FIC: Tenderness

[ Tenderness ]

AUTHOR: Isabelle Kennedy

WEBPAGE: http://www.geocities.com/retroeighties

CATEGORY: Vivien/Trevor. Vivien POV.

SPOILERS: General

RATING: NC-17

DISCLAIMER: All characters are the property of Paul Marquess, Freemantle Media Company and ITV. No copyright infringement intended. Summary is courtesy of Eric Bogle and lyrics are by Portishead. Archive anywhere; just drop me a line first.

SUMMARY: “I never knew there were worse things than dying.”

Inside you’re pretending

Crimes have been swept aside

Somewhere where they can forget

The photographs are spread across your desk like a glossy parody of death.

They are printed in monochrome, the dated style incongruous with the graphic details of the crime scene. Yet you still remember the agonised expression on the face of Penny Wake. Remember her hair, once vibrant, dull and matted with dirt. Skin starved of oxygen, the colour of overripe plums. Limbs twisted at unnatural angles on the cold ground. A woman, ordinary in life, made no less so by death. Only its circumstances distinguished her. The maggots infesting her body in the gruesome linearity of murder. The overwhelming stench of bleach that scoured her skin and obscured evidence. The violation of her corpse, powerless and compliant.

In this, she was anything but ordinary.

You say that you’ve seen worse, but know that isn’t true. You’ve seen bodies more decomposed, killers more sadistic, but the simple fact that these women reminded him of his mother repulses you. Not that you would ever tell anyone. You would never admit that the depths of human depravity still have the power to shock.

The room is too bright and the fluorescent lights overhead are too cruel; sharpening cheekbones, emphasising lines, exposing reality. It makes you feel old suddenly, makes you feel reflective when this is the last thing on which you should be concentrating. Pushing the pictures aside, you watch them slowly cascade to the floor. You are alone in the office and suppose that they’ve gone to celebrate, but to you, it doesn’t feel like much of a victory. They may have caught this killer, but there are still too many like him out there.

It is at times like these that your job feels like an impossibility, an insurmountable challenge.

And you think it is slowly killing you. It kills everyone eventually, if they don’t do it first, because it takes a certain type of person to join the force, to join the murder team. The constant reminder of your own mortality is a self-destroying property. If someone asked you why you joined, then you think you’d probably give the standard answer. Wanting to help others, to avenge the victims of crime and punish the perpetrators even though, most of the time, empathy is an unfamiliar concept. But sometimes you wonder if power was actually the bigger draw, the sense of moral superiority that allows you to regulate the lives of others.

The door opens, sliding easily over worn carpet.

“I didn’t think you were still here.”

“I’m trying to finish this paperwork,” you reply, voice cool.

He shuts the door, leaning insolently against the frame. And despite your better judgement, despite everything, you can’t help but look at him.

“I thought you’d have been at the pub with everyone else.”

Your eyebrow arches in disbelief. “I’m surprised that you aren’t.”

“So am I.”

You see him smile as you shuffle the sheets of paper on your desk, angling the edges with quiet frustration.

His voice is soft, too persuasive. “You know that can wait until tomorrow.”

“I don’t feel like going, okay? I’d rather be alone.”

“Lee Kemp really got to you then?”

“I’m fine,” you say, wishing you believed it.

And you know that he doesn’t either.

“It’s okay, he got to us all.”

You stand, irritated by his solicitude and more because you can’t determine his sincerity.

“Do you want me to break down and tell you how tragic everything is?”

Your lips curve in a mocking half-smile. “That having to kiss my dead gran fucked me up as well and now I’ve got a sudden urge to visit John in the mortuary? I’m fine; I just want to be alone.”

He pushes away from the door, approaching you slowly. “You know, you really drive me up the sodding wall sometimes.”

“Trevor.”

“I know that I’m not the sort of bloke that would take you out to a jazz club, but-”

“You think this is about Patrick?”

He steps closer. “Is it?”

“He’s not my type and I’m not that stupid.”

And he isn’t, not really, too pretty and naïve. Too easily dominated.

“I never said you were stupid,” he says abruptly.

You look at him. “You didn’t need to.”

There is a long, electric silence and neither of you moves.

“I don’t fuck the people I work with,” you say softly.

He leans down slightly and you can feel his breath on your face, the heat from his body.

“Try to say it like you mean it, Vivien.”

“I do.”

He is close, too close, eyes flickering down to gaze at your lips for a moment. You can’t breathe, aren’t sure you remember how, are certain that he is about to kiss you. Tell yourself that you will push him away and wish you were sure that were true as well.

Instead, he steps backwards, his voice low and scratched like an old record. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You don’t reply.

But the thoughts we try to deny

Take a toll upon our lives

We struggle on in depths of pride

Tangled up in single minds

It’s probably for the best or at least that’s what you tell yourself when you think about it. Not that you think about it anyway.

And the murder of Peter Taylor, bloody and pointless, does little to convince you that you’re wrong. If you hadn’t already known how different you are, how utterly incompatible in your approaches and opinions, then it would have been confirmed by his display of prejudice. With his belief that the transgression of murder is lessened, even made acceptable, because the victim was a criminal.

Sometimes you think that you’re too liberal for the Met, that maybe your university friends were right to deride your career choice, even though that only made you more determined to succeed. And you’ve seen more than the average person, seen enough to know that the veneer of human civilisation is often very thin indeed. But that doesn’t mean you believe in an arcane punishment, that murder is permissible when sanctioned by the state. That vigilantes who think moral outrage gives them the right to kill and maim without repercussion should not be punished.

Except that, this time, it was one of your own who was guilty. It shakes your belief in the force, this discovery. They should uphold the law, not break it in the most sadistic and selfish way possible. And it shakes your belief in yourself, in your ability to do this job. The public expect police corruption, have come to depend upon it and they devour pages of newsprint that prove them right so spectacularly. You imagine that many in the force would have preferred you to leave this murder unsolved; that they would rather be vilified for ineptitude than inhumanity. It scares you, this focus on image instead of truth and accountability.

It scares you to think that power and moral superiority might have been a bigger draw after all.

You don’t think he likes women very much or rather he does, but in the wrong way. In the way that objectifies them, treats them as inferior beings designed for the gratification of men. And this should upset you, should upset any feminist sensibilities that you might still have, if you ever had them. But it doesn’t, not really. Instead, it amuses you that he doesn’t like powerful, intelligent women, those who can see through his surface charm all too easily.

It amuses you that he doesn’t like you very much.

He accepts you as his boss, even though you know that it grates. But there is still something there, something like defiance bubbling underneath, that you can never quite control and know you never will. A belief that intimidation and innuendo can break you down like you’re some vapid teenage girl. It won’t work, it doesn’t work, but it does incite a need for revenge. A need to play the same game as him.

It is the only game he knows, this brutal, tantalisingly slow seduction. And the only way to humiliate him, to punish him, is to play it better.

After time, the bitter taste

Of innocent descent or race

Scattered seeds, buried lives

Mysteries of our disguise resolve

Circumstances will decide

And you do, all strident tones and silent temptation. Yet your professionalism hides these incremental increases in flirtation, your slight reserve daring him to make the first move. Daring him to push this game too far. When he does, you know that the only reason is because he can. Because your participation in this juvenile endeavour has tacitly encouraged him, has given him that power over you. An ability to recognise your weaknesses and vulnerability.

Now it is too late to stop, too late to prevent this reaching an inescapable conclusion.

You stand in the room, back to the whiteboard and the sun sharp in your eyes. “The fresh water and salt water are roughly divided by Teddington Lock.”

“How come no-one saw the body?” Scott asks. “It’s a controlled environment.”

“Well, maybe the body was caught under the hull of a boat and dragged downstream,” you reply. “Hence the lesions.”

You can sense the atmosphere in the room, an underlying current of apprehension, as you continue.

“Probably made by a propeller blade.”

“So why are well dealing?” Trevor asks, his voice deliberately insolent. “She didn’t even die on our patch. If I were you, I’d give it to the boys across the water.”

He’s pushing too hard, trying to antagonise you and you don’t know why.

“Natasha disappeared in East London. Was drowned in West London.”

You look at Scott and Barry as they try not to laugh and at Trevor, his face impassive. Start to understand.

“So the killer either had his own transport or he used her car.”

They laugh then, audibly, eyes fixed on a point behind your head. Turning, you see the picture, ripping it off the board and pointing it at Trevor.

“You went through the pocket of my coat and photocopied my warrant card.”

He looks at you almost languidly as you approach. “It was only a joke.”

“Do I threaten you? Does the fact that I’m a fast-track DI with only half your experience in the job constantly remind you of your own inadequacies?”

“No,” he says calmly. “With respect, it’s because you’re a stuck up cow who needs to take the pole out of her arse.”

“Or maybe it’s because I’m a woman in authority,” you continue, as if he hadn’t spoken.

The phone rings and you are acutely aware of your proximity, of your audience.

“As far as you’re concerned, we belong in the kitchen or the bedroom.”

You crumple the picture and throw it past his shoulder. “Or in a dirty magazine. Well, get used to it. The good old days when it was just the boys in blue are long gone.”

“Barton Street nick,” Barry says hesitantly. “They’ve found Natasha’s car in Lemmon Road.”

“Thank you.”

You look at Trevor for a long second and walk out. Don’t turn back, don’t want to see the pity and humour on their faces.

Even though you won this time, it doesn’t feel like much of a victory.

Later that evening, you lean against the corridor wall, the cold plaster pressing into your back.

Rosie looks out of the window, breathing smoke out through her nose. “I know he’s a murderer, but it’s Gary I feel sorry for. He’s lost everything.”

“He should have come clean about the gambling. None of this would’ve happened.”

In the ensuing silence, you gaze into the middle-distance, trying to choose your words.

“They say that communication is the art of a good marriage.”

“Trying to give me advice?”

You recoil slightly at the bitter undertone.

“Stuart doesn’t know that I know.”

You look at her intently.

“Do you know?”

Rosie shrugs and you can sense her indecision.

“Go home and talk about it, Rosie. He might just be working late.”

As you pick up your coat, Trevor walks out.

“Drink?” he asks, looking at you. “My round.”

You know that it’s a clumsy attempt at an apology, but it’s not enough. Not yet.

“I’m going to have an early night.”

He nods and you aren’t sure if you imagine his disappointment. Aren’t sure if you want to imagine it.

“Okay. Rosie?”

“Yeah, count me in.”

You watch them walk down the corridor. Rosie turns back, her hand resting on the door frame.

“Night.”

“See you,” Rosie replies, her voice guilty.

You are worried about Rosie; about the hours that she works, about the strain on her marriage, that she never sees her children.

It scares you sometimes that you don’t know what to say, that you have no idea how to balance work and family. More that you don’t want to know, don’t want that kind of existence. Don’t want the endless rounds of school runs, piano lessons and evening meals.

Not that you have anything but the utmost respect for women like Rosie. You just don’t have a maternal, compassionate instinct. An instinct for altruism and self-sacrifice, which is the key to understanding them. You aren’t in a position to give advice, don’t have any to give. You like the freedom that you have, like your job and your independence.

You like the fact that you will never do anything more important than what you’re doing now.

The pub is exactly as you thought it would be; all nicotine stained walls, dimmed lights and music you don’t recognise. Just as it should be, perfect in its predictability. Rather like yourself, you think.

And it is tempting to walk out again, to pretend that you were never here. That would be the more sensible option certainly, considering the myriad dangers this evening poses. Instead, you tell yourself that you are here to talk to Rosie, tell yourself that’s the only reason you are here, even if it’s not entirely true. Even if the hypocrisy of you giving advice is laughable. But it is, at least, something.

They are sitting in a corner, chairs dragged around the table, conspicuous in their anonymity and, for a moment, you don’t move. This feels like an intrusion, coming here, like you are invading their privacy. You can never escape from the belief that they only invite you out of politeness, out of obligation. And maybe it’s true.

So you stand at the bar, fingers pressed against the counter and order a drink instead.

“What are you doing here?”

You turn slowly. “Thanks.”

Rosie’s laugh is slightly too loud, too forced. “Sorry, I just thought you were going straight home.”

“I changed my mind.”

Your voice is pointed and Rosie looks away as you walk back to the table.

“Not now, please. I don’t want to think about Stuart; I’m having fun.”

“I can see,” you reply, looking at all the empty glasses on the table.

You slide into the space next to Barry, realise your mistake when you look up into Trevor’s surprised eyes. Part of you wants to stand, to leave, but you force yourself to stay. Remind yourself of his words and that you haven’t forgiven him yet. Tell yourself that you are not inevitable when you think that is probably exactly what you are.

His cigarettes lie open on the table between them and he looks at you as he exhales, face briefly obscured by smoke. You wonder how long it’s been since you had a cigarette. Not that you ever really smoked, but you think that, in the Met, it is less of a habit and more of a requirement.

Sometimes everyone has to bow to convention.

Later, when he walks to the bar, you close your eyes for a second. Tell yourself it’s the smoke fumes, the alcohol that are making you feel light-headed.

“He was being a prick. Don’t worry about it.”

“What?”

“Trevor’s little joke yesterday,” Rosie says, tilting her head. “Although I use the word loosely.”

“You were laughing.”

You try to keep the accusatory tone from your voice, don’t think that you succeed.

“We weren’t laughing at you.”

“That’s hardly the point,” you respond archly.

“All I mean is, don’t take it too seriously. He’s not worth it.”

You nod and soon he returns with your wine, lighting another cigarette as he sits down. You watch the curve of his mouth around the filter and the shape of his fingers as they twist the lighter. Find yourself completely entranced by these rituals of slow death.

Eventually, you reach across the table and slide a cigarette from the packet, knees pressing deliberately into his. He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say a word. Instead, he just extends his arm and flicks the coil of the lighter expertly. You clasp your hands lightly over his, wonder if the sudden heat is from the flame or his skin and inhale. The first breath of smoke is a visceral experience, burning your lungs and watering your eyes.

And it feels good.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” he says finally.

You ash the cigarette into an empty glass, don’t look at him.

“I don’t.”

Outside, the sky is cloudy, city-dark and dotted faintly with stars. You are not drunk, not really, but enough to dull your reactions, your thoughts slightly. Not drunk enough to appreciate the poetry in this moment. You watch them leave, voices loud in the night air and growing more distant.

The gravel scrapes behind you, but you don’t turn around.

“You don’t know what you’re doing.”

You knew it was him anyway.

“What?”

He looks at you intently. “You know what I mean, Vivien.”

“Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“Well, then I hope you know when to stop.”

You turn slowly. “What makes you think I’m going to?”

You look at each other for a long moment.

“Because you’re not that stupid,” he says eventually.

And you know that, despite his antipathy towards you, he does want you. It is intoxicating sometimes to have that power over men.

Over this man.

You aren’t sure what to say, but that doesn’t matter when he kisses you, lips hard and demanding, his tongue sliding over the roof of your mouth. You don’t move, don’t respond, are too used to being the one in control. You know that you should stop him before this goes too far, but you don’t. You can’t.

He tastes just as you thought he would, of cheap tobacco and expensive whiskey. And when his mouth trails across your throat, you realise that you didn’t know what you were doing, after all. Or maybe you did and this is what you wanted all along. You dig your fingernails into his shoulders, as if that will somehow lessen the enormity of it all.

And, as he presses you against the wall, one hand on your thigh, you realise you’re exactly that stupid.

Briefly, you wonder if you’re being sensible and decide that, this time, you don’t care. This isn’t about sensibility, about appropriate courses of action and predictable outcomes. This is about need, desire and obliteration. You don’t want to talk about it or analyse it; you just want to be fucked. A few hours of blissful oblivion, where you can pretend that you aren’t yourself and you aren’t with him.

Maybe you could have chosen someone you don’t know, someone that doesn’t matter. And you tell yourself that Trevor doesn’t matter to you, but that isn’t entirely true. You don’t want to pick up anyone in a bar, to go through an excruciating mating ritual with someone just to get what you both want. Don’t want to examine it, to examine yourself and find both wanting. You don’t want a relationship, dinners and dating, because you have neither the time nor the inclination, but you don’t want casual sex with a stranger either.

You think that he’ll probably be good in bed and you’ve always had a weak spot for men who will hurt you or could if you let them. But you never do and that is part of the thrill. You are attracted to him even though, intellectually, you know that it’s stupid and destructive and you don’t like him very much.

And you don’t know if that matters, if it ever will.

In the car, you cross your legs, smoothing down the creases in your trousers with the flat of your palm. Defensive and nervous, even though you know exactly what is going to happen. Because you know exactly what is going to happen.

You wait for him to turn on the engine, but he doesn’t move, the overhead streetlight casting hazy shadows around his face. Suddenly cold, you reach for the heater, but before you can twist the dial, he reaches for your wrist and presses your arm back into the seat.

As his lips descend in a bruising kiss, you think that this aggression shouldn’t turn you on, but it does. You haven’t kissed anyone in a car since you were seventeen and it was never like this. Your mouth opens beneath his and you realise that he tastes of mint, mixed in with the alcohol and tobacco.

He has lost his tie somewhere, but you slide the jacket off his shoulders, allowing it to pool haphazardly by the driver’s door. He kisses his way to your ear, mouth warm against your skin and you barely notice as he discards your suit jacket, cold fingers unbuttoning your blouse. Instead, you are concentrating on his shirt, feeling it part under your hands.

Subduing a brief bite of panic, you tell yourself that you can afford not to be sensible for once. And this time, you kiss him, your teeth nipping at his lips, not hard enough to draw blood, but not gently either. He presses you into the seat, the weight of his upper body deliciously erotic, even in this awkward position. His hand reaches around your back, tilting your body towards him and unfastening your bra. It opens easily and you don’t want to consider how much practice he’s had at this. But when his lips burn your skin, tongue drawing lazily patterns over your breasts, you arch your back and forget that you cared. Your hands slide slowly to the buckle of his belt, fingers skimming lightly over the fabric as you struggle with the metal closure.

Suddenly, there is an explosion of laughter from the door of the pub, too close in the quiet night. It startles you and you pull your hands away automatically, shocked back into some sense of propriety. You can’t believe that you were contemplating having sex in a car, more than contemplating it, with him.

If you are truthful, then your lack of inhibition is more shocking than your choice of partner.

He picks up his shirt from the floor of the car, handing your bra over without a word. You dress again in silence, an intense awkwardness halting any attempts at conversation or explanation.

Never found our way

Regardless of what they say

How can it feel this wrong?

It has been several days, although it feels much longer, since that evening.

In that time, when you allow yourself to admit that you think about it at all, you have tried to convince yourself that it was a mistake. You aren’t sure why you feel the need to persuade yourself of this fact, think that intuition should make it obvious. And you certainly haven’t talked to anyone, especially him. That would make the entire situation too real, too tangible. Something that you aren’t ready to accept yet. You know that you should just forget about what happened, forget about your stupidity and desire. But that doesn’t mean you can close your eyes and forget the feeling of his skin beneath your fingertips or his mouth on your breasts.

You are all too aware that intellect is very different to instinct.

You don’t even know where the boundaries lie now; there is no way to enforce a professional distance. Things that might have seemed innocuous before now assume a loaded meaning, like your performance in Ellen Merrick’s flat. It seems foolish and risky in way it wouldn’t have a fortnight ago, because you know what he’s thinking about when he looks at you. And you have become overly sensitive to him, to his attitudes and behaviour. Before, they amused you and now they unnerve you, because you’re thinking exactly the same when you looks at him.

And that scares you more than you will admit.

You stop him, later that day, in a corridor, careful to check that nobody else is around. You think it is easier to have this conversation on neutral territory and wonder when you started thinking of this as a war. Something that required tactics and precision rather than the truth.

Not that you would tell him the truth anyway. You aren’t sure you know what it is, isn’t sure it even matters much now.

“The other night–”

He interrupts you, voice cold and laced with finality. “Was a mistake.”

“What do you mean?”

“You made it perfectly clear that it couldn’t be anything else.”

You don’t really know what to say, know there isn’t anything you can say.

“I didn’t…”

He looks at you and his smile is almost cruel. “So, you want it to happen again?”

There is no sound of anticipation, of expectation in his voice.

“I didn’t mean it to be like that,” you say tightly. “I didn’t plan that.”

“You just thought I’d be grateful enough because you let me touch you.”

And it hurts to admit that he is partly right.

You watch him walk away and wonder why you feel so guilty. Why it should feel wrong now, when it didn’t then. Or maybe it did, but that wouldn’t have stopped you at the time. You wonder what is wrong with you, why you feel the need to justify it. It was a stupid, tawdry little game that went too far, that you pushed too far.

And there are too many reasons why it shouldn’t happen again, even if you wanted. You are his boss and you aren’t that kind of person, don’t want that kind of reputation. It’s difficult enough being a woman in the force without the complications of sex. Especially when it is with someone like him.

This is the last thing you need at the moment; you haven’t the energy for that type of clichéd melodrama. For all the clandestine meetings, the self-hatred and the inevitability of the end. You aren’t twenty-two anymore, doesn’t think you would have needed it then. Aren’t sure that you would have needed him.

Because you never do, it’s just easier to let them think you might.

Please could you stay awhile to share my grief?

For it’s such a lovely day

To have to always feel this way

And the time that I will suffer less

Is when I never have to wake

Scott was twenty-six, barely ten years younger than you and still a child. You aren’t prepared for the agony of his death, nor how much it will affect you. Aren’t sure anything could prepare you for this, for these feelings of fury and powerlessness. Murder and its consequences are the only things that you are unable to control, to direct and manipulate.

And it is only now that you can comprehend the perversity of performing a job that relies on understanding lack of control and human weakness.

You still hear Rosie’s scream, piercing through the sudden quietness like a terrifying clarion. Can see the scene, framed by the doorway, as you stand almost paralysed with shock for those vital seconds.

Even now, you recall the heat of his skin, imprinted on your palms.

You remember hearing Patrick as he phones for an ambulance, his voice distant, as though you were underwater. Remember Trevor’s fingers, icy against yours as he passes a towel.

And Scott dies with your hand smoothing his forehead, your face the last thing he ever saw and that makes you indescribably sad. Makes you want to rage against the utter banality of it, this wasted life and tragic death in the squalor of the gym. He should have died heroically, with purpose.

Not like that, never like that.

You remember kneeling by his body while you wait for the ambulance, as if you were praying, your hands stained crimson with his blood. It makes you think of long-past communions, the symbolic wine and wafer, of guilt seeping into your conscience.

Trevor kicks the wall, frustration and anger tightening the skin of his face, but you couldn’t bring yourself to watch him. You hear Patrick outside as he vomits, as it passes into dry, heaving sobs, but you don’t move.

The paramedics edge you out of the way, not gently, as if even mattered. Numbly you watch the repetitive parade of people pronouncing the body, securing the crime scene and performing all the minutia that you normally do without a second thought. Never again. You watch as his body, covered by a cheap red sheet, is loaded into the van. A solemn procession that seems almost sacrilegious.

You remember their faces reflected on the metal of the closed doors, despair and disbelief etched too deep ever to be removed.

Later, at the office, you watch them intently. The glass of the window distorts their features, but it can’t erase the pain and hopelessness in their expressions or the palpable sensation of loss that pervades the room.

You feel an almost unbearable sense of community with these people, but know that it won’t be enough.

Scott’s chair is conspicuously empty, the jacket draped across the back too poignant. You think that you should say something, words of encouragement or consolation, but there is really nothing to say anymore. Words aren’t enough to mend this situation; you know that nothing will do that. Know that you don’t have the right words anyway. Rosie can empathise with Scott’s parents far better than you ever could.

Trevor watches you for too long as he leaves, too intensely and part of you wants to turn away. Feels stripped, laid bare under his gaze, as if what you have done is obvious. His face is inscrutable and you aren’t sure if he is still angry with you, if that matters now.

You aren’t sure you want to find out.

But you stand on his doorstep that evening anyway.

It grates, this realisation that you could be so banal and unoriginal. Except castigating yourself for predictability only works when there is an alternative. There is nothing else to do, nothing left but this.

He opens the door, glass in hand and drinking alone, not surprised to see you. You hate that he knew you would do this. Not even that he knew you well, because he doesn’t, but because he knew you well enough. You hate that you’ve given him even that small amount of power over you.

Your voice is low. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

And you think that while you won’t find comfort tonight you can, at least, find contact.

Abruptly you kiss him, forcing your tongue into his mouth, tasting alcohol and fleeting mortality. Inside, the door shuts and you press him into it, not caring whether it hurts, hoping it does. His hands smooth your collar, your throat, but the last thing you need or want is this misplaced tenderness. You want to suffer, to punish yourself for not being able to prevent Scott’s death.

This is the best way you know; he is the only way you know.

And you kiss him harder, biting his lower lip with enough force to draw blood. It tastes metallic in your mouth, bitter against your tongue and you pull away. Press a finger to his lip and watch the crimson liquid stain your skin once more. He closes his eyes, doesn’t say a word.

You undress him slowly, enjoying his obvious discomfort, enjoying the sadism of this slow torture. Then you push him against the door again, thumbs digging cruelly into the hollows of his collarbone and leaving raised welts on the skin. His hands tighten around your hips and you want him to hurt you, to wound you. He doesn’t, instead drawing your skirt up around your waist, fingers sliding gracefully over bare skin.

You aren’t ready and it hurts, but you like it. Winding a leg around the back of his thigh, you press your body into his, urging him on. Your nails scrape his back harshly and you feel him wince; wait for the retaliation that doesn’t occur.

It is awkward, uncomfortable and all you can think about is blood and pain and death. Too much and never enough. You don’t come, aren’t sure you can and push him away, too sore to continue.

Sliding to the floor, you can’t even cry.

When you wake, it is still early and pale sunlight flows through the open curtains. It casts a washed-out glow over the room, making everything look tired and old. Including yourself, you think. The room smells like sweat and alcohol and sex, an inescapable reminder of your actions.

The mattress is cold and you lie motionless for a moment, listening to the unfamiliar sounds, realising that you are alone in his bed. A shirt is buttoned unevenly over your breasts, your legs tangled in the sheets. You feel exhausted, drained of energy and any trace of optimism.

Then you push the covers aside and stand, the floorboards cold against your feet. The muscles of your legs ache, the stickiness between them another reminder of the night before. You stop suddenly, feeling nauseous and wonder what you’ve done.

He is standing in front of the sink, shaving foam covering his jaw like a primal mask. The bathroom tiles are glaringly white, too bright and you shut your eyes for a second. When you open them, you can see the livid scratches across his back, the bruises emerging above his collarbone and the scab forming on his lip.

You recoil at the sight.

In the sharp light, he looks older and wearier than before. You feel extremely ashamed and rather foolish.

“Did I do this?”

It is more of a statement than an enquiry.

“Yes,” he replies, without looking at you.

You watch your reflection in the mirror. Your hair is flat, face still slightly flushed and you feel cheap and used, even though it was almost completely of your own making. Everything seems more sordid in the harsh light of day.

Neither of you speaks. He finishes, puts away the razor and then kisses you over the sink for the longest time.

It is bittersweet, achingly melancholic and utterly bereft of any hope.

End.