DUSK
I stand and gaze at him.
All afternoon, I watch him, as he stands. He sits, he turns his head towards the light far above. The light he cannot really see, except by reflection off the ceiling. Still, he seeks it. He has so little to look at, besides the walls.
If only he could see his own reflection—But I can see him—he is the light; he makes even this place bright, just by his presence. His grossest moment is wonderful to me. His standing, a miracle.
I put my hand against the wall, bite my knuckles, press so hard against the metal I think my hand will go through it. Sometimes I lean my head, but only for a moment, because that means I must take my eyes from him—and I do not want to miss a moment. Who knows if I will have another?
I have killed so many—it doesn't matter now. Strangled or impaled or shot—did they deserve it? Some, many, perhaps most, did. But some did not—in the way, or by accident—it doesn't matter now.
Only this moment matters—the world falls away and there is only watcher and watched—nothing else but this silent eternal moment.
He does not know—I do not want him to know. The one-way glass hides it all. He may suspect—at times he looks toward the door, half-looks, trying to seem as though he doesn't—and I see a shadow of fear cross his face. He hides it quickly; he turns away. So young. So alone. And yet, so brave, still.
His fear only makes me love him more; I do not lie to myself, it feeds my vanity, as well. And I could be the source of his comfort as well. His protection; his all! He would fall down and worship me and I would give him all my kingdom and then, myself!
They think I am superhuman; I will be if I can get through this!
He has been fed—not much—not elaborate—certainly nothing for this holiday, but little enough so that he knows what a captivity he is in for. Enough so he fears that each day it might be less and less.
I know this is for now, he eats slowly and carefully, tasting each morsel, not missing a crumb, draining water without leaving even a drop. Often he looks up to the light and I wonder what he is thinking. I wish I could know. It is like a ritual for him-a tiny taste, a long look up, a sip, a long look up. He is saving everything.
I am saving, too. I cannot have him. I can watch him this afternoon. That is all I have. He watches a tiny patch of light; I watch him.
The light is so faint he does not cast a shadow on the floor—only in me. His shadow hovers in my heart and then joins with my larger, darker one—it is the only touching we share.
Once, once he shudders—I see it—though he has his back to the door—it is all I can do not to rush through. But what would I do when I got there? Do I trust myself? Could I not start down that road that would destroy him? Destroy us both? I do not know—and so I wait and watch. All afternoon.
It is all I can do not to rush in and rip his clothes off so I can memorize him. But I dare not, for then it would begin.
He has not been freed. I hate it; I love it, knowing he is mine. I cannot keep him; I cannot keep him—but the chain keeps him. Bless it—as long as it caresses his ankle, he is mine!
With my eyes—I run my hand along his cheek, pick up a strand of his hair, and brush it back. I touch his upper arm and trace the edge of his shoulder joint.
I ache for him and hesitate.
I am afraid—for the first time in many years. I have made so many others afraid and enjoyed it. Now I am fearful, of what? Myself or him? I am not sure. Perhaps both.
I must not kill us both. I must never kill him. I could, I might; I must not! I could!
I have had others—what are they now? Nothing to this, to him, nothing. I would give it all up—I would give myself up, for him.
And then he draws a deep breath, the shadows are coming on, now, the light is fading. Even that dim light he can barely see is going.
He looks up, searching, towards the darkness, and as the glaring bulb overhead automatically comes on, I see despair wash across his face when he knows the light is truly, completely, gone, now.
He lets his head fall forward, and a sob shakes him, like a physical thing. His whole body vibrates with it. No tears—I could not see them if they were falling, instead his hair falls forward about his face like a dark curtain.
I can bear no more—it seems a crime against the universe that he should—I cannot keep him; I cannot keep him. I cannot keep him. It has become my heartbeat, now.
I turn the door handle; he starts, trying not to show—as if I should not notice he is surprised or that he is deeply afraid! I know what fear looks like.
I speak curtly, roughly, "You're going back—now." I try to make it sound disgusted, as if he had not been right, somehow. Insufficient for my plans. A waste of my time and worthy only of being returned to where he was captured. Not even worth the trouble of being hurt or killed.
He does not speak. I am glad; if he did, I am not sure if—
He nods. That is all.
I want to free him myself, to touch that chain. I do not. I motion others in, through the door to do the work my hands long to do. I turn away. I say only, over my shoulder as I walk away, "Perhaps, someday. I will wait."
I wonder if he is puzzled. I wonder if he suspects. I know him, though. He will not forget, and he will think of me. Often.
It is enough. I have had the courage, the discipline, the wisdom to place this rare, perfect vintage in the cellar, unopened, untouched, for a while. "For a while only," I tell myself. It is a comfort.