Requiem for the Fallen, Page 2

  Part of her wanted so deeply to join them, but that was the part of her she had come to kill. It was why she stood now, arms at her sides, fingertips on end, as seemingly unmoved as a martyr awaiting the torches of the pyre, amidst the frenzy of hot flesh, writhing, crazed for release. Her skin crackled with emberous sparks as she stood bracing for what was to come, dizzy with wanting.

  I’ve got to get him out of my head.

  The dreams had started over a month ago. Blood on her blood, flesh on her flesh. Subconscious feeding its fantasy into her limbs, her body coming alive in the cold nothingness of dreams. Ears humming with the sharp cries that woke her each morning, always surprised to discover that they were her own, and that it was time to change the sheets, so to speak; phantom reverberations of his voice echoing in her mind’s hollow, deviant eye. Wait for the dark and I’ll come again, it said. She would laugh, a weary sort of sardonic retort; wait for the dark and I’ll come again. It was all well and good; a little brain-bred fantasy made REM an enticing venture that held with it so much more than rest. But what happens when you start to live in anticipation of it? What do you do when your waking hours (and the people who fill them) pale in comparison to the waking inside your head?

  What was once a freak amusement at these nightly hauntings had waxed addictive. The tweed-clad philosophy instructor, who smelled of patchouli and had once enticed her attentions, or the artist who specialized in body-painting, and whose green eyes wavered sea-dipped in his rough sand skin beneath chocolate tendrils and begged, on more than one occasion, to strip her bare: these men and the oceans of others like them held no interest for her anymore. Try as she might, her skin grew cold at the thought of their touch. Only one man’s hands on her would satisfy. A man who barely existed in reality. A man made up inside her head, fashioned clay from a muse who, in reality, did exist and , in a moment, would be fifteen feet away from her.

  Before coming here, she had reasoned with herself, psychoanalyzed to a pathetic degree. Sure, in reality he was just a man. He came off guarded and hostile. Not to mention that he despised and mocked and desecrated her God- to the point that it surely made angels weep and Lucifer himself stand and applaud-and he did so with a fervency and determination that bordered on obsessive. And yet, there was a way that he shrugged off his opinions with his eyes turned to the ground- in a sort of lost, tough guy way-that pulled at her, whispered of the soul beneath, of what once was, or may have been; of who had been lost.

  So which is he, really? Demon or man? Or is it all just smoke and mirrors, masking insignificance, masking child’s play?

  It didn’t matter really, because it was not the man she wanted. Her fixation, she was honest enough to admit, was the fantasy- the animal voice and black eyes, the mythical creature of his songs that promised pain as pleasurable as any caress. Consciousness-altering fucked senseless, that was what his words promised. The words, and the hypnotic demon lover he had created, born from the dark recesses of her mind and his.

  Reality never lives up to the fantasy, she thought. After this night, she would find him a blinding disappointment to the vaunted, cerebral facsimile that had crawled in her head and pinned her to the bed, night after endless night. Or, he would not notice her, and she would not care. Either way, after tonight, she would be free.

  Instantly, in a moment of smoke and haze, he was there. She hardly noticed the explosion of cries from the crowd as the drums released its rhythmic thump, and the riffs of the strings filled the air like sirens. It wasn’t until the darkly robed figure who took the stage unmasked, flinging his raiment aside, that her mouth opened and dispelled the breath she had been holding back for unbroken minutes, like a near drowning breaking through green crest. He moved over the room, sharp and imposing as a wild dog. His body was bare except for the tight, black pants he always wore, clinging to him like second skin. Even his feet were naked, and his hands bore thick, fingerless gloves, a boxer’s gloves, which looked like a warrior’s tools. He had the bearing of a warrior, raw brute strength. A primal energy surrounded him, hovering while the real danger of him lay in wait, bristling over his skin and aching to be set loose. His hair hung in a dark curtain around his shoulders, masking somewhat the black brilliance of his gaze which fell on everyone and no one. A thick chain hung from his neck. A cross, ornate and gaudy, hung upside down. She could feel the small weight of hers on its silver chain, right side up.

  Her eyes fell over and over him. The crowd pushed around her, forcing her back, although most were afraid to touch her. She was a strange figure in the corner of their eyes, standing there, staring silently at the stage while others banged heads and fists together. Women screamed enrapturment, reached their arms- their whole selves- towards him, bearing their souls and legs and breasts for his approval, his pleasure. The sentient hum of music screamed to life, and she fought against the need to close her eyes and fall into the grit of his voice, so heavy and full of husk and fire and liquid sex.

  This was what made it all so crazy, so frightening for her. When she came out of the thrall of his voice, it was like awakening from a coma, or drugs. She felt weighed down and senseless, her insides lit up in flames, craving violence, craving bruises, as long as they were his bruises. She heard his breath in her head. The whole world seemed to dissolve away in the bitter, undulating thrust of his voice; primal, inhuman- the purest, darkest lust. It made being here, seeing him in the flesh, so dangerous...yet it was the most alive she had ever felt.

  It was during their second number that he usually connected with his audience. He searched their faces for the blind adoration he craved. The band ripped into the dark ballad from their new album. He loved this song. It could land him any woman he wanted. Didn’t matter which one he chose that night. All these bitches are the same.

  He saw her.

  The sight of her startled him. In the instant that his eyes locked with hers, he forgot all about the song. It betrayed him only for a moment before he regained himself. While he sang, random fragments of thoughts crowded his mind.

  Who is she? How the fuck did I miss her standin there f’so long?

  She was silent, unmoving. She was small, pale, a faery or an angel floating amongst the garbage. She did not look like a woman or a child. She was other-worldly, with an expression he couldn’t read.

  Why the hell does she keep starin’ at me like that? Like she knows me or somethin. Sees inside me. Shit, I can’t take my eyes off her.

  The shards of heat between them radiated to the point that it became a living, breathing being that others were beginning to notice. Headbangers glanced from her to him, trying to figure out what they were missing. Is she part of the show or something?

  There was a guitar solo coming up and, just before it began, she placed her hand on the shoulder of the guy in front of her and moved towards him. Never breaking her gaze, which was locked with his, she slid and writhed around the useless obstacles blocking her path until, finally, they parted for her, anxious to see what was unveiling before them. She stood facing him. Everything about her body glowed immaculate and white. The coal of his pupils burned into her as he shifted, rough and panting like a black bull, guarded, not able to read her face; who was the predator and who was the prey?

  The strings let out a piercing howl as one powerful arm reached down and lifted her onto the stage, as effortlessly as if she were paper. She caught him and, with the agility of a child climbing into her favorite chair, she wound her legs around his waist. There was a flash of pain or anger on her face-he couldn’t tell which- as she reached between her thighs and ripped the huge belt buckle (which he had fashioned as his trademark) off of him and flung it to the ground. Her throat caught as she pressed her stomach, her breasts against him. He smelled of musk and pine needles and incense and dark earth. The smell and the feel of him ground against her made her whole body tremble. What surprised her was that he was trembling as well.

  The shock of her body on his, and the incredible sof
tness of her skin, those eyes…he was utterly lost in it. Fuck, she is beautiful. The room faded out of focus as he ran his hands over her arms, down her back, around the nape of her neck. She touched him too. Small, silk fingers caressed his face, fell over his chest, pressed into the hard, sinewy flesh of his arms. All the while she was trying to breathe, just breathe, because He. Was. There… touching her, and this was real, and she could feel the brush of the leather gloves and his fingertips against her skin, wanting to cry-it felt so much like coming home. For what seemed like endless minutes, they found each other this way; like fated lovers come back from the dead, or two lost souls never having touched before or been touched by another living being.

  The lead guitar took up the refrain as this fusion of light and dark clung to each other, dually mesmerized. The rhythm of their breath had fallen into place, and through all their wordless discovery of one another, each one’s eyes never left the other’s. Suddenly, the mood in his gaze changed as he ran his hand underneath her neck and over the small ornament that lay there. Instinctually, she curled her fingers around his chain, and with a violence so swift and so deft that he flinched, she tore the mock cross from his neck. His hand wound around hers and he did the same.

  The chain left small, pink burns on either side of her neck. He watched the color of her blood rise beneath her skin, and leaned in to cover the wounds he had made with soft, deep kisses. She tasted to him like strawberries. His hands wound tighter and tighter around her back, stroking her, pulling her harder against him. Her breath was coming in short, labored gasps now. If it was possible that the fantasy had come to life, she couldn’t escape it now. She was wholly consumed by him. As he devoured her neck, she dug her nails into his shoulder blades. He growled into her skin before bringing his luscious fierce animal mouth to hers. His tongue slid a knife into her, burning her insides like brandy. She took his bottom lip between her teeth and held him there. They rocked in the tempest while flames licked their limbs, working each other into a small frenzy.

  Her head was drunk with him. The clothes still separating them were as transparent as air. The friction of his body, his mouth that tasted of booze and chocolate and something darker, filled her. And when his tongue poured into her mouth- the rough scrape of his gloves against her face, her neck- it made her consciousness dissolve into bursts of blood and black. Her ears roared and filled with the crash of waves. Another moment of this blinding ecstasy and she would come, pouring over his body like oil. Their mouths came apart, both of them gasping for lost breath. And suddenly, cold fingers pried her arms from his grasp.

  She felt herself being lifted away. Her arms reached out to him mindlessly where he stood, drenched and shipwrecked. The audience snarled, done with the spectacle and demanding that he get on with it. His face lit with realization of where he was and what he was doing. His guys had dragged out the last guitar solo for as long as possible. They anxiously struck a new riff, and his eyes searched her out and locked on her again.

  He ran and caught her wrist, halting the bouncer who was carrying her off the stage.

  Hey man, take her backstage and put her in my room. Naw, fuck the pass, put her in my room.

  He looked at her, squeezed her hand, turned and grabbed his microphone and strutted back to his worshippers.

  Her eyes dropped down at the heaviness in her hand, where he had laid his cross.

  The room they took her to was small but clean. It had a bar in the corner where one of the bouncers offered to fix her a drink.

  Just water please.

  It startled her that she could still speak. She sat trembling, her legs felt permanently numb from holding her weight around his waist; that, and other things. She wondered how he was feeling right now.

  The men left her after asking, politely, that she not disturb any of his stuff. When they were gone, she sipped the water, a magical balm restoring her sense of reality. She looked at his clothes that had been strewn about, his books, his stack of comics on the corner table. Across the leather couch were fluttered sheets of music paper, some scribbled about on with a deep blue ink. She stood tentatively on wobbly legs, and padded softly to the plush sofa where his clothes lay. She touched his underclothes, his leather cuffs. She lifted a faded sweatshirt that smelled of his musk. She slipped the shirt over her head, filling herself again with his warmth, his scent. But it made her insides ache for wanting him and so she folded it back up into its place, messing the neat folds a little so as not to appear too obvious.

  His books were mainly on the Occult, though there were some philosophy, some dark fantasy. No surprises there. He must take his whole library with him, she mused. She read the backs of a few but knew the drill. You read one anarchist divulgence into the justifications of evil and you’ve read them all: Self is god. God is self. Power is holy. Knowledge is all. Evil is illusion where the fittest survive and the soul is the oldest bedtime story. The comics were more interesting. Gingerly, she tinkered over them. Comics are usually precious to their owners, especially if they were old or rare, and she didn’t possess the knowhow to tell the difference between them. Most of them were fantastical and violent. Some were foreign and hardcore pornographic. She fingered through one of them, throwing it down quickly as if she’d been stung. Too many bad, childhood memories (one too many). Under the pile lay a leather-bound book of pages. Should she? This felt obtrusive but, for argument’s sake, it wasn’t locked away, but left out in the open where anyone could read it. The book eased out from under the stack and opened to reveal hand-drawn stories and pictures. These were his. They put the foreign comics to shame. Somewhere, a warning fizzled in the back of her brain; however, she made herself look. This is who he really is. What I should be asking myself is why, still, none of this matters? Why do I want him so much? Why does even the memory of his eyes on me, his voice, make me forget everything I am?

  On the metal stand by the sofa sat a bunch of guitars, drumsticks, cases. His guitar was there, his favorite one, the only brand of guitar that he would play. She ran her fingers over the stickers that decorated his case. Demons and pentagrams. Biting, four-letter remarks. Talismans to ward away people like her, or the people he thought that she was one of. She sat down at the barstool table and pulled his chain from her pocket. The silver cross was oxidized and heavy. The chain had made a clean break. She studied its beauty. Such an awful lot of trouble, she thought, to show one’s hate. How exhausting to wear it so openly every day, hanging on you. Heavy. She used to know how that felt.

  The dim hum of the music had quelled, and now only the roar of the crowd, chanting his name, signaled that the show was over. She braced herself for the opening of that door, wondering if the decision which was to be made was one she had the self-will to follow through with. The door banged back on its hinges, but instead of him, a dark-haired woman entered. She was dark-skinned and had teased her hair to epic heights, and wore jeans cutoff at her ass which showcased her legs, long and lean as circus stilts. Her breasts gleamed through the taut, ripped fabric of her t-shirt. Wow, she’s everything I’m not, she thought.

  So you’re the one he all but fucked onstage, his woman said, tossing some bottles about, fixing herself a drink. She turned and leaned back against the bar, making her stance like a player about to be hustled.

  Something like that, she answered. Her voice was small, like a child’s, but clear and intelligent.

  His woman swirled her shot glass in small, agitated swishes, glaring on her with puerile disdain.

  Well, enjoy whatever he gives you. ‘Cause when that bus rolls out, I’m the one he comes to. I know how he likes it. Got it? I make him scream for it. You hear what I say, punta?

  Dually noted.

  With that, the dark woman threw back her shot and slammed the glass to the bar, nearly shattering it. Some of the band had begun to matriculate in, fixing themselves drinks, flinging their sweat-drenched towels to the roadies.

  Dude, I told you we end that on the fourt
h count.

  Fuck it, I thought it was the third.

  Eh, s’not like anyone noticed, what with the fuckin’ porn show happening center stage.

  Man, there’s no toppin’ that.

  Damn, whatever she was givin’ must have been hot shit. Did y’see the way he was shakin?

  Fucked up, man. Looked like they were fuckin’ hypnotized by each other.

  None of them seemed to notice her sitting across the room, which was fine with her. She would have been perfectly content to crawl beneath the chairs and curl into the fetal position. She followed their chat out towards the other VIP rooms. From the hall she heard,

  Hey man, bus rolls out in like, half hour.

  Yeah, cool.

  Great show man.

  Yeah, brother.

  He entered, wiping the sweat from his face with the white towel that hung around his neck. The dark woman stood defiant, glaring at him.

  Whatto ‘you want?

  She draped herself on him, whispering fiercely in his ear. He grimaced and turned on her.

  No. Wait, why you fuckin’ w’her? No, no, no, you got no business bein’ in here. Get the fuck out.

  Her futile whimpering got more insistent. He pulled her arms off him and pushed her away, gently.

  That’s just fine. Have it your way, came his reply with a condescending jilt in his tone. Why don’t you go find Jimmy and the guys.

  He smiled and slapped her ass and sent her on her way, leading her by the arm towards the door. She stumbled out on her stilettos. He smirked and shook his head and shut the door. When he turned to her, his face changed. Tentatively, almost timid or sad, he tossed the towel aside and took up the chair across from her, like he was approaching something he didn’t want to scare away. She noticed something small gleaming at his chest…her necklace. She wanted to trace her finger over it, caught between the fur and muscular fold of his flesh. But touching him again wouldn’t leave room for much else, least of all words. Her eyes sought his, that same gravity between them, like the moon’s pull against the tide, capturing her again, turning her under. Softly, she laid her hand on the table, unclasped his pendant from her fist, and pushed it towards him, removing her fingers before he could touch them, looking at him, always in his eyes. He glanced at it, smiled, and pushed it under his hand.

  I was gonna letcha’ keep it, ya know. Guess you want yours back…

  She shook her head. You keep it.

  Cool. I didn’t really want you to keep mine.

  It’s sentimental.

  Yeah. Somethin’ like that. Hey, sorry about all that. She likes to…

  Don’t worry about it. I don’t care about her. I don’t even want to know about her, she thought.

  He laughed and brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes.

  Okay.

  He liked to stare at the table when he talked. Sway from side to side. He fumbled with the cross, turning it over in his hands. He had taken the gloves off, and she saw he wore black cuffs on his wrists. He cocked his head to one side, frowning into his hands.

  I can feel that, ya know.

  What?

  You. You doin’ that. Whyd’a keep lookin’ at me like that?

  Hhmm…she replied, her breath catching in her throat.

  I mean ya look at me like you know too much about me or somethin’.

  Um, well…no. It’s more the opposite, I guess.

  Opposite, huh?

  It’s like…I see something in you, that’s…it’s like a part of me too, and, I’m trying to figure out what that part is exactly, or why it…calls to me.

  Humph, that’s pretty intense.

  What?

  I “call” to you?

  Well, part of you does.

  So which part?

  She felt her legs go numb, shaking.

  Lots of things. Your music, your voice. Something behind your eyes I can’t quite read. Everything.

  His smile made her ache. She wished he couldn’t see her face. That she could hide behind a confessional drape of curtain and muddle the naked gravity of her words and the fractious, empty space that hung between them.

  Yeah, you should talk, he said. I mean, out there in the lights, you were like a fuckin’ spirit come to get me.

  Yeah?

  Yeah, ya scared me a little.

  He chuckled to himself.

  The exquisiteness of his boyish glances broke her heart. She felt that she could almost gaze at his face and see the innocent child that once lived there. What happened to that little boy, she thought?

  You don’t scare me, she spoke into that space.

  A mask of quiet poured over him, and it was like he was seeing into her. Reaching across the table, he laced his fingers through hers and squeezed.

  If you knew me…you would be.

  Would I?

  Yeah.

  What if I told you, that I know what you are, and I’m not afraid?

  Hm, okay I’ll bite. What am I?

  You’re…you are everything you appear to be. At least, what you propagate to your fans but try to downplay at the same time. Only it’s not an act. It’s who you are. What you’ve chosen to become.

  His face betrayed nothing.

  Only I can’t be sure because, well, of the way you were with me tonight, the way you are now. It doesn’t add up, she continued. So I look at you and… I don’t know who I see; who you really are, or what I imagine to be there. And, she added, feeling bold and foolish, not really in control of these words that poured from her mouth and mortified by this unabashed honesty that seemed to have overtaken her, I could just be talking nonsense. I mean, I’m sure you get this a lot. Crazy admirers claiming to have some soulful connection with you…

  And what would that be? he asked, glancing up as if returning from a deep thought.

  What?

  What you imagine me to be? What would that be?

  She thought about it, about the myriad of his faces- the little boy, the man before her, the beast, the nocturnal, demon lover- and how, if she could turn him over in her mind, his face would alter and contort in the multi-faceted light, and all of these pieces of him would begin to meld into something coherent.

  I think you are someone wonderful. A beautiful soul. An old soul like mine.

  Huh.

  The expression on his face said that he thought that was funny; that was really something.

  She didn’t want to take her eyes off of the table, off of his hand still around hers.

  Well I think you’re seein whatchu’ wanna see, he said, finally.

  Which is?

  Just me on a good day, that’s all.

  But it’s still you.

  Yeah. Huh. I guess it is.

  So…when it’s not a good day, what’s it like? she asked.

  Huh?

  I mean, what you’re into- it opens doors, gateways I mean, and the self sometimes gets lost, or replaced. And sometimes it’s welcome and sometimes it’s not. Sometimes, it’s beyond control, when it’s too late. So, is it…how much of it is you?

  Man, you do think you know your shit, don’t ya, he said, corners of his mouth upturned. You think I’m fuckin’ possessed? Is that it?

  The earnestness in her eyes stopped his jests.

  Okay, look: Yeah, I’m interested in the shit and yes, I believe a lot of it. I don’t fuck with it, though. And what I choose to use, I control it. It’ doesn’t control me.

  Oh. Well, I suppose that makes sense.

  What makes sense?

  Well, of why you can stand to touch me, or be around me. Why the very sight of me doesn’t revolt or enrage you.

  Why would it?

  Fear rose in her heart and corroded her throat like bile.

  Because of what I am, she answered.

  Uh-huh. And what are you?

  She focused on the chain around his neck, then back at him, a deep sadness in her eyes.

  Oh... Really? Well, he laughed, I didn’t see that
coming. Guess it makes sense though. The only true believers are always the friend or the enemy, right? I just didn’t peg you for the fuckin’ enemy.I should have known though. Damn, he said, rubbing his hand over his mouth, that’s what it is. I knew there was somethin’ about you.

  He shook his head, bemused. And they talk about fuckin’ wolves in sheep’s clothing!

  I guess I should go now, she said, tear sentinels guarding her eyes.

  No. He put his hand over her arm to stop her. No. Stay.

  Why? I’m, like, the epitome of everything you hate, and now you know it. Why do you want me to stay?

  I donno, he said, rubbing her fingers now like a worry stone. ‘Cause there’s just something about you.

  He paused, and thought for a long moment.

  You’ve got this…presence, he continued. I donno. It’s like…like walkin’ through the woods in the middle of the night, ya know, when it’s pitch black and the wind and night owls are all you hear. It feels, safe. Peaceful.

  He turned over her hand and stroked her palm.

  What’cha said earlier, about what I’m like tonight- I don’t think it’s commin’ from me. I think it’s because of you. Heh, he laughed, rubbing his eyes, you must be a witch. Only some kind of alchemist’s spell’d have me waxin’ poetic like a fuckin’ idiot.

  And what if I told you, she ventured, that it’s not me. The peacefulness. That it doesn’t come from me, but from what…who I’ve chosen.

  I’d say that’s pretty contradictory.

  Why?

  Well, seein’ as how you put the damage on me out there.

  She couldn’t help but laugh, sensing the nature of his remark lacked hostility, or real criticism. He liked seeing the blush on her cheeks.

  You don’t fit the bill, he continued. At least not in all of its traditional respects.

  Being who I am is choosing to discipline that part of myself, not kill it, she said softly, brushing her fingertips over the soft underside of his hand.

  Ah, but you admit it’s part of you?

  It’s a part of me, she murmured. But you knew that…didn’t you? It’s like your song, the one about how only certain people can understand what makes us tick, what turns us on. We want the same things. How can that be, she asked?

  I don’t know, he said softly. But I can feel it in you, just brimming… he said as reached out and traced his hand along her collarbone, making her exhale in short, cutting breaths, right there, right under your skin.

  I know you can feel it, she whispered, laying her palm flat across his chest and pressing, ever so lightly. I can feel it in you too.

  So why’d you let it out tonight?

  She took a deep breath. Her hands were trembling again. She pulled them from his grasp and looked away.

  The truth? she asked.

  Well, yeah.

  Because…her words poured forth unchecked, and like the unfolding of a prophecy, they spilled from her lips, unbridled and raw and truthful. Because it’s what you do to me. I listen to your voice, your songs, and it’s like you call to me. I watch your stupid videos and, and even though I hate some of the things you do I look at you and, you make me forget everything I’m supposed to care about. I rationalize the things I don’t like about you and I, I dream about you. Not daydreaming but really, in my dreams, you’re there. You’re in my head and I can’t…get you out. And the worst part is I don’t want you out because…you make me feel alive. You make me feel alive and dead inside at the same time. And so I’m left thinking of nothing, wanting nothing but… I came here with this blind hope that maybe, just maybe I would meet you, and I would figure out what part of you is calling to the part of me that’s feeding off you. Or if it’s even really you at all, you know? Or just my screwed-up imagination. I wanted to know what it would feel like for you to touch me, if it would be as good as the unreal you in my head. But I never imagined it would be like this…this, she whispered, wrapping her arms around her middle. It scares me because I feel powerless against it, and yet, I know now… I don’t want it to stop.

  Her words ended in a bare whisper. Uselessly, she fought to hold back the tears that streamed down her face at this exquisite release. She felt so tired. This endless wanting that was only magnified because now she was here, and now it was real. The knowing that she would let him do anything and everything to her, and she would drown in him.

  He stood up and pulled her away from the table and into him. She breathed in the warmth of his chest, her tears hot against his skin. Her fingers pulled at his back, his shoulders. She pressed up against him and the soft sobs that escaped her echoed in the hollow of his neck. She felt like an idiot, crying this way, but at the same time she didn’t care. She had been starved for him. Few people ever get to touch something so reckless, so much fiercer than love. He scooped her up and lay gently with her on the sofa, cradling her there. His fingers swept away the stains on her face. He brushed his mouth over her eyes, her cheeks.

  Please, she breathed, not knowing whether she meant please stop or please don’t ever stop.

  I won’t hurt you, he murmured. I won’t hurt you.

  He brought his mouth to hers and she responded with an intensity that burned into her soul, utterly and hopelessly lost in him. Her mouth and hands worked him like a small, wild animal. She moaned, sharply, gasping for breath, as if someone had kicked her in the stomach. He felt ready to jump out of his skin. He balled his fist in her hair, grabbed the wrist that brushed along his chin and pinned her down against the cushions. She was shaking all over, and he loved it. How easy it would be to just crush her under him, how sweet to break her open. He wanted to bruise her, to taste her blood. Everything about her begged to be ruined. He craved to feel her core shudder for him. This crazed little angel, soiling her wings…

  Suddenly, holding her head in his hands, he broke away. The will to do it came from somewhere deep inside, a place he didn’t even know existed; had never been present before. She fluttered against him like a dying bird, ravaged and painfully beautiful. But not tainted. The beast in him raged. He blinked, trying to shake it off like a bad blow. They sat, panting, their foreheads bent together. When she was able to breathe again she met his eyes, her hands clinging to him like a drowning victim; a small, sad child.

  Why’d you stop, she asked.

  I’m not doin’ this to you.

  Why?

  I said I wouldn’t hurt you.

  A tear slid down her face.

  I’m not for you, am I?

  No.

  He kissed her tears, her forehead, gently.

  But you already knew that, he said.

  She shook her head. I’m sorry.

  Don’t be.

  He kissed her again, briefly this time, and the anguish of it was intoxicating. He held her against him and felt her rich and warm against his skin. Despite the pain that was searing in his sex, his spirit felt quiet, serene, lulling away all the shit. Her tiny hands curled around the fabric of his shirt and lay against his chest. The curve of her nose glided up into the crook of his shoulder, and she could feel his veins pulsing against her cheek. For long minutes, it was only scent and heat and the soft, undulating caress of the other. Finally he said,

  Maybe It’s enough, ya know? Just to know.

  Know what?

  That there’s someone out there. Like you. I’ll think about that, ya know.

  She tried to smile. Ran her hands along his face. Wanting so desperately to be with him, for that to be all that mattered.

  Is it enough?

  His eyes were surprised.

  Isn’t it?

  She looked up at him, searching.

  If it’s not…find me?

  He ran his fingers along her jawline. Okay.

  His mouth slid over her upper lip again, pausing there just long enough to feel the blood rage once more from his head.He brushed the hair off of her forehead.

  I gotta go, he said.

  They stood up
together. She wiped her face while he scrounged up a sweatshirt and threw it over his head. She watched, painfully remembering the feel of that cotton against her skin, wanting what she could never have.

  They stared at each other. He rested his hand to his neck and, with the other, reached out for her and dropped his pendant into her palm.

  You won’t mind if I turn it right side up, will you? she asked.

  He smirked at that.

  You know, she continued, partly I came here because I wanted to save you. Isn’t that pathetic?

  She looked, half afraid, into his eyes, but there was no mockery there.

  I guess I didn’t do a very good job of that, did I?

  He pulled her into his arms.

  You’ve given me somethin’ to think about.

  She smiled. They held each other for a long time, and then, before the tears could come again, she turned to go, feeling it fall away, this absurd, desperate love that would never be. Born out of illusion, out of a faraway place. Burning psalms of hunger and kindred spirits, too immediate and ecstatic to be real. A dream. Just a dream. It would always be there for her, hiding beneath her core.

  So…he said.

  Yeah?

  Am I fallen?

  He grinned, but she saw behind it. The bitter-sweetness that only the broken know.

  Not as much as you think.

  -Howl-

  I.

  This single, monotone click of her heels against the pavement was the loneliest, most desolate sound, like the minutes of a clock passing into endless obscurity, or a dream you can never wake from. That was what this was, just an empty dream, and when you wake, the bones of your soul are left aching from an embrace so tantalizing that only the intoxification of drugs could ever match its power; only the electricity in a stranger’s fingertips mingled with the potency of ecstasy could cheaply mimic the hypnotic pull of a dream.

  The crisp of the night was mingled with fading smells of pot, tobacco, and car exhaust. In the distance, on the other side of the lot, she could hear the plaintive cries of a flock of girls who had gathered to watch the tour bus pull away, and to offer themselves as late, drunken, consolation prizes to their departing demigods.

  She could still feel the soft, calloused tread of his hands against her skin. Her clothes smelled of him. Every step fought to pull her down, to curl up and put her head against the hollow ground, but the arresting cold of the wind and of the elation that lingered in her compelled her forward; into the night, into her own thoughts, where she could live and relive every moment of him; this truth, this dream-made-real that had been more delicious than any fantasy.

  Her mind was dazedly disjointed, and her soul seemed to float somewhere high above her body. Her thoughts were languid and dreamy. In her mind’s eye, the vacated lot coalesced into the woods behind her home, where the fluorescent streetlight was really the moon, and the city haze was the mist of a green pool rising into the night. She imagined she saw a snow-white owl dip its wings through the sky in pursuit of its prey, and wondered at its beauty. She sighed. A lousy night’s sleep in a rented hotel room and eight, lonely hours of highway road and she would be home. Home to her feather bed, her books, and her wooden writing desk, where she would spend hours of countless tomorrows recreating the world a more vibrant, stirring place than its reality (or, at least, its reality until today).

  Faintly, a strange pounding reverberated in the distance behind her. She turned, but saw no one, save the remnants of the admiring hoard of onlookers. Their cheers were louder now-he must be leaving. She glanced at the bus, but couldn’t bear to see it pull away. She walked steadily but swiftly to her car, now in eyesight. The pounding had stopped when she halted, but now she heard it again.

  Hastily, she trotted to her car door, and was turning the key firmly in the lock when she heard a faint cry that could have almost been human. Like the call of a bird, a sort of “Aaaaa” sound. “Waaaa. Waaaaiit.”

  It was then that she saw something coming towards her, a figure in the blackness. But she could not make it out. A swatch of pale white refracted off the receding light of the lot. For a moment, it seemed as though the snow-tipped wings of the forest bird had penetrated the threshold of her daydream and manifested itself here, as an apparition coming towards her. Then, the light caught against the fringes of its silhouette. Not a bird. Him.

  “Wait!”

  “Wait!”

  His hair whipped behind him like wafts of smoke in the air. The pounding of his heavy boots against the ground echoed back the rhythm of her heart. Her incredulous gasp had barely escaped her mouth before his arms circled her neck, and she was once more lost in the crush against his hard and fragrant flesh. He held her frantically, with the relief of someone who thought you’d been lost.

  Brushing her hair from her eyes and lacing his hands into it, he stroked her cheeks with his thumbs and said, “Fuck it! Come with me. “

  “What?!” she breathed.

  “Naw, I mean it. Come with me.”

  She struggled to form a thought, any coherent thought. For what he asked, there were no words for her unbelief, her hesitation, or her elation.

  “I…I”

  “Look, I know this is dumb as shit, alright? But in the past ten minutes, I’ve been climbin’ the damned walls. All I know is I want to be near you. I want to know you. Don’t you feel it?”

  “Yeah,” she whispered.

  “So come with me. You can leave tomorrow, or the next day…or never. Whenever you want.” He smiled, and rested his forehead against hers.

  “But, what about...everything we talked about…I can’t…”

  “Hey, I promised you I wouldn’t hurt you. I meant it then, I mean it now. I’m not askin’ for that. Just, please. This can’t end yet. I don’t want it to,” he murmured in her ear.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Yes,” she said, feeling that rare, fleeting assurance that this, this was the beginning of something. His mouth covering hers tasted sumptuous, like caramels and honey, and the warm hum of light pulsed through the pores of their souls.

  “Come on,” he said, between his kisses. Taking her hand in his, he pulled her towards the bus.

  “Oh…wait,” she said, retracting her arm. She ran to the trunk of her car and grabbed her suitcase from within. Luckily, she never left her belongings sitting in a strange hotel room. She threw her handbag over her shoulders as he took the suitcase from her and, with hands clasped, they ran like mischievous schoolchildren towards the bus.

  “Um, I’m not exactly sure what to do about the car,’ she said as they approached the bus doors.

  “Is it a rental?”

  “No.”

  He thought for a moment. “Jim,” he yelled.

  A lanky guy with bed head, a sideways cap, and a cigarette dangling from his jaws emerged.

  “You got your keys?” he asked her.

  She handed them to him.

  “Jim,” he said, tossing the keys into the air. “The Volkswagen parked back there. Follow us.”

  “Got it,” Jim said.

  “He’s a good driver,” he told her.

  She smiled. “You do this often, or are you just a quick thinker?”

  “Whad’a you think?” he teased, his hands caressing the ridges of her ribs and grazing her hips. “Come on.”

  The interior of the bus was rowdy, just as she’d expected. The smoky haze of cigarettes and whiskey fumes hung in the air, and the light that emanated from overhead seemed thick and permeable. The din receded into a mortifying hush as they entered. Faces were either smirked or stone cold, like that of the infamous “other woman”, who was currently sprawled in the bass player’s lap, joint in hand.

  His arm braced around her waist. He stood defiantly.

  “You assholes got a problem?” he asked.

  The air fizzled with violent silence.

  Finally, a tall man with shoulder-length hair stood and offered her h
is hand and a warm smile.

  “Hi. I’m James.”

  “Tabitha,” she answered.

  “Tabitha. Nice to meet you, sweet thing. Welcome a’board.”

  James gracious cordiality broke the tension, and the talk and kidding around resumed.

  He led her to a space in the back of the bus that had been partitioned off with a paisley drape. He dropped her suitcase by the bunk.

  “Make yourself comfortable, alright?” he said.

  She took off her shoes and got a bottle of water from the mini fridge in the corner. Gingerly, she sat on the bed, feeling the heady exhaustion of the day envelop her.

  “Hey, could you hand me one of those?” he asked.

  “Yeah, of course,” she answered.

  He drank half of the bottle in one draught, ran his hands through his hair and roughly over his eyes. In one graceful gesture, he slipped his shirt from his head and, for a moment, he was beautiful and strange to her, the once ethereal specter that paced across the stage.

  He must have noticed the subtle rigidity in her limbs and her countenance. He reached down and cupped her chin with his fingers.

  “Trust me,” he whispered.

  Her composure softened.

  She spent the night in his arms, talking of everything and nothing, until their talk became murmurs laced with the lazy utterances of sleep.

  “Sleep,” he told her after feeling her body jerk itself awake several times.

  He stroked her hair and hummed, a low vibration deep in his throat. It filled her head, which lay heavily on his chest, her fisted hand pressed to his heart like a child’s.

  For him, that night was silence, calm, and her. He ran his fingers over the lace fringes on the hem of her dress, her bare legs draped over his, her foot grazing his calf. He felt cleansed, as if holding something so pure and fragile leeched out all of the ugliness, like dipping his flesh into glacier water, cold and sweet. Like something other. Like being reborn. Something like redemption…

  II.

  He found her sitting in the usual place, on the black leather sofa with one of his books in her hands. That was where she usually waited for him and James to return from the studio. Thursday nights had become their impromptu movie nights; each would pick a film that at least one of the others hadn’t seen before. This evening, she will have fixed them a large meal (as she did every Thursday), stunning them with her ability to create these orgasmic dishes, despite her young years. They were late, long past dusk, and the remnants of the pacific sun shivered against the blackening hills. His presence shifted the atoms in the atmosphere, caught in the current that coursed between them always, and the familiar sounds of car doors creaking and locks being turned. She didn’t glance up at the clumsy sounds of their approach breaking the calm revelry of the night air. She was too absorbed in her book to notice that tonight he, aside from James, was not alone.

  “Hey darlin’,” James called, “sorry we’re late. Did you already eat?”

  “Hey you there,” she replied, not looking up, intent on finishing this page. “Yes, I ate. I put everything in the warmer for you guys.”

  “What’s on the menu tonight?”

  “Fajitas. Handmade Tortillas. Mexican Coleslaw. Red Pepper Soup.”

  “Aw, baby, you’re amazing.”

  “I know. Brought your movie?”

  “You bet,” he said as he bumped and fished around the kitchen like a scavenger coon. The rattle of plates and scrape of glass against the granite countertop was such a heartening sound, the house filling with warm souls and deafening the silence.

  “So where is he?” she asked, searching for a bookmark.

  “He’s commin’,” James answered, his voice tinged with anger.

  Long day recording? she wondered.

  “Hey.”

  He startled her, coming up behind her and his lips barely grazing her ear. The book’s pages fluttered soft as her fingers jumped from her lap. He had managed to saunter into the room unnoticed beneath all of James’ ruckus and now stood in the arched wooden frame. Only there was a woman with him. She was dressed as though bound for a club (or a cage); his actual type. Her eyes, nearly indistinguishable beneath the layers of black and glittery gunk, were blitzed, like she had done just enough substance to blur the fine lines. Pot maybe, or some X. She ran her hands up his arm and shoulder and then back down again, over and over like it was a door she couldn’t get open. Her blood-red mouth quivered from the cold or from the drugs.

  “Hello,” Tabitha responded, closing her book softly. She looked around the room, puzzled, as if trying to figure out what was out of place. Finally her gaze fell back on him. “Hope you don’t mind,“ she said, shaking the book slightly in front of her.

  “Y’ know I don’t. I wish you’d quit actin’ like you have to ask to read them,” he said, shifting his weight so that he could better balance his “date” who had begun to wobble on uncertain legs. “Which one is it?”

  “Shapeshifters and Astral Doublers in the Middle Ages.”

  “Good choice. Tabs, this is Ginger. Ginger, Tabs.”

  “Tabs,” the woman repeated in a breathy, inquisitive half laugh.

  “Tabitha. Hi,” she said, offering the woman a warm smile only foiled by the obliqueness of her eyes, too eclipsed with sentiments to pinpoint just one. It was what she counted on in moments like this.

  “This smells fuckin’ terrific,” James called from the kitchen.

  “Eat a lot of it. There’s plenty,” Tabitha replied. Turning to the woman, Ginger, she asked, “Are you hungry?”

  “No, she’s not,” he answered for her.

  Man, it burned him. What the fuck is the matter w’ her? How could she be so fucking calm? Maybe I should throw this bitch over the coffee table and pump her senseless, right here in front of her. Maybe that would wipe that stoic look off her face.

  It got under his skin like nothing else, that unreadable face of hers, fucking martyr’s expression. React, he wanted to scream. Fucking react

  “We were just goin’. You don’t mind, right? I mean (he smirked), movie night and all?”

  Tabs put on her half-smile, focusing on the floor and not on him, not meeting his eyes.

  “No. Of course not. No big deal. James and I are good, right James?”

  James glanced up from the plate of food he was busy devouring. The warm spice scent broke the chill in the air. Glancing up at him with vaguely masked disdain, James said, “This is fucking amazing, man. You should have some.”

  “Yeah, later, “he said, leading Ginger back the long hallway towards his bedroom.

  “So, what’s first?” James asked as they were leaving.

  “Oh, it’s a great movie. Better off Dead. It’s so stupid, it’s funny. You’ll laugh your tail off I promise. Stitches. What did you bring?”

  “Rosemary’s Baby, baby.”

  “Oh, it’s going to be one of those nights is it,” she hedged, playfully?

  “You better believe it. You can just curl up to me for comfort if you get scared,” he teased, tickling her under the ribs with his fingers.

  Tabitha laughed and pushed him away. She soaked in this pleasant distraction like a frightened child hiding her eyes from nightmares.

  Their cheery banter reached down the hallway and into his ears in restless agitation.

  “Hey,” she called to him, just before the lovely couple had reached the room. He watched as she opened the crimson jar that ornamented the end table, reached in and then tossed him a rubber banded pack of condoms. They flew at his head with bullet-like precision.

  “Play safe,” she called.

  His face was pounded in stone. He stuffed the condoms in his back pocket and jerked open the door to his room, and gave Ginger a rather rough push behind it. She hung off his gorgeous frame, a corpse-like prey with her drug-laden tongue in his ear. Tabs could hear her panting like a dog before the decidedly final click of the lock ground into her chest.

&nb
sp; “Darlin’, have I told you that I’d be eating shit if it weren’t for you,” James remarked.

  “You should really let me teach you, you know? To cook,” she said, rummaging through the video stacks for the right one. “Give a man a fish…yata, yata?”

  “Yeah, yeah; who has the time?”

  “Me” she answered, smiling indulgently at him. “Guess I’ll just have to keep mothering you.”

  The muffled sounds of the bedroom reached the living room, bump and crash.

  “So,” she said, taking a forceful breath, “you ready for this?”

  “Yeah,” he replied, all the banter wafted from his spirit like a fallen kite. As Tabitha made to put the video into the VCR, James put down his fork and caught her arm.

  “Hey, come ‘ere. Come on.”

  He pulled her into him. She closed her eyes against it, willing the swell languishing in her lungs to be quiet. Lying that there was nothing to feel here; nothing to lose and never was.

  “I don’t know why he keeps doin’ this to you. It’s not fuckin’ right.”

  “It has nothing to do with me,” she said, pushing herself away.

  “Bullshit.”

  “James, “she said, pleading, “let’s just watch the movie, okay? Laugh. Forget about it. I want to forget it. At least try.”

  “Yeah. Hey,” he said, cupping her chin and forcing her to look at him, “you know I love you, right? I mean, ya know that. You’re our den mother. All the guys…we really love you. You’re family. I’ve always got your back. I’m always here.”

  “I know… Oh you,” she replied, kissing his forehead. “I love you too. Hhmm… we’re family.” She hugged him tight. “Alright, enough of this. You finish your dinner. Let’s watch the freaking movie.”

  James smiled, and let his hand linger just a moment too long against the soft curve of her back. Wishing more than anything that he could taste her mouth and slowly, tenderly push, push, push the aching for him right out of Tab’s head. Thinking how fucked up it was: having reciprocal love fall so short and so flat.