And it left her thinking the worst sort of thoughts.
Missteps. Sometimes even the right steps added up to no more than that.
Something strange was happening. The feelings were starting to emerge, one by one and then in bunches. Mixed up, distracting feelings. Fuck. No. No. She thought they were gone. She couldn’t win if she couldn’t think. But it was no longer in her control.
And then, of course, the big question.
Why
wasn’t
there someone here he’d had to kill to get to her? She thought she had answered that one. But she hadn’t. She had constructed a careful set of thoughts, of conclusions, so that nothing would have to be re-examined. But now... Why wasn’t he here, her husband? Why hadn’t he stayed? Really. And there was only one answer. Because she hadn’t asked him to. She shouldn't have fought for him to stay alive. She should have fought for him to stay with
her
. She should have begged, pleaded, crawled, for Christ’s sake. And she hadn’t. Was it pride, that he could consider leaving her? Was it shock, still overwhelmed by their son’s death? Why hadn’t she made him stay? If she’d begged him to, he would have. Unhappily, yes. Resentfully even, sure, at first. But after a while, he might have changed his mind, might have been, maybe not happy, but content to be still with her. He’d needed her to fight for him. But she hadn’t given him or her that chance. Why? No. Stop asking that. Why? Why hadn’t she spoken, fought, demanded that he stay with her?
No. No. She didn’t want to think about that. Sitting next to him, holding his hand, letting it go. No. And, thanks to the same alcohol that had stirred these thoughts up, she was soon able to let the questions dissipate and dissolve and fade for a time, for a blessed time.
Other thoughts replaced them. As he pounded his way into her, her mind continued to drift back and forth in time, and in and out of the present reality.
She thought about her son, which she inevitably did whenever she was not in control of her thinking.
In and out, in and out, the man went.
In and out, in and out, the boy’s breath went. From the day he was born to the day he died, she would just watch him sleep sometimes. At some point in the night or while he was napping, she would stand over him or sit by him, depending on which offered her the better view, and simply stare at him. Stare at him, as if to memorize every single part of him. Stare at him and his unbelievable beauty. Up and down his chest would go, and she’d watch and watch and hope that he would stay. Long before the illness struck, she did this. She never quite believed in him, in something so lovely and perfect.
And later, when he was old enough to go where he wanted, often times in the night he would wake and he would flee whatever nightmare haunted his bed and climb into theirs. He would crawl around until he had wormed his way into his favorite spot. Nestled in the crook of her arm, he would stretch out his own little arms and legs and relax back into sleep. And she would look at him, again in wonder, this time at the trust he placed in her. He slept, in the comforting circle of her arm, in his complete, utter, unconscious vulnerability, knowing without ever having thought about it, that this was where he was safe. She was awed by the faith he had in her, that in her embrace, he never had to worry, that no monster could ever get to him there.
She wished she could have deserved it.
Cut to the here and now. Drunk, drugged, knocked out, beaten, tied up, raped, ridiculed, pressured, threatened, invaded, kissed, fucked, widowed, deprived, grieved, unchilded. Helpless. Though still unbroken. For whatever that was worth.
She tried to stay inside the dream of her son, the only place she wanted to be. Why did this man, who held the advantage, who controlled their universe, why did he insist on wresting her back to reality? Couldn’t he just let her have the dream for a little bit longer?
“How long was I out?”
“Almost two hours. I let you sleep.”
He sounded different. She looked at him more carefully. She was lying on the bed now. He must have carried her there. He was lying next to her, his hands clasped behind his head. Hers were cuffed in front of her.
“You know what’s funny?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“I like you,” he said simply. “There’s not a lot of people in this world that I like. Maybe nobody. But I like you.”
She looked up at the ceiling, anywhere but at him.
“What do you think of that?” he asked. “Go ahead. Take your best shot.”
“There is no shot.”
“It’s a weakness. Exploit it.”
“Or maybe it’s a ploy,” she suggested.
“Do you think so?” he asked.
“No. Not really.”
“So what do you think?”
“I think it may be true. But it won’t make any difference. You’ll do what you have to do.”
“Right,” he said. “I always do.”
“So why tell me?”
He shrugged. “Just thought you’d like to know.”
“And what is it exactly that you like about me?”
“What isn’t there to like? You’re bitter and smart and funny and brave. And you’ve got a hot snatch.” He laughed, as if he were joking.
“Thanks,” she said drily.
“You remind me of me. Except for the snatch part.”
“Well. I guess that makes sense then.”
“Do I remind you of you?”
She paused and thought. “Not at all.”
“I knew you’d say that.”
“You’re awfully pensive all of a sudden.”
“I enjoyed our last little talk.”
“Oh, that. You know that may be the worst thing you’ve done so far,” she said.
“How’s that?”
“Forcibly removing my inhibitions.”
“You really haven’t been that inhibited up to now.”
“You know what I mean,” she insisted. “I couldn’t control what I was saying. I’m not entirely sure what I said.”
“It wasn’t anything particular that you said.”
“Then what?”
“Just getting a glimpse into how you are when you don’t have to defend yourself. Even though I also like how you are when you are defending yourself.”
“So what is it that you’re thinking?”
“Something I’ve never thought before.”
“What?”
“You’ll laugh.”
“I doubt it.”
“No. You will. You’ll have to.”
“What?”
“I kind of sort of wish I didn’t have to do this. That I could stop. That I could go back in time and meet you some other way.” He paused. “That we could be friends.”
She said nothing, so he continued.
“And now you’re thinking hard. What should I say? What will move him further along this path, away from hurting me? How can I make him believe that there’s some possibility for something between us? How can I use this to my advantage because I don’t feel anything for him but hate, and I’d kill him if I got the chance?”
“Is that what you think I’d do?” she asked softly.
“It is what you’d do.”
She smiled. “Yeah,” she said with a grimace. “It is.”
“And you’re doing it even now.”
“How’s that?” she asked.
“In this situation – when you’re not drunk – honesty is just another card to play. I don’t blame you; it’s what you have to do. I’ve just never been in this situation before, so I have to give it some thought.”
“What are you thinking about, if you know that it won’t influence you?”
“I didn’t exactly say that.”
She waited.
“Do you know that
Police
song?” he asked. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t stand losing. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t stand losing. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t stand losing. You.” He sang that part for her.
She grunted.
“They kind of got it exactly,” he said.
“I don’t know what to say,” she said.
“I know. But I don’t think when this started that you realized that you’d end up giving me everything I didn’t even know I wanted.”
“What have I given you?”
“Something worth my time.”
“You know,” she said. “It’s funny. I’ll tell you something. For so long, there had been nothing left worth really fighting for. And then came you.”
He smiled.
“That’s probably the nicest thing you’ll be able to say about me.”
They were silent for a while.
“Maybe you can do something for me,” she said suddenly.
He raised his eyebrows. “At your service.”
“Maybe you could succeed.”
“How’s that now?”
“I’m so tired of soldiering through these endless ordeals. I was just thinking about things that might lie ahead. And this. And thinking that I really don’t want to go through it. I don’t know if I can do it anymore. If only I could crack, I think that might be better.”
“Other than me, what else do you have to get through?”
She rolled her eyes. “I have a sister. She hasn’t been feeling well. She thinks she may have some kind of cancer. And I thought about it when she told me this, and I mostly just tell her that she doesn’t. But I thought. I can’t do that. I can’t do that again. I did it with my father. I did it with my son. Maybe my husband did me a favor. In a way. Because it’s an endurance contest, and I just thought, I can’t do that again. The research, the support, the watching. The losing. I just don’t want to. So if you really could do what you think you can do, maybe that would be a relief.”
“Well, that’s clever,” he said, acting completely unmoved. “Now if I do what I’m supposed to do, I’m giving you what you want.”
She smiled wearily. “Trust you not to get all sentimental on me.”
“Trust me,” he repeated.
She made a face.
“So, you really think life would be better if you broke?”
“Frankly, it’s what I’ve always wanted. I remember wanting to, thinking that, even as a child. So I just didn’t have to participate in the craziness anymore. And now you’re, like, craziness personified. The problem was, it never happened. I never could lose myself. And then you arrive. And you certainly have succeeded in making me miserable. But not anything more. Not the real deal.”
“You’re so emasculating,” he said, laughing.
“No offense intended,” she said.
“What’s offensive? You’ve essentially said that I’m impotent. I can fuck you, but I can’t really fuck you up. I can’t finish you off.”
“You’re funny.”
“Can’t bring you to that climax you so desperately seek.”
“I didn’t say I desperately sought it. I just said, it had its points.”
“I like this tack,” he said. “It’s very clever. And you’ve distracted me momentarily from my own dilemma.”