She lies on her stomach, bare back revealed, and she is white like the snow � an ironic contrast, considering that Lilah is anything but virginal. Her head is turned to one side, three quarters of her face revealed. Wesley must restrain the desire to slap that perfect, unflawed face.
Her lips are ruby red � the color matching the harsh arcs of blood that mark her back. Wesley presses the knife, an ornamental dagger from China circa 1600, into her flesh again, then pulls it away, watching with satisfaction as the blood wells up, making a new arc. Wesley feels the there before � a piece of art, a new song, a new ideal, a child � or a new wound upon already marked flesh. But Wesley likes the fact that these marks are all from him � all but the one that goes from under her left breast, stretching down to her belly button. She tells him that it is from a long ago injury, and it is scarred over already. Wesley does not touch that one � because it is not his.
As the lovely drops of blood rise up to greet him like the sun to a new day, Lilah moans, her face turning into the pillow in pleasure. Wesley closes his eyes and strokes one of the marks - from a night or two ago, he does not remember when exactly � that has already scabbed over. Lilah shivers at the touch.
�I want more,� She says, her voice breathy and light. It sounds like she almost cannot catch her breath. Wesley wishes he could crush her throat harshly so that she really couldn�t breathe � but she does not allow him to. He will, eventually, though � she must learn that he is the master here, and she is merely his slave. Even if she does not yet know it.
Wesley presses his bare chest down onto Lilah�s bleeding back, and pulls up again quickly, smiling at the smeared blood there. �More,� He says, musing, and looks down at his stiffened length. �Yes. More.� He thrusts into her from behind, hard and cruel and fast. Lilah cries out, screaming and moaning and wriggling. Wesley has to hold the laugh back in his throat � it is threatening to bubble up, erupt out like a volcano, much like his orgasm is. But orgasm he can hold back � laugh, perhaps not.
But he gains no true pleasure from this � this he feels every night, when Lilah, drunk or angry, comes by, wanting the abuse Wesley is so ready to give. True pleasure would be to make love to someone from another life, someone who does not belong to him and never will, and to stay with her, forever. True pleasure would be to be welcomed back by Angel � but then, that cannot happen. Wesley would not let it � he does not deserve that.
This, empty as it is, is all he deserves and all he is good for.
He feels pleasure while ensheathed in Lilah, of the physical sort, joyous pain that she sometimes furthers, digging her razor sharp nails into his flesh, marking him for her own as much as he marks her. He hates when she does that; it disgusts him. She may be his, but he is not hers.
Now, he rocks back and forth, thrusting, tingling, and slowly feeling the wave build up within him. He is not, after all, with Lilah right now. He is with Fred, and she is frail and pale beneath him, moaning and whispering his name as she tangles her fingers in his hair. During, she kisses him, gently and yet passionate enough to remind him that she is a woman, a good woman whom he loves, and whom he will be spending the rest of his life with. I love you, she whispers after, over and over, and he whispers the same words in reply into her ear, his lips making her skin tingle with joy.
Then Lilah is back. They both are lying on the bed, panting, flesh beaten and bruised and ripped, Lilah totally satisfied, and Wesley satisfied for the time being� despite the fact that, just outside his reach, dangling over the stream of his consciousness, is something he misses, something he had once but has lost. Right now, he cannot name it, though.
Lilah is up within five minutes, limping slightly, as Wesley is never gentle with her, but Lilah is tough, and she can stand and walk perfectly well. She lights a cigarette, smoking it, and she seems so erotic, standing lovely and naked and with smoke tendrils, frail as strands of hair, flowing from the thin ivory colored cylinder. �Well,� She says, pulling on her underwear and skirt, gently buttoning up her blouse one handed, still drinking the smoke in deeply, �I�ll be back tomorrow, Mister Wyndham � Pryce. You�ll be watching out for me, I suppose.�
�No. I never will,� Wesley says, and his voice is gravelly and harsh. Does she know she is drinking in someone�s hate, someone�s pain with that smoke? His pain. His hate. She is drinking him in with that smoke.
He stands, suddenly, and grabs her wrist, pulling the cigarette towards him. He wrenches it roughly from her wrist, and smokes it, holding the little papery tube between his first finger and his thumb. He holds it awkwardly, as though he does not know what to do with it � but that is before he inhales, taking the smoke in, drinking it all in. He is finally drinking himself again, and then, disgusted, he throws it to the ground, grinding it into his carpet with his bare foot, feeling the cinders and burn as it sharply stabs the bottom of his foot. He realizes it is a fire hazard � but it doesn�t matter to him. If he burns down, or if it doesn�t, what is the difference? Death or the state of not � living that he�s in.
Wesley does not understand how Lilah can smoke those things � drinking in the smoke of him is repulsing, at best.
�I know you won�t,� She says, smirking. �But I�ll be back, anyways.�
�Do what you like,� He says, his voice rough as he gets back into the bed with sheets stained with blood and smeared with semen. They smell of sex and death.
�I always do, sweetheart,� She says, her voice dripping with � Honey? Ice? No. Nicotine. Wine. Her voice is dripping with nicotine and wine, as it always is. �But most of the time, I just do you,� She kisses him hard, with no affection in it, forcing her tongue into his mouth. She tastes of smoke, and of alcohol, and of his own semen. He pulls away � he does not want to do with her.
But she merely smiles, because eventually, he will go back to her. She�s all he has, for now, isn�t she?
Yes. The only thing he has.
After all, she has his marks.
end