Charon

I miss her so much.

It seems like I'm saying this everywhere…but I can't wait until we leave this place. I start to think that her ghost isn't haunting places, it's following me, sowing memories as we travel. If I could cry, I probably would.

But I can't.

I head outside for a smoke break and to shoot the shit with Willow. Wendy sits on the steps by herself. She waved me off; said she needed time to think about things. I notice that her orders are becoming brusquer. She veiled them before – phrased them as requests. Now, she doesn't make much of an effort. The wasteland is changing her. She reminds me so much of Mal that it hurts.

Willow greets me. "Welcome back."

I nod. "How've the last forty years treated ya?"

She chuckles. "I can't complain. At least the Brotherhood leaves me alone."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Your girl Mal – she told 'em to leave us the fuck alone." I smile. Yeah, she'd do that. She had a soft spot in her heart for ghouls. I smile. Wonder why.

"What happened to her, Charon? Why are you with Blondie over there?" she asks, jerking her thumb over her shoulder.

I frown. "Mal's dead. Wasteland Pain Syndrome." I drawl around my cigarette.

"Ah shit, I'm sorry." She shifts her weight, takes a long drag, probably thinking of the best thing to say. "I know you loved her. Everyone else may've thought she was just a lay to you, but I knew better."

"More than life itself…" I trail off, and she pats my arm.

"You're lucky."

I start, frown at her. She elaborates. "You're lucky enough to've loved someone like that. And have them been in love with you." She smiles, wistfully, then smirks. "Frankly, I'm jealous. You know what they say, 'It's better to have loved and lost than never loved at all.'"

Good point. I nod and smile. "I miss her."

"Good. I'd be worried about you if you didn't."

About Forty-Four Years Ago

Maleficent

My insides throb, and I enjoy it.

He couldn't help it. We were in an abandoned building, scavenging. We needed to raise money for our trip west. He surprised me; bent me over a desk, ripped down my pants, and fucked me raw.

It makes me think of the first time, how he pushed me into the picnic table. I fought him, and he fought back. He thrusted into me roughly, painfully. I screamed and bucked against him; he pushed me hard into the rough wood until he finished with me. God only knows how long it'd been for him. Didn't take him long – it'd probably been a long time.

I loved it.

Even in the wasteland, it's hard to find a man that's okay with slapping me around in the bedroom. Surprisingly, he's the gentle one – he introduced me to slow, tender lovemaking. It's not earth-shaking, but the connection is powerful, intensely erotic. When he kisses me, I'm transported to another world, another time, another place, where I'm different. Loving, gentle, tender – what he deserves, but what I can never be for him.

It still sounds strange to me say that I love him, but I do. I never thought those words would ever cross my lips. He waited for weeks, months, in desperate, unfathomable pain, to hear me say it. I was scared, angry, and hesitant. I didn't want to attach myself to anyone. I don't think I'll ever to be able to make it up to him.

At least now he can hold me at night and whisper into my ear that he loves me, and he'll receive an answer.

I love him.

More than life itself.