My eyes flick to his lips, then back up when a swirl of anxiety hits the roof of my mouth.
His eyes spark, and his smile spreads. “I won’t argue ifthat’sthe method you choose to make me talk, little dove.”
“Don’t be disgusting,” I whisper.
“I would never. Tell me, is your mind quiet for once?” He leans in, hovers a centimeter from my forehead. “Or is it just screaming different terrors?”
I dare to give him the truth. “The latter.”
He kisses my skin.
I buzz. I tremble. I…fear.
He murmurs, “Would you like your mind to always scream thesenew thingsinstead of the old ones?”
I’d like my mind to be quiet for once in its life. I’d like a spare moment of nothing that feels like the unlimited, unburdened possibility of everything. I don’t even knowwhyI’m like this. I don’t know why I’m so certain existence is out to get me. I don’t know why everything is so hard. Why I have so many rules just so I can almost function.
I’mtired.
I don’t want new terrors.
I whisper, “I wantpeace.”
“Peace is never an option,” he says, tone cryptic and heavy and forlorn. “Not with brains like ours.”
Ours.
“But you deserve better than what yours is giving you now. My love…” He fills my vision, expression tender. “Would you please allow me to help you?” His flesh warms. “Even though it’ll be like torture, won’t you put your wings in my hands? Let me clip them, and trust that once I have, you’ll be able to finally fly.”
A tear trickles down my cheek. “You want to torture me?”
“Desperately.”
My breath thins. “Malcolm…”
“Yes?”
“I don’t understand what’s going on. Everything is very…wrong. Inside. I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know…” Why I’m so relieved he’s alive. In a way that has nothing to do with self preservation. When he dropped, my organs plummeted. He’s the most horrible man I have ever met, but I’m glad he’sokay. And that makes no sense at all.
He softens. “What’s going on is…you’re falling in love with me.”
Surely not. Surely never.Surely.
My face embodies the peak of revulsion, and he laughs. “You can fight it all you want, it doesn’t make it any less true. And I think I should ask again:whyare you fighting it?”
“Because,” I say, “you suck.”
“Sure, sure,” he comments, flippantly. “I suck. I’m the worst. You hate me and want me dead. Because I’m a monster and I’m horrible to you. Or something like that.”
Or something like that?It’s like I’m the only one who’s lived through the past two years of him pressing and prodding and tormenting and commanding and just generally making my work life a headache.
“Use your words,” he murmurs.
“Up, down, sit, stand, stop, turn. You treat me like a dog. You mess with my things even when you clearly know they’re important to me. Youarehorrible. And maybe it’s all small stuff, and maybe most of it wouldn’t bother anyone else, but it’s stillhorrible. It’s horrible because youknowit bothers me.”
Fondly, he cajoles, “I admit I go too far, but can you really blame me? You listen so well. It’s addictive to press your buttons and see what emotions slip through the cracks of your mask.”
I wrinkle my nose.
