The Unknown Citizen
By Isabelle
Disclaimers: I do not own any of the characters they are all owned by Joss and ME. The title The Unknown Citizen belongs to W.H. Auden and so does the poem within the fiction and it is used without permission.
Summary: Season 6 Spike POV. Starts out brooding will grow to a story. Very much angst.
Rating: R (language)
Authors Note: Please send feedback--I thrive on it :o) [email protected]
Special Thanks: Much thanks to Tracy and Hilary for betaing this piece!!
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"Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd: Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard."
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I've been wandering these streets for days. I'm dirty and I'm sure I smell like a sewer rat--infested with the stains of hypocrisy and disappointment. I know I'm a disappointment. Everywhere I look I have disappointed someone. It's like the never-ending story, only this time it really has no end.
I've been kicked and punched, yelled at and put down. Wandering like a vagabond--tripping over one-inch rocks in the streets and falling on my hands and knees, back on the floor--this dirty floor where I belong. I haven't combed my hair in weeks. I feel it, long and curly. The bleach must be fading and my roots are probably showing. I don't care. Don't give a bleedin' damn 'bout my hair. Had enough of what this world thinks of me, of what these humans with beating hearts and lungs that work say I am and what I'm not.
Tired of my own kind pushing me away, telling me I am a turncoat. I laugh at that--a sick demented laugh that chilled even my own, dead bones. A turncoat they say. I suppose I am a turncoat, but a turncoat that has been flipped both ways.
There was a time in my life when everything was simple--I had Dru and Angel was Angelus and we ruled Europe. I sigh. Those were the good old days--days filled with simple fun and no guilt. So we killed a dozen people--who cares? We're vampires--it's what we're supposed to do--it's what we're meant to do--it's our nature...it's my nature.
Yup, those were the good old days, I tell my half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. It stares back at me and almost smiles sympathetically. I like this bottle. All filled with rich, brown liquid that will make me forget. Yup, I definitely like this bottle. It listens to me, unlike some people.
This alley is actually quite comfortable. Not like most dark alleys I've been in. This one has boxes and even an old ratty cushion to lay my head on. I shouldn't really lie down like I am, but I'm going to anyway. I might fall asleep here and wake up when it's too late--when the sun might scorch my skin until all that is left is the reality that is in me. A big pile of ashes.
Withered away to nothing. I used to be powerful. Believe it or not I used to cause terror--I placed fear in the hearts of entire continents. People used to whisper my name in secret as if I might suddenly appear and kill them all. I might have. Back then, maybe.
My skin used to be perfect. Not a smudge on it, only scar I had was on my eyebrow. But I always hear the ladies fancied that. But when it started happening, I got more scars to tell more tales. First it was the one from the Ghora demon after rescuing Dawn. That left a nasty slash on the side. Then that Glory-bitch left several. Under my right eye I have a five-inch long scar that reminds me more of her than I would ever admit…shit, I just admitted it.
Ahh...this is nice. My body relaxes amidst the smell of rotten milk and the scraping noise of alley rats that look like cats.
I close my eyes; a bloke should rest, even from his own constant yammering. Yeah…just rest and forget.
Ghosts come to me in my sleep…they still haunt me—they haunt my dreams. Their looks, unshaped and grief stricken. Yet they are so human it frightens me. I feel them laughing. In my sleep I shiver—their laugh is contagious. I laugh.
This is funny. Ha ha. I take a deep breath. They were right about me when they say I'd lost it. I remember mildly wild blue eyes that denied it. Though my laugh was haunting, she said it wasn’t so.
Ahh… sweet pea…I'm sorry, pet.
No…I shake my head in my tormented sleep, I am not sorry—I am a soulless vampire with more stories to tell than an English nanny and more blood on my hands than the sods who dropped the bomb on Hiroshima.
Why does life haunt you?
The stars don’t answer after I plead with them and offer them my last tequila bottle. Yeah, ok, I know it’s the cheap kind but you don’t have to throw it on my face.
Bloody pillocks.
I stick out my tongue at them and I catch myself.
So this is William the Bloody?
That little taunting voice in the back of my head. That nameless figure that inhabits my body and twists within me.
I try to ignore him, but his hissing, demonic voice penetrates my thoughts. Slick, white, cold fingers grasp that place where my soul should be but instead is filled with memories. He twists it...until it hurts…until I see her…
I gasp and close my eyes quickly. No, no, no…it’s not true.
I shake my head and reach into my coat pocket for my last bottle…cheap tequila that taste like bitter piss combined with food coloring and some pepper. I laugh again.
I know my tequila.
The top opens easily under my palm…blessed be vampire strength. My long hair gets in the way and I taste the oil in it. Vampires have no scalp excretion but it’s the street oil that cars leave behind when they have a burnt gasket. That muddy oil has entered my pores and I stink of it. It’s good that I stink…I feel more human when I do.
But what the hell does it matter? I pull the strands from my face and drink the flimsy liquid.
If my grand-sire could see me now. Look, pops! Like father like son…or, wait...not really 'cuz Dru was my…and there I go, overanalyzing family history. Retreating into myself.
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II.
I fall asleep and the rest of the liquid just pours itself over my tattered coat that smells of car oil.
I fall asleep hearing little pixies play their flutes and I'm in fairyland, dancing with the fishies and running with the hares.
And that’s where he found me. Purring happily in my sleep as I braided flowers into an elf's hair.
He smacked me hard…it stung and literally jumper-cabled me out of my sleep.
My eyes try to make out the pillock who’s gonna pay for that. But when I try to lift my fist it disobeys and stares at me with an statement of ‘I told you so’.
I mutter curses to it under my breath…I had to get my say in.
He takes me by the lapels of my coat and forces me to look at him.
“Put me down, you pillock!”
He does and I slam down hard on the concrete floor.
“Get up,” he says.
I try. With my head buried and plastered on the dirty floor it’s kinda hard to call him an ass.
I laugh; one of those laughs that scare even me. But he stares at me impassively.
He stands over me like a large wall, a fence even, preventing me from getting away.
I glare at him. Who the hell does he think he is? He has no idea…well actually, he probably has.
“You smell like shit,” he says. I smile and agree with him.
“I know,” I reply and finally stand up, placing my hand on the brick wall to give me support.
“So…”
He doesn’t let me finish.
“You’re coming with me.” He grabs my arms and hauls me out of the alley and into the dark night.
My legs give out and he drags me along. I look down and see the sick sight of my flaccid legs. I laugh again.
“Look, peaches—they’re not moving,” I say.
He says nothing and drags me to his car. He leaves me on the curb of the street and I sit up to look at him.
What the hell bit his ass?
“Look at you,” he says. Does the man listen? I just told him I saw my legs! Hard-headed imbecile bastard. “You look like shit, you smell like shit, you’re talking shit, and you’re full of shit.”
I look down.
Here it comes again…the floodgates.
I start sobbing.
He watches me cry. It’s not the first time; other times I haven't been the only one with tears down my face.
I feel as if I’ve been crying for days. Perhaps I have, but the impossibility of being in the sun makes it quite hard.
He waits patiently like the bastard he is until I am reduced to mere sniffles. Small sniffles and whimpered that produce hiccups.
I look up at him once I have cleaned my face with the dirty sleeves of my dirty coat.
“What the hell do you want? I was having a grand ‘ol time with Jose until you came along.”
He leans against the car and crosses his arms.
Why does his hair stick up like that? I tried it once but mine fell into little curls--Sweet Pea liked to call it bed hair. I scolded her for that, she shouldn’t know those words…she would like it.
“Get in the car,” he says and opens the door.
I stare at the car—I haven’t seen the inside of one for months. I look at it almost enthralled. Soft leather and warm…away from the coldness of the world.
“Why?”
He lets out a large sigh.
“Did anyone ever tell you you're a big pain in the ass?” he asked.
I smile. “I would love to hear it again, gets my ego up.”
He yanks me by my coat and before I know it I am strapped to the seat with a safety belt locked around me, cutting into my tender skin.
“Peaches, I don’t want to go anywhere!” I growl. This is getting ridiculous.
He says nothing as he sits behind the driver’s seat and starts up the engine.
“If it was up to me, I'd stick you in the trunk, but she said to treat you good.”
I know who he’s talking about. I grumble and before I know it, sleep overcomes me. I hate road trips.
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III.
They say demons feel it. I know I felt it—damn goose bumps nearly jumped off my skin. The feel of the hellmouth, like a light that attracts a moth. It's the same with demons. Our demon soul responds to it and it makes us feel strong.
I groan, feeling a headache the size of Texas coming on. That’s what happens when you disappear for six months and you spend all the time in a bottle.
“Bugger,” I murmur under my breath.
Let the ponsy nancy-boy answer that one.
“Well, if you wouldn’t get yourself stone-drunk then you wouldn’t have this problem.”
I glare at him.
“I am so sorry—I’ll try to be more…angelic.”
He glares back at me.
I bet you three hundred pounds he hasn't the slightest idea why I left.
I know he doesn’t because he's actually addressing me instead of staking me in cold blood.
“So we’re here. Feels awful to be home,” I comment as he drives by the 'Welcome to Sunnydale' sign. I know now he’s more of a ponce than ever, a real demon would’ve ran over the damn thing. See how many times it gets destroyed and how many times they’ll fix it.
My grandsire says nothing as he pulls into the dark street.
I haven’t even seen the house and I feel her.
As if my blood tingles with her presence and she enchants me and changes me all at the same time.
Bitch.
I really wish I could hate her at times…but then…
Oh bugger it all—you see; this is why I left.
She’s waiting around the corner like a spider. A black widow at that.
We pull up to the house and the lights are on. I can see commotion and people moving around.
He shuts the car off and for some reason we both just sit and watch.
Thoughts are running wild through my head now.
What should I say, what’s my excuse?
I mean it’s been six months.
I probably look nothing like I did when I left. I know this by the length of my hair and the holes in my coat.
I stink of oil and vodka, months of unwashed skin.
“Well…” he says.
“Got a light?” I ask him.
He digs for something in his pocket.
“She told me to give you this.”
I look at his hand and it’s a new pack of Marlboros. The kind I like—the original, no additives. On top of the new pack a silver zippo like the one I used to have.
I glare at the items. Suddenly I don’t feel like smoking.
I turn my head and look out the window—nearly feeling her presence within me.
“I’m leaving.”
I turn and look at him.
He’s looking strait ahead. Dark and broody—pathetic.
“Not saying goodbye to the lady?” I ask, although I know the answer.
He takes a deep unneeded breath and for a moment I think he’s going to light up a fag to control his nerves.
“Me and Buffy…we’ve said too many good-byes.” He calmly looks at me.
I nod.
“So I’ll tell her you’ll see her later?” I ask, pulling the handle of the door.
His dark eyes find mine and for a moment I see the faintest of smiles. Enough to shock the hell out of me.
“Maybe.”
I get off the car, not wanting to serve as a personality counsellor to the dashing and brooding one.
After I close the door behind me I lean into the open window of his car.
“One question.”
He looks more stunned than what I feel.
“Ask,” he tells me.
I take a deep breath and wish I'd accepted those smokes.
“How do you stop yourself from leaving?” I ask him.
He chuckles humorlessly.
He starts the engine of his car and I pull away.
“That, my childe is the question only you can answer.”
I watched him drive off.
Damn bastard.
I turn and walk to the door. The more steps I take the closer she is and the more I feel her.
Almost like a connection—a satellite transmission that is clearly felt between us.
I stand in front of the front door and look at it for a second before it’s roughly opened and I have to force myself to look at her face.
She’s so bloody beautiful. She just stands with a grace that makes me falter. And suddenly I am all too aware of my alcohol breath and the car oil in my long brown locks.
She looks at me with a mixture of emotions.
One moment I sense her happiness, the next her sadness, the next her disgust.
Her eyes are watery and I feel even worse for having brought those tears to her green pastures.
“Buffy…hi.” Smart lad.
She gives me a watery smile. “Damn…what the hell do I do to men?”
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IV.
She took my large hand in her smaller one and led me quietly into the house. I knew I must look terrible but she didn’t flinch--not once.
Her warmth spread through me and I almost dammed her for making me feel this surrounded and filled with love.
I sighed and looked down to the floor.
We passed by the living room and the little Scooby gang saw what was left of me.
I didn’t meet their eyes. I was ashamed.
But that didn’t stop my Nibblet from rushing to me and literally jumping on me, squealing in delight.
She kept screaming that she was so worried and she was so happy to have me back and all these things I didn’t deserve to hear.
I gave her a small smile and she mentioned something about me smelling like hell.
OK people, I get it, I stink.
Buffy piped in that she was going to take me upstairs to get cleaned up.
She ignored the whelp’s gaping reaction and the Watcher’s cleaning of his glasses. My stubborn lady took my hand firmly and led me upstairs.
I let her take me. She sat me on the hard toilet seat and took my coat off. I just sat there. I had no energy, had no reason to even be here. This is what I was trying to get away from. Why didn’t these Summers women leave me alone?
She said not a word. She removed my shoes and my shirt, wincing when she saw the deep cuts from the bar brawl I had managed to start.
She traced the bruises on my ribs with her delicate hot fingers.
Those wandering fingers went through my hair. It was long. Maybe to my neck…I’LL never know.
She pulled the hair out of my face and did what I never thought Buffy Summers would do.
She kissed my forehead.
Dirty like it was, full of old car oil, blood, and dirt…she kissed it.
For the first time since I had arrived I looked up at my lady.
She was crying.
Damn.
She did that pouty thing when she cried. She looked so small and vulnerable when she did that. Like I could take her between my hands and crush her, while watching her pout all the while.
I sighed and decided that looking at my lady was not a good thing.
“Why?”
I didn’t have an answer to that, so I just looked down and played with my fingernails. They were black--full of dirt. Like mechanics hands. But they build and repair things, I only serve to destroy and leave those I love and say they love me.
I heard the little sob catch at her throat and she turned to close the door.
I felt her hot hands pull my cold forearms, standing me up.
Now we were almost eye to eye. Chest to chest, feet to feet.
She ran her hands softly down my arms, gently touching the small hairs there. She ran until she grasped those dirty hands that belonged to me.
She tangled her smaller fingers with my dark ones and gently squeezed.
I'm sure my face was stony. I didn’t move a muscle; I didn’t feel a thing. I was empty. Like a metal barrel that echoes when pounded.
I was the tin man and I didn’t even know it.
“Take a shower, I’LL get you some clothes.”
She turned around and left.
I just sat back down on the toilet.
Was this a dream, had I really lost it? When did things become so simple with her? I idly wondered if she was a rebuilt bot, but that pouting could never be programmed.
She came back when she didn’t hear the water running.
She sighed and knelt in front of me. Taking my chin in her hand she forced me to look at her.
“Are you ok with me giving you a bath?”
Even if I didn’t want a bath, even if I wanted to stay dirty, smelling like a homeless creature, she would have forced me in the nice, clean porcelain.
So I shrugged.
She stood up and started running the water, filling the tub with warmth I would never feel, and little bubbles that smelled of vanilla.
When it was done she went to me and pulled me once again to my feet.
She unbuttoned my jeans and gently slid them off my legs.
I stood there before her, as naked as I came to this world, yet I didn’t care.
She was apparently very focused on getting me to the shower, because I didn’t smell her lust or her arousal.
I obeyed like the good boy I am and sat in the water filled with bubbles.
Oh, this felt good--this felt really good. But I wouldn’t tell her. I just sat there stony faced.
She knelt next to the tub and took a washcloth in her hand and started bathing me.
She started with my hands. Scrubbing until I was white once again.
She was gentle and comforting--soothing my skin--being rough when needed and gentle when deserved.
Once my arms were cleaned she pulled my head back and with a small kitchen cup she wet my hair.
This ought to be interesting. Ever try getting oil out of hair?
But she shampooed it until it was soft and manageable, and then she spread on conditioner that smelled like her.
“Your hair is long,” she commented. I just closed my eyes and let myself drown in her touch.
Once that was washed she took my soot-covered face in her hands and started cleaning it. I had no choice but to look at her now.
She looked older than when I last saw her.
Her face was withered and she looked tired—like she had had many sleepless nights. I cringed at the thought that I might have been the cause of them.
I just wanted her to be happy and loved. That’s why I left after all. She was supposed to sleep and be happy, she was supposed to not look older but younger.
Once she was done with my face I had to tell her. “Buffy…”
Her eyes almost lit up when I spoke. She had never done that before. What made now so different?
“I…” What to say? Where to start?
I felt her small hands on my arms, encouraging me to continue.
“Sorry,” I finally said.
But that seemed enough for her. She smiled at me and gently kissed my lips.
I just sat there looking at her.
“Forgiven,” she said.
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V.
That was it!
How the hell could she be so forgiving? How could she just look at me the way she was looking at me? With such compassion, such trust and worry? I'm not worthy of those looks. I'm worthy of hatred, pain, and suffering. And I can’t ask myself enough times why the hell I feel this way when all I have living inside of me is a raging demon with bad-ass teeth and glowing yellow eyes.
I pull away from her, burnt with the fire of humanity, scorched with the tenderness of a woman who I can’t help but love.
Sitting in a tub naked and clean, feeling tender touches of care and love.
I can’t. I feel my demon raging within and I want to scream and cry at the same time. I want to kill and be killed all the more, but most of all I wish I never met anyone. I wish I was unknown. That my sire's sire had never found me, that I never found the blonde beauty before me, that I never met her family, that I never cared about the Nibblet with large blue eyes, and that I never gave a damn about her mates and their noble causes.
I wish I was unknown.
A citizen of this world that vagabonds through time and space, defying the laws of aging and caring for nothing but himself.
But I can’t.
That all melts away when she looks at me. When the nibblet looks at me as if I was her only hope in the world.
When I heard months ago those three words that peeled away the last demonic part of me.
I remember it clear as night.
After months of her being back she took my face in her hands and whispered that she loved me.
Buffy loved me.
How obscene was that? I never expected her to return my feelings. Why the hell…how could she? Lie to me when everything I had left was at stake. When all I wanted was her friendship. When things were going so well that I could’ve died happy. She comes and tells me these lies.
Plain black lies that burnt me in a way sunlight never can.
She is sunshine I am night.
She dresses gold I dress black.
I look back at her.
“Why did you leave?” she asks.
I hold her gaze this time. Holding it with the little strength I have left. Holding it with the breath I don’t need to take.
“You know why,” I tell her.
She ducks her head and plays with the soap in her hands.
I can see she needs to re-tint her hair. She’s growing roots.
We're growing roots.
I want to feel angry with her--I want to hate her for hurting me so. But the more I try to hate those lips that have lied the more I want to kiss them and I can't help but feel the pull of her skin and the warmth that radiates from her. Like it calls me and hypnotizes me. Like it lures me and turns me to dust.
“You don’t love me anymore?” she asks in a small voice. I can feel the pain behind it, tasting like cherries on a summer day, only I can’t remember what the hell cherries taste like on a summer day. But I am sure it would be close to thist.
I don’t answer her, she knows the answer. How the hell can I stop? When she looks at me with such gratitude for what she thinks I did--what I think I failed to do.
“Then why did you come back?” Now she looks at me. Her bottom lip sticks out and I want to suck gently on it.
“And don’t even say, 'because Angel made you’--that’s crap.”
I can feel the strength of the Slayer behind the visage of the small woman. How deceiving females can be.
I look back down to the water covering half of my body—it’s turned black now from the dirt that had plastered itself to my skin.
I think I only took five showers the time I was gone.
“Why?”
I hear her asking but the truth is that I don’t have an answer to give.
“Because you lied.”
She pulls back as if I scorched her. The bitterness in my words echoed in the bathroom.
I can feel those green eyes burning through me--I can feel her looking at me in incredulity.
“You lied,” I repeat.
“I did not lie.” She used her resolution voice and if I would've looked at her face it would have been the same.
I wish with everything I am that it were true. Hell, I’ve dreamed of this being true. I have begged for it in sleep until I whimpered with need.
Why does she lie? Why? I know I haven’t been the best but I’ve been better than most.
I may not know a lot of things but I know I don’t deserve this. I know that this statement is fictitious and it dissolves into nothing.
I stand up before her while she kneels on the floor. I turn and look at her. Standing there, I can feel the warm crystal water droplets run down my chest, run down my legs, run down my back and into the pool of warm water.
I can see she’s trying to avoid looking at ‘me’.
My fists started clenching and unclenching in anger. Anger that built itself in the pit of my stomach and made it’s way to my chest and to my face - a face that should be flushed but isn't because I have no circulation. And my limbs feel dead because I'm dead, and my eyes feel wet with tears that sting the eye, and I want to scream, and I want to hit her, and I was to kiss her - but I can’t do anything but stand before her with the last bit of energy I have left, with the last bit of strength that hasn’t been sucked out of my body by her problems and tears and pouty lips. I can just stand and be recognized as the man I am. As the man I feel inside and the monster I am trying to be.
And I stand and glare at her with the last glare I have. This is it baby, you’re in or you’re out. She slowly looks up at me, and at my face and I feel like I could die and live all at once and I want to kiss her. But I know I’d hate myself if I kiss her. She’s not thinking right or maybe she's finally thought straight but I can’t help but want to beg her to make those words true. I want to beg her to tell me she’ll never leave, she’ll never die, she wont wake up one day and get tired of me and the beer drinking, Passions watching, emotionally charged male in me. And all I can do is stare at her.
Like a child that needs reassurance, like a multitude of people that need their leader to tell them it’ll be alright.
She stands and now we’re eye to eye. Her gaze is as hard as mine and I know that this unspoken confrontation is it--this is our final dance, baby. She’s dressed to kill in tight jeans and a sweater and I am naked. Like a David that screams for admiration I need her to say it, to make those words be true. I swear I feel my heart pounding and no matter how much I try to reassure myself that it’s the nerves, it pounds away while I glare.
“Say something,” I say. Oh brilliant, Mr. Bloody!
She places those delicate death-bringing hands of hers on her waist and she cocks her head to the side like she does and I want to kiss her even more…scratch that I want to lick her neck until she purrs.
My hair is wet and heavy against my forehead but I don’t move to take it out, any movement and I loose control. I feel my growing erection as the little borrowed blood goes to my groin and I have to bite my tongue to keep myself from moaning. Just a look. A goddamn look and here I'm wanting to pound into her until she passes out.
“Does it matter?” she asks. “It’s not like you would believe anything I say.”
I stare at her.
A long time ago I would have known if she was lying, I could tell by the way she would stammer. She can be most vulnerable when she’s trying to be strong.
And I could lose myself this night and just melt into her like I have wanted to for years. And I can say 'fuck the world' like I used to and kiss her until she faints. And I could stand here and do nothing until she gives up and walks away. And somewhere inside of me I want her to walk away, I want to feel the pain, I want to tell myself that it’s all a lie. But then there’s the part of me that wants to get down on my knees and believe her, wants to love her like she deserves and wants to hold her like she’s never dreamed of. That part of me that screams 'I am nothing but a whipped puppy whenever she calls my name.'
And I feel my hands moving but I have no idea why, and I feel my knees buckling but I don’t know why I can’t stand my ground.
I feel myself falling, falling to that shallow pool of dirty water, dirty water that has cleaned my body, cleaned by hands that whisper warmth.
And I feel her holding me and I have no idea when I started puking but I am, like waves of pain and torment while my upchuck reflex works it’s magic. And right there on the water that is already dirty I puke all that’s left within me. And stil she holds me. With my long hair that needs to be cut and bleached, and my body that trembles--she holds me.
I idly wonder if this is the reason the poof fell in love with her? Because one moment she could make you feel like a man, the next like a child that needs to be held. And the next moment you want to make her feel like a warrior woman and the next you want to comfort her while she cried.
And I tried, I tell you, I tried—I tried to push her away and tell her to leave me alone in my misery but the truth is that truth cannot be hidden. I want her still, puking and shivering, as much as I wanted her when I was strong and clad in leather.
I sobbed like a child that lost his toy, the sobs that demons rejoice in, but the more I sobbed the more I felt my demon shrinking. I wanted to call out to it and beg it to stay. I wanted to feel nothing—destroy all that was in my way and dance around covered in blood and guts until the sun came out. I wanted to destroy, maim, and place misery. But like truth goes, I wanted that no more. What I wanted went against all that was demon and all that was bad.
I just wanted to lay down in bed and hold this girl I had seen turn into a woman. I wanted her more than anything in this world.
She took my face in her hands after I finished making a fool of myself and took a clean towel and wiped my mouth, cheeks and neck.
That’s when I saw it. I saw it clear as daylight. I saw it shining at me like a the sun I’d never see again. In her eyes. Little sparklies. Little pixies of…love?
She looked into my eyes and I could sense that what she was about to say was important.
“I love you.”
I stared at her. This was the reason I had left, this was the reason I had spent so many nights in back alleys drunk beyond rational thought, crying myself to sleep.
And I know you’re wondering what the hell is my problem. But my problem is simple. It could have been described in a few short words, in a simple paragraph, instead of going through all this hocus pocus and beating around the bush and such.
But the truth is…the real truth is that…
“I’ve never been loved before.”
I saw the change in her face. It went from telling me the truth to comforting.
“Never?” she asked, and I felt her tuck my hair behind my ear.
I shock my head slightly.
“Well…it’s about time.” She said.
“Why? Why do you love me?”
I wait for her answer even if there is no answer. Because if you love someone you don’t know why, you just do. There is no “then one moment she said this and...poof...I fell in love”. It’s like waking up from a dream; suddenly you pop up from life and realize you love this person. That you have for a while but we're all too stubborn to admit it. We're all waiting for lightning to hit us, all waiting for the one moment when a pixie might whisper it in your ear but the reality is that it creeps up on you and when you least expect it possesses your body and doesn't let you breathe...if you need to breathe.
“Why do you?” she asked.
She knew I had no answer, the little bitch, making me eat my own words.
I unconsciously lick my lips, I know I am trying to stall so I stand up from the water that is filled with old car oil and bile and on shaky legs I smile at her.
“I might need another bath.” I tell her.
She realized everything is ok, and I am sure that if I didn’t have bile-breath I would kiss her until she whimpered…or until I felt lightheaded.
“Mind if I join you?” she asks, and there is it…a little smile I have never seen before—not intended for me, that is.
A coy, naughty smile. The kind that tells you she’s game.
I bend down and I unplug the water, letting the dirt run down the drain.
Once it’s gone I look back at her.
She’s removed all of her clothing and is standing before me naked.
So ok—now we are both naked.
And I can’t help but to bite my freshly licked lips in anticipation.
She steps into the tub; small crammed space for two grown-ups. She places her hands on my waist and leans in.
I can feel her hard nipples against my chest and I need to get this over with before I explode. And if you think I am going to tell you what happened next you’ve got to be off your rocker.
THE END