, and that being important has to be reciprocal.

Which means that I'd better be important to her, if I act like we're intimate.

Which just makes my job easier.

Poor Harley-kins. My poor little baby.

I even kissed her face, as much like a lover in a movie as anything that makes sense. We aren't really the kissing kind of lovers. When she fell asleep, I watched her for awhile, watched her twitching and wincing with her dreams.

She's probably dreaming about me. She's mine awake and asleep.

When I'm sure she's good and blank, it'll be time for a little re-education. We've already started, of course. You can't really un-kill a man. Even though it was in self-defense, it ain't that hard to expand into other motivations.

We all pretty much started out justifying ourselves that way, not that killing needs justification. Society gets its grubby hooks in us early, telling us that murder and violence are bad, that we should let other people take advantage of us rather than do something that bad. So we have to marshal our excuses: "I killed him because he was hurting me," "I killed him because he would have killed me." We understand that we have to plead our case, and there's only a few acceptable ways to do that. And who knows, maybe we'll be excused for it. We certainly have to get used to it, and no one likes to hate themselves if they don't have to. A socially acceptable excuse is a way out of hating ourselves.

And then, we think it's not so bad. It's understandable. It's excusable. It's okay, as long as we hedge our actions in justifications and stay in those justifications. Not that people don't keep drifting, changing their justifications as they go. But as long as there's something they won't do, they believe they're fine.

It's why I have to break her fingers.

There is no bad—I can't kill or harm anyone because it's bad.

There is no good—as long as I don't do this, I'm okay.

There is just the act itself—if I want to do it, I will.

There doesn't need to be any more justification than that. I have my little object lessons for society, of course, but I'm nowhere near delusional enough to be convinced that they always work. People are astoundingly stupid, and while I may feel the need to punish people for it, I'm not stupid enough to think that they'll always learn.

Without the assurance that it will make a difference, all that's left is will. All that's left is I want to. I want to is a more honest and satisfying motivation than any of the other bullshit we tell ourselves. It's the only motivation that has the charm of being completely true.

When I'm done with her, it's all she'll need, too.

I can't seem to think. My thoughts trickle out of me, and I can't seem to concentrate enough to understand them.

I cried. I didn't mean to cry. I didn't even know I was crying until a drop ran off my nose.

I don't know why I bothered to cry.

I panicked, when I realized I was crying. I had to hide. I had to hide it. He was right there, back to me, snoring.

Panic again.

I can't think.

My fist ended up in my mouth. I had to hide.

My body betrayed me.

I couldn't hide.

He turned over. I expected him to hurt me. He's so angry.

He didn't.

Why?

Why would he do this?

I should be able to step back. I should be able to understand, to name and box this up. All that discipline. All that training. I should be able to keep this distant, should be able to understand.

The dead man on the floor. I promised I would heal. The Hippocratic Oath. I promised.

He's being so gentle. Why? Why is he being gentle?

I'm so tired. I don't understand.

I don't understand anything anymore.

I'm a killer.

I'm drowning.

I'm nothing.