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His eyes swim with something I've not seen before... sympathy?
My chest does this odd squeezy thing.
It's definitely sympathy.
“Don't feel sorry for me, Charlie.” I turn away from him and busy myself with washing up, barely registering how hot the water is. “I'm not worth it.”
“That's subjective to think you're not worth feeling sorry for,” he says. “Regardless of what you've done, you're just a kid, really.”
A kid?
“Don't you know who I am, Charlie?” I leisurely peer over my shoulder and scowl at him. “Don't you know how many people I've killed? How many lives I've ripped apart?”
“Yeah, I'm quite aware.” He doesn't react with disgust, as I thought he would, but that just annoys me. He should find me repulsive and evil. He shouldn't want me as he does. The only reason I've never questioned Maksim's fascination with me is because we're as deeply as sick as each other.
“You know,” I snatch the towel off the sink so I can dry my hands, “just because I'm... well, innocent or whatever, it doesn't mean I'm some sweet, blameless girl.” I give him this hard, wolfish look. “I don't deserve your pity. The only thing I deserve is a guaranteed ticket to hell, and you'd do well to remember that.”
“I didn't realize you regard yourself with such high esteem.”
“What's that supposed to mean?” I ask, flinging the towel on the countertop.
“Well, ever since I met you you've been emotionally constipated, and now you're...” he shrugs, his arms still folded over his chest. “I never knew you felt guilt for the things you've done.”
I snort, affronted. “I don't.”
“I think you do, you just execute a great job of blocking your emotions out,” his eyes taper as he says that, like he knows how I feel deep down at times. “You should ease up on yourself, Blaire. Half the people you've killed probably deserved it.”
“And the other half?” I remind him that some were innocent; remind myself what real guilt feels like. I once killed a man who worked at the club for stealing a hundred pounds off Maksim, even after he told me it was to put the gas on and get some food for his kids. It was a cold English winter at the time. He had a nasty cough, was constantly spluttering up phlegm because he was ill. While I felt pity for him, it didn't stop me from slitting his throat to make a point of him. And then came the guilt. For days I couldn't sleep. I kept seeing his face in my closed eyes, the photo he showed me of his kids who were barely five years old. He said they all had the flu and because they were illegal immigrants, he couldn't take them to a doctor.
Now, they have no father and that's because of me.
“Collateral damage,” Charlie says frankly, and there isn't an ounce of pity in his eyes now. “It happens in the best of wars.”
Silence wraps around us as we stare at each other in a moment of reflection.
I have no idea why I'm even talking to him like this. For weeks we've been teasing each other, falling under a spell of desire, and now...
Why did he have to ruin things? Why does he want to know what darkness I've suffered? Is that how he's getting his kicks now?
“Let us get a few things straight,” I snap, pointing at the ground between us, guilt trickling through my frosty heart, “I don't feel culpable for anything I've done,” I try to convince myself, “I don't care about who I've killed or who I've tortured, and I don't give a shit about your stupid, curious questions, either.” I want to keep going at him, but I can't stand the way he's looking at me—outright unbothered by my ominous confession.
I try to leave the kitchen but Charlie sidesteps me, blocking my exit with his tall, muscular body.
“Blaire, calm down,” he says, “I told you if you didn'twant totalk about it all you had to do was say.”
My teeth grind, and I fist my hands. “Is this what you're trying to do? Splay open my emotions?”
He doesn't answer me, just stands there in a deadpan fashion.
“Good luck with that,” I say, huffing at him, “it'll take more than sly humdrum conversation to achieve that.”
Barging him with my shoulder, I head out of the kitchen and go up to my room. I don't come down for dinner, not even when Charlie knocks on my door and asks if I'm hungry. I curl up in the middle of my bed and shut off mentally, trying to forget this afternoon ever happened; try to forget that man's face.
I'm quite stupid really, to think I could live in a world with Charlie where only peace and desire exists side by side until I go home. Of course he's going to want to know who I am inside—that's his objective, isn't it?
20
The next morning, my erratic period comes.
