Red in the Darkness
I know what you're thinking. You think I'm stupid. You think I'm some stereotypical bimbo slut from Sweden who bats her pretty little eyes to hide the emptiness in her head. God, how I wish you were right. If you only had an idea how much is in my head. Everything's there. Every word I've ever read, every conversation I've ever had, and every color that's painted my world, every careless flick of the wrist. It's all there and it isn't going anywhere. They are the only things I have. I have no family, they having all been killed when I was young, in Sweden. I fell into the generous hands of Swedish social services, bounced around for a few years. I landed into a barren house with a few other misplaced children. I was the oldest, and I was being bombarded with puberty. The man of the house noticed. To say the least. And my mutant power manifested then, just as he finished and was whipping himself clean in my hair. I nearly screamed, instead biting down on my lip to keep myself quiet. He left me there among the woods, gnawing away at myself while every lie he said, the texture of his tongue jammed in my mouth, the pain of him entering. It was all there, everything. And I knew at that moment that it was not going to go away. I tiptoed back to the house, and all I could see were the individual markings of every blade of grass I had ever walked upon and all the details of his stomach, of his chest on top of me. I saw the lay out of the den and I knew where he kept the gun. I saw how he had cleaned it, and loaded it, aiming before firing into the forests and I knew how to shoot the gun. I saw the weak floor boards of the stairs and I knew which steps to avoid. His wife slept through the entire thing, dead to the world. I had pressed the gun against his forehead, whispered to him not to even think of talking. Then I reached down. I have to admit that I was impressed with his ability to keep quiet even through that. Then again, I suppose he was more terrified of losing his head rather then his precious balls. Those moments are the only moments that I am glad to have this ability, this perfect photographic memory. Because the memories never really leave me, you know. They're just in there, perfectly crafted. I can bury them for a bit and maybe sometimes even ignore them but they're just there under the surface, always. I can bring any of them up without effort. But it does hurt. I can't deny that. There's so many other things that I wish I could deny. I could say that I have never killed anyone, but my memories of death rattles would give me away. I could say that I have never thought of killing myself, but the memories of emergency rooms would give me away, as well as the scars on my wrist. Not that anyone would notice. My wrists aren't exactly the first body parts that men look at, if you know what I mean. And that's fine, because that's what I want. What, you think I dress slutty just for the fun of it? Ha. People underestimate me, write me off as just another bubble headed mutant girl, trailing after the leader, drooling all over him. They see me as a piece of meat and don't consider me dangerous or powerful and even think that I'll throw myself out anything with the right anatomy. Good. That's exactly what I want. Because they look past me then, through me. And I watch every move they make, commit it to memory and begin to plan how I can take them down. Pete alone understands all of this. He's a spy so he knows the tricks one can play, and he knows enough about my background to figure the rest out. And I see the way he looks at me. He can read me like a book while other people don't even think to pull the book off the shelf. But I can read him too. And when he stares at me, he's not seeing me. He's seeing her. I know everything about him. I could be perfect for him that way. I would be dedicated to him because he could be dedicated to me. I can't stand the way Cloe treats me with her condescending smile. Or Kali who tries to be friendly, but believes I am as sexually open as she is. I don't like letting a single man touch me, it hurts so much. I think that Kali hurts when no one touches her. The rest of the men, besides Pete, don't pay me much mind. I'm several years younger than all of them, still a baby in my twenties. They think it's a generational thing, my fake breezy sexuality and the way I flirt hatefully with all of them. But I don't care what they think. For some god-forsaken reason, it's only Pete that matters. I shouldn't even like him. He's a bastard, but he's real. And I need something real to hold on to something. I need someone who has equally screwed up in the past and who doesn't feel everything that I do. Someone real, but strong. That's Pete. Which doesn't make me happy. Because I know that nothing will ever happen. No matter how many times I flirt with him, how many times I'm there for him, I won't be the one. I look at him, and I memorize the flecks of dark blue and black in his eyes. He looks at me and sees through me to gaze across the ocean. And that's the way it is.
