“Come sit on the bed with me,” she insists. I've become so used to watching her. From windows, and peepholes, and chairs in the corner of the room. Never a participant in her daily rituals, always a spectator, only breaking through that barrier to take the one thing I wasn't satisfied to only watch. I always thought the world was different when I wasn't in it. That there was a secret everyone was hiding from me and that once my presence was known, people acted differently. But I know Vesper so well, and she's not much different when she knows I'm watching or when she doesn't.
Her perfect fiancé, Carter, he didn't know her like I do. He only knew the pretty parts she wanted to show. I know all of her: her beauty, her cracks, her strength and weakness, her filth.
So I ease myself up from the chair and sit up against the wall, on her bed. She starts the album, bobbing side to side along to the first song.
She sits on the opposite side of the bed, facing me. She lies on her back with her knees bent, listening to the music. Of course I don't say anything to her. She doesn't say anything either. I wonder why she wants me here. Why would she want someone who has done the things I have done to stick around? I used to think for her it was just about sexual desires, things that were too depraved to be fulfilled elsewhere. But right now, there's none of that. It's just the most innocent version of us.
It doesn't mean I don't want her. Her dress has slid up her thigh, revealing her smooth curvy leg. There's always something deep inside of me, churning. A craving that never ends. A dragon I'm always chasing. When I first discovered the thrill of coming, it became an obsession. Locked up in my house, not allowed to have friends or leave the ranch, I'd jack off until my dick was raw. And it grew with my other proclivities. It's a beast I can't feed enough. It's why I need her here. She's the one who can keep me sated. Stop me from the inevitable disaster I've been working towards.
But for the first time, I control the urge. I'm not sure I can explain why, but I think it's because for the first time, just being around someone feels good too.
This could be the life I stared at on photographs on stranger's shelves. That I watched through windows. Every week, we'd lie here and her stomach would grow a little more. And she'd have a baby, with my physical gifts and her gift of gab and unassuming beauty. And I'd be able to start everything over, retire my mask and not be so fucking angry all the time.
“I think I have a fever,” she starts, sitting up fast.
Before I can think of how to address her sickness, she runs over to the record player and pulls out the album. Oh, she means that type of fever.
She starts Night Fever.
“I think I remember the dance my friend taught me,” she says, preparing herself for the chorus to kick in.
She starts to dance. From what I recall, it looks just like the movie. I bite my lip. I don't want her to see me smile. I don't like drawing attention to my face and the ropey scar that extends from the corner of my mouth, so thick, I can feel it tug on its corner when I curve my lips. And Vesp she has to understand I'm still a threat, but god, is it hard to keep in the urge to laugh around her sometimes. Most people are insufferable, so usually it's easy to keep a straight face.
After getting through the routine once, Vesp dances over to me.
“Come on! Loosen up!” she says, grabbing my hands.
No way. No fucking way in hell.
I shake my head and give her a sour look, like I'd rather eat shit, but she keeps pulling. Finally, I yank back in protest, so she falls onto me, landing between my legs, so that we're face to face.
It's uneasy, the feeling I have. Normally, I'd turn her on her stomach to make it stop, but this time, I just stew in it. I want to see how she plays this hand.
She keeps her eyes locked on mine at first, but then they travel along my face. I tilt my head so she won't look at the scars. Usually, she makes me forget they're there.
“I wish I didn't think you were so beautiful,” she mutters. “It makes me think I'm crazy.”
I know exactly what you mean.
But the tenderness wears off when the voices, which have been quieter as of late, begin their reminders.
She's playing you.
You're a freak.
She's just saying that to get what she wants.
I grab her hand firmly and pull it away from my face, shaking my head no.
“Sam.” It throws me off for a second, my name coming out of her lips. “It's true.”
I come to my feet, frustrated by her insistence at trying to get to me. She's making me weak. So I do the only thing I know to get my strength back. I listen to the urges. I cut the bullshit with the higher functioning and listen to my body.
I slam her up against the wall. The record skips and gets stuck on the same verse. It's jarring and unsettling.
“There is no beauty here,” I whisper through tight lips, pushing her down to her knees. “Suck my cock,” I growl.