It was because I wanted her. More than I've ever wanted anyone. Because as much as I told myself she was one of them, I saw the way she acted with Johnny and knew there was more to her. I did it because having her felt good. More than good. Getting into her house and having her was the pinnacle of my craft.
So if having her is what I've always wanted—what I combed houses and personal possessions for—why am I fighting it? If I am greed and she is my indulgence, why shouldn't I suck every last bit of juice from her? I've risked it all to have her, so I should get it all.
The lake, just watching her out in the water, the pink flush in her cheeks from the air and sun, I fucking liked it. For a moment before I freaked out, it was nice to just skip rocks and be with her. But that part of me that can't fully believe she isn't just one of many who have set out to hurt me awoke fiercely. I had to threaten her, to watch the calm in her eyes morph into fear. Fear is the glue that holds us together.
But there are other things that could keep her here. The baby. The sex. And something else—I can give her everything she needs. No one has ever taken care of her like I have.
It's not like she has a choice, anyway.
I'm tired of fighting. Of not letting it just feel good. So from now on, if she doesn't give me a reason to, I won't bring fear to the table. It'll always be in my holster, but I will use it sparingly. After all, this was the goal, to break her down, strip her to a doll I could keep for my pleasures. But she hasn't become a shell, she's only evolved into something that can survive this, keeping all the best parts of herself and shedding the shit that disgusting world makes you carry around. When I sit there quietly, my mouth heavy with the words I want to say to her but can't, I feel it's me who's being stripped down.
If I try to talk to her when I'm vulnerable, she'll hear my voice and the words will stagger and it'll ruin her illusion of me. But I decided I would give her something else. My name. It's the biggest risk yet. But it's a commitment. With that knowledge, she can never go back out into the world. It'll keep me from getting too complacent. And I want to hear her say my name.
I pull out a few more records to bring to her cabin. She was right about needing stimulus. I think she's proven she deserves it. And I've seen how quickly being good to her has endeared her to me. I love music, and it'll be nice to share it with her.
As I head out the door, my phone rings. I wait for the answering machine to pick up.
“Hey Sam, it's me,” Scoot says. “Call me when you get a chance. I need to ask you something.”
He always does that, leaves some vague message so I'll have to call back. I shrug it off and step out of the house.
I walk through the woods, my flashlight shining the way to the little white cabin. At night, with no windows or light, it's nearly invisible out there. But I could find it blindfolded.
I walk up to the door, making myself heard so she has a moment to prepare, and pull up the latches. When I open up, she's sitting on the bed, her dim lamp shining a light on her. The one record she has plays faintly in the background. She's holding the book I left behind—clutching it. Like she's been waiting all evening for me to come to her.
It feels good to know she waits for me like that.
Her golden brown eyes gaze at me expectantly. She glows right now. My own little angel in a white box. My seed growing in her. She's pure, fertile ground on which we could grow a life. She's everything. Vesper stands up, hugging the book to her chest and walks up to me.
“Sam?” she coos.
My name, rolling off her lips, like a blessing, sends shivers through my stomach.
I nod.
“Is this yours?” she asks, tilting the book in my direction.
I nod.
“From childhood?”
I nod.
“I wish I had a book with my name in it when I was a kid. There aren't many Vespers out there,” she chides.
You are the only thing, Vesp.
“Do you want it back?” she offers.
I shake my head, reaching into my pocket. Sometimes writing shit down is as exhausting as stumbling over the words, so I am conservative with what I say. It encourages me choose my words wisely.
For the baby, I jot down.
Her eyes brighten at the words.
“Thank you, Sam,” she says with a soft smile.
I remember the records in my hand and hand them to her.
“Oh this is great stuff,” she says, flipping through the sleeves. “Will you stay and listen with me?”
Of course, but I only shrug so as not to show her how much the invitation means to me. I make my way over to the chair as she pulls out a Pink Floyd album, one of my favorites.