this week has been glorious
He called me on Monday night, just to talk. Just to talk. He was in the best mood, and informed me that he loved talking to me on the phone, and that I was the only person he would spend more than five minutes with because he normally hates the phone, so it’s surprising that our conversations last over an hour on average. And we don’t even talk about deep, serious things…most of the time. During this one he talked about White Castle burgers for fifteen minutes straight.
He mentioned that, aside from all the sexual tension and frustration and the moments that make him want to strangle me for being so frustrating or when I’m threatening to stab him with various implements, he’s truly happy that he knows me and he just adores me. I am one of his favorite people. Awww.
He also said that he fucking loves my laugh, that I have one of the best laughs he’s ever heard when I really let myself go and enjoy the moment, and that that’s part of the reason he likes talking to me on the phone because I don’t let myself laugh at work. He’ll spend twenty minutes trying to get me laugh and when it works, he just basks in it.
We talked for an hour, then his phone died, so he met me at Denny’s and bought me a chocolate milkshake. We sat in the booth, talking and laughing, for another two hours. He made me laugh so hard I cried. Then we stood outside while I froze and made him stand near me so I wouldn’t be cold.
He hugged me and said that it was a good thing he was able to resist temptation because if he was a lesser man, he’d have to molest me in the parking lot for looking up at him the way I was. I didn’t even care; I was just basking in the perfection of the evening. We had a good time together, it wasn’t all sexual-tension-ized, it was just kindof ridiculously awesome.
Yesterday he made me go with him after work to try this other milkshake that was nearly orgasmic. He bought it for me “for my birthday.” Um, you’re getting me a better present. You’ve been telling me for six months what you’re going to get for me for my birthday… follow through, dammit.
Then this morning he called before he went in to work, to wish me happy birthday “in person.”
It’s moments like tonight that make me love him, that makes it so fucking hard for me to keep my distance or even think about leaving. I’ve been told that I should get the hell out of dodge for my own sanity and well-being, but… well… the good times are so good.
This is why you should run far, far away from sociopaths. They will always win.
I’ve never felt so completely vulnerable and confused
or: How I Found Myself In a Relationship With An Emotionally Abusive Sociopath
(and I still don’t want to get out)
Scene: early March, a little more than a month after I began a new job. I’d met this guy once or twice, and had had difficulty remembering his name, due to the fact that I saw him maybe once a day and he’d ignored me the first time we met. I found him attractive, but I’d noticed that he likes to flirt with every girl in a three mile radius, so my walls were firmly in place and locked.
-+-
We’d had exactly two conversations consisting of something more than “I remembered your name today!” before the following took place.
Also, I should note that on this particular day, I was wearing absolutely no makeup because I’d been quite sick, and my hair was a mess. a MESS. Ladies, you know what that does to your self-confidence.
“So,” I began confidently, daringly, my eyebrow raised in challenge. ”What would Freud say about me?” My mentality was somewhere along the lines of Read me, bitch. See if you’ve got what it takes. I doubt you can, because I’m the master at portraying what I don’t feel, but good luck. Let’s see if you’re up to it.
Pride, as they say, will inevitably come crashing down upon you with all the subtlety of a baby grand piano on poor Wile E. Coyote.
“I would say you’re a little self-conscious,” he said, his tone even, casual, as he effortlessly stripped away my defenses. My hands involuntarily twitched, and his gaze dropped to my fingers, which had begun twisting themselves together without my knowledge. ”Whoa, extremely self-conscious about your image, and the way people see you.”
Dammit. Okay, no biggie. Everyone feels that way, so let’s move on.
He glanced back up at my face, and paused for a moment. ”You’re desperate for people to know how smart you are. You don’t want to be taken for granted.” The way he said it made the desire sound silly and childish.
That one hurt. Does it come across that loudly? I thought I did a better job at hiding it.
He nodded to himself, and finished, “And you don’t know what you are doing in life. At all.” He shook his head with a patronizing laugh.
I managed a casual laugh as I forced a shrug. ”Who does?” How did I wind up asking him to do this to me?
He waited a beat, then said quietly, “You’re a people-pleaser, to a fault. You don’t know what you want, so you try to do what everyone else wants instead.” He paused, then said, almost under his breath, “Disappointing.”
No. You were supposed to say easy, simple things like “You enjoy talking to people,” or “You have to have a water bottle with you at all times,” or “You don’t like wearing flat shoes.” Not… true things. Not the things that hurt. You weren’t supposed to be able to see me this clearly, this easily. I don’t even know you, how is it that you see me so damn well?
I felt the anger and humiliation sweep over me in a hot flash; I could tell that my face was turning red. It was the last straw. Thankfully, my voice remained steady. ”I’m going back to work.” He made a teasing comment, but I pretended not to hear, walking with my head held high.
Everything he’d said was true.
-+-
I went home and picked a fight with my boyfriend. I asked him to tell me something that he knew to be true about me, not as a boyfriend but as an actual fact about my personality or the way I think. His response? ”Your hair is brown.”
To be fair, I knew it was a loaded question and I was looking for a fight. But still. Seriously? This guy has seen me at work for a month and he’s able to pull apart my soul. You’ve known me for fourteen years and you barely scratch the surface!
I told him the basics of what had happened. I said that I wished I knew that he saw me for me and loved me anyway, instead of wondering if he even noticed these things.
His response? ”I notice more than you think!”
“Oh, like what?”
“…” He didn’t even look like he was trying to think of something. In fact, he looked almost bored.
I had to literally choke back the words, “This isn’t working, we should just break up.” I don’t want to break up with him on impulse, or just because he can’t say the right things… that seems wrong to me.
And yet, I wanted to just end it. It was yet another sign that Things Were Very Wrong.
-+-
The following day, my day off, I only thought of the encounter twice (or maybe twelve times), but felt the dread at returning to work twist a knot in my stomach.
He’d been so callous, almost casual as he saw right through me and stripped my defenses away with no more than a flick of his eyes. It was humiliating, the ease with which he read me. And he had taken what I see as my best qualities, and made them seem cheap, seedy, almost contemptible.
First, I wanted to march right up to him and demand an account. Or a retraction. Then, I wanted to avoid him completely; I’d be willing to go so far as to walk the opposite way whenever I saw him coming. I vacillated between being cool, aloof and distant, or warm and friendly as usual to show that he hadn’t gotten to me.
By the time I got to work, I had planned out every outcome and reached the conclusion that I could do… absolutely nothing. He tied me up in knots in ways that nobody had, not since…that one.
I chatter when I’m nervous, and I’m extra-friendly when I’m feeling particularly vulnerable or afraid. So of course I found myself striking up a friendly conversation with one of the other employees, who helpfully volunteered to take me to where I needed to go. As I followed, talking cheerfully with this bright woman, with an easy laugh and warm smiles, I looked up and saw him come around a corner. Barely hesitating a step, I continued smoothly with my sentence, registering his look of… relief? recognition? and filing it away for later.
I ignored both him and his coworker, and began talking to the floor supervisor. I needed a code to get into the store room, and only the sales person had it at the time.
However, he wouldn’t leave well enough alone, and started talking as I walked past. ”Here she is, with her introverted intuition, and her feeling, and her judging.”
I grinned at him, forgetting my irritation in the rush of delight. He’d not only remembered the four letters I’d given him, but he’d looked them up. ”Did you take the test? What are you?” My boyfriend hadn’t bothered, even though I’d asked him to do it several times and had even tried to walk him through the online quiz.
He blinked at the change that had come over me. I could tell that he was taken aback, but just raised my eyebrows, waiting for an answer. He said that he didn’t remember his type, and went for another box.
-+-
He was standing in the pathway as I walked past. A grin crossed my face as I flicked my gaze down to the broom and back up to him, opening my mouth to make a sarcastic comment about chimney-sweeping, when he beat me to it. ”Can I tell you something?”
I blinked. ”Uh, sure.” My momentum had carried me just past him, so I slowed and turned back to face him.
“You look very pretty today.”
I’m sure he didn’t miss the flush of pleasure that transformed my face for a split second, but I quickly tried to cover it up. ”Um. Thanks?”
He nodded and turned away, and I tried to keep from letting his comments get to me. He wants to flirt with every girl. I’m just another on his list.
-+-
Saying nothing, he walked up to me and pulled me close for an impromptu side-hug. I responded instantly, my arm sliding across his back and tightening into a hug, before I caught myself. He felt it the moment I realized what was happening, and pushed him away. ”Why are you being weird?” I asked suspiciously.
“I’m not,” was his only response as he walked away.
-+-
I looked up as he walked past, nodded slightly, then went back to what I was doing. A few moments later, I realized that I could still see him in my peripheral vision.
When I looked back up at him, he made a sound. ”Hmm.”
“What.” I knew my tone wasn’t welcoming, but couldn’t bring myself to care. He was just… standing there, looking at me. Even as I watched him, I saw something flash across his face. ”What?” I demanded again.
“Nothing, it’s just…” At my impatient look, he slowly let his gaze drift down me and back up again. ”I’ve never really taken the time to look at you before.”
I scowled, and opened my mouth for a retort, when he finished quickly, “and really, you’re quite pretty. The more I know you, the prettier you get.”
Ew. Nice line. I rolled my eyes and turned away, as if rejecting the comment physically. I looked back down at what I was doing, allowing my hair to hide my face as I quickly processed his motives. He was trying to set me up for something, but I wasn’t sure what.
However, while I was (accurately, of course) suspicious of him, why couldn’t I keep from blushing? My entire face had turned pink, and I couldn’t keep the smile from tugging at my mouth.
-+-
Still later, as he began his rounds, he turned to me. ”We should have lunch sometime.”
I didn’t even bother looking up. ”Uh, yeah.” My tone made it clear that I meant the opposite. I couldn’t see what face he made, but he turned and kept walking after a moment.
As he walked past again, he said, “Really. Let’s have lunch next week.”
I looked at him for a long moment. ”Right.” Sure, lunch. You haven’t shown the slightest interest in me for a month, then all of a sudden you want to have lunch? What’s with you? I have a boyfriend!
-+-
I don’t even know how it happened, but he sank his hooks deep within me, one step at a time. Soon, work became hollow without him there; weekends were unbearable. I would look up whenever I heard his door open, even if I knew he was elsewhere. Seeing him would bring a kick to my stomach, soon followed by vague nausea as I remembered that I have a boyfriend.
So it begins.
general musings
yeah, I broke up with my boyfriend less than a week ago, and I’m already about 98% sure that I’m going to sleep with this guy.
I’m going to hell.
It took him TWO DAYS to kiss me. Two days after I broke up with my boyfriend, he kissed me.
And all I could think was, “More.“
-+-
I will break him down. I will. I don’t care if I get hurt in the process. I am going to win.
…famous last words.
as it stands right now…
the words “we need to talk” are threatening to tumble out of my mouth in projectile word-vomit every time I meet his eyes.
I don’t love him anymore. I never did get the lightning strikes… the warm fuzzies just kinda settled and turned into dust bunnies.
I am happier in the presence of friends than I am with him.
I wanted to tell him not to come over, that everyone was going home already (even though they weren’t and we were having a great time).
when he came, instead of being supportive, I felt repressed, pushed into the little box marked “taken.”
and by the end of the night, I just wanted to run. run far away and never look back.
because if I did, I would see his forlorn, broken-hearted puppy look left in the dust, and I’d know that I am scum.
I’ve known for a long time, I suppose. I wanted to break up back in December. but I stayed because he’s safe.
and, all in all, he loves me. I know I’d have a good home, good husband, good father.
I’d still be trapped. I told him to never refer to the future as certain again after I had a mini-panic attack at his casual use of the word “when” instead of “if.”
fuck my life.
all the unspokens
were throwing her off.
Far off.
-+-
Concentrating fiercely, nearly sticking her tongue between her teeth, giving non-committal nods and grunts in response to the clingy chatterbox at her elbow, she nearly jumped when he suddenly appeared, drink and jacket in hand.
He said his farewells to the bubbly blonde, then turned to her, reaching out for a hug as well. He didn’t speak, and barely touched her, but somehow she felt every moment.
-+-
She caught movement out of the corner of her eye, and glanced up to see him approaching her. She couldn’t stop the genuine smile of greeting from spreading across her face. ”Why are you back?” She hated how soft her voice sounded, and bit her lip, refusing to speak anymore.
He stretched out a hand and traced it slowly down her back, saying quietly, “To see your pretty face.”
Her ears instantly turned scarlet, and she refused to look at him as he continued walking by. She never listened to such lines, so why should she care about this one? Why couldn’t she keep the idiotic grin off of her face?
-+-
She glanced up in mid-sentence to see him walking away, and fought the feeling of disappointment that began to surface. She’d succeeded in pushing him away, so why did she feel let down? She turned back to the people she’d been speaking to, turning up the wattage of her fake, I’m-so-interested smile, and continued with her casual, off-the-cuff, prepared speech.
As she finished, she glanced up to see him standing several feet away, staring directly at her. She was annoyed to feel her heart give a fickle double-tap, and tried to ignore the fact that she was happy that he’d apparently waited to say goodbye to her. She raised an eyebrow at him, aware that she couldn’t simply leave the people she’d been speaking with, and waited to see what he needed.
Instead, his gaze lowered, and he let his eyes wander slowly down her body then back up in a very exaggerated display of male approval. She felt the tips of her ears burning. Why was he doing this? He didn’t have anything further to prove, so why was he still acting vaguely interested?
His gaze met hers again, and she felt the blush streak from her ears, down her neck and all the way to her toes in reaction to his intense, heavy-lidded expression.
If he was faking it, she was certainly fooled.
She managed to flash him an impish grin, at which he finally gave a small, quiet smile in return, and walked away.
She refused to think about the fact that she wouldn’t see him for the next few days.
-+-
Her heart leapt into her throat, pounding relentlessly, as she caught sight of him from the corner of her eye. She kept walking, forcing her hands to keep from trembling.
Why did he have such a powerful hold over her?
-+-
She crouched, adjusting the position of a few objects as she continued talking to her “customer.” She glanced up just in time to see him walking past, casting a curious glance over at the visitor in her department. He then looked down at her, and deliberately winked. She began to frown at him in response, but her mouth unwillingly pulled into a slow, satisfied smile. As he walked away, she could hear the baritone of his chuckle floating back to her.
fine, you win.
OKAY.
I admit it.
yes, I’m attracted to you. (ogod, am I helplessly drawn to you like the ill-fated moth who knows nothing but death awaits…)
will I ever do anything about it? heck no. I would never break his heart like that. and I know it wouldn’t be anything more than a fling, if that.
but you know what?
you’re attracted to me, too. and you can’t deny it.
you’ve been flirting with me since day one, even pursuing me. Giving me sweet nicknames, showering me with compliments, flirtatious comments (not to mention all the toe-curling damned winking), asking for my number so you can text me when you’re thinking of me… what the hell. who DOES that?
I’m resisting, but only barely.
[although you do make it easier with your apparent split personalities.]
ogod.
ogodogodogod.
I’ve come at this from the viewpoint that it will end well, in Happily Ever After. but what if it doesn’t? what if we break up?
and the worst part… I think I might be the one to break up with him.
I realized today that I’m not happy.
It’s all the little things that are turning out to be big things. I don’t feel crazy-in-love. And it really bothers me that I am smarter than he is. (There’s no denying it.) I act like I’m still single when I’m not actually with him. I tell myself it’s because I’m so used to being independent, but what if it’s not?
But. He is wonderful. He does love me. a lot. He would be a good husband, and an amazing father.
It will be okay. I think.
If we can just work out a few things…?
I will NOT change him. He will not change for me. (she said to herself a thousand times to remind herself of this fact.)
I guess it’s safe to say that the honeymoon’s over. (It took 6 months; my timing’s doing better! It used to last only 2 or 3.)
Pink elephants and serious conversations
She looked up as the door opened again, expecting another couple to exit with their farewells. To her surprise, he emerged, holding two steaming mugs, attempting to wrestle the door closed with minimal spillage. She watched for a few moments, waiting, then he sighed and held out a mug without looking at her. She took it without a word, drinking as he pulled the door shut and sat on the stoop beside her, nursing his own beverage.
They sat in silence for a few moments, then he broke it. ”Too dull indoors, or do you just enjoy frostbite?”
She looked down, realizing slowly that she couldn’t feel her toes any longer. ”I forgot that I wasn’t wearing shoes.”
He nodded, taking another sip, and waited.
She sighed. ”You need to promise to relax and not run screaming.”
He looked surprised. ”As long as you don’t pull out a rusty knife, I think we’re good.”
She took a deep breath, then it all came spilling out, words tumbling over others in a rush to emerge into the real world. ”I… can’t be serious around you. It’s not that I don’t want to be, but simply that it is a very bad idea. In fact, I need to avoid you.” She waited, watching him from the corner of her eye for any sign of a reaction.
He took another drink, then looked down at his mug. ”Well, when you finished our conversation then practically ran from the room, I figured something was up.”
This was it. Now or never. She set down her mug and angled her body to face him slightly. ”You are a Good Man. You’re witty and smart and wickedly funny, and I see the deeper, more serious parts that you try to hide, too. I feel drawn to your soul, almost compelled to be near you, and that scares me more than a little bit, especially given–” she waved her hand, alluding to their earlier exchange, “everything. It’s not a good idea for me to talk to you, yet when we do I find myself truly enjoying the banter. You keep me on my toes, which is rare among my acquaintances,” she finished with a laugh.
He still stared down at his drink, his mouth unmoving, but his eyes crinkled for a moment.
She shrugged. ”Don’t say anything, don’t try to make me feel better because I don’t feel sad or embarrassed or awkward. I only wanted to tell you because I can only dance around for so long.” She waited a beat. ”And I might’ve overindulged on the egg nog.” Another beat. ”And I told myself that if by some miracle you came out here, I’d be honest with you whether you wanted to hear it or not.”
He finally looked at her, face impassive. ”Well. Thanks for your honesty.”
She grinned. ”Hey, who doesn’t want to hear that they’re compelling? Even though it’s a dead end road,” she finished quietly.
Something flashed across his face, faster than she could identify. ”Dead end? Are you sure you don’t have that knife around here?”
She laughed out loud and bumped his shoulder with her own. ”You know what I mean.”
He finally grinned in return.
She stood, brushing off invisible dirt. ”Well. I need to go drink a lot more. I promised Jessica that I would keep up with her, and she’s really slamming them back.”
He stood, and picked up their empty mugs. ”Oh, one quick thing.”
She looked up at him, realizing suddenly that he stood so close she could feel his body heat, and she forced her automatic hum of approval into a question. ”Mmm?”
“I agree.” His voice sounded gravelly. ”We should stay far apart and keep the banter shallow and witty.” Was he leaning closer?
She swallowed. ”Of course, shallow and witty is my natural state, so that won’t be too difficult for me.” He was telling her to keep away from him. She curled her fingers into fists to keep from reaching out to touch him.
His mouth quirked up in a grin, then suddenly he asked quietly, “Why are you with him?”
She blinked at his sudden desire to confront the elephant in the room. ”Uhm. What?”
He made an impatient gesture, his eyes intent. ”If we’re not going to have a serious conversation after this, then I’m going to ask my deep burning questions now.”
“Well…” she shrugged. ”He loves me. He knows me. He’ll be a good father, good husband. If I don’t have the fireworks and the fiery passionate craziness, that just means I’m a grown-up now, right?” She looked down at her fingers, twisting and clenching over one another.
“So he’s safe.” His voice was flat, a low monotone.
Her head snapped up, eyes angry. ”And?”
“And it’s a copout and you know it! You’re choosing the safe, steady path because you’re too afraid to risk anything, but the whole point of loving someone is that you risk everything, every day, all for that person who makes you so crazy with love and fear and anger that you’re dizzy every time you look at them, and they’re so irresistible to you that you’re practically ‘compelled’ to seek them out using the flimsiest of excuses just so you can be near them for a few blessed hours before parting ways again until the next time.” His voice had steadily risen until he was shouting, hands stabbing the air to make his point.
Her mouth hung open in shock. ”How dare you!”
He suddenly dropped the mugs on the lawn, grabbed her upper arms and yanked her to him, kissing her hard on the mouth and releasing her just as suddenly. ”Stay away from me!” he shouted, and turned to go inside.
She reached out to pull him back, whether to shake him or slap him was undecided, but he turned back and slid his arms around her just as she flung her arms around his neck, and their mouths fused in a desperate kiss, full of anger and longing and frustration and pent-up desire.
When he finally released her, there were tears on her cheeks. He gently touched her jaw with the back of his hand, and said quietly, “Go back inside, you’ll freeze out here.”
Her lips parted for a moment, and she hesitated, about to speak. But he bent down to pick up the forgotten mugs, and she relented, stumbling back inside the house, head whirling.
and after the sugar rush comes the crash…
Gag me with a ladle.
I read New Moon.
It’s like she read Wuthering Heights and said, “Gee, those two kids aren’t nearly angsty or psycho enough; what can I do to add to that?” Also she decided to portray them in a more “romantic” light by adding a thousand and one positive (or purple-prosaic) adjectives to the tale.
And she’s not so good at the subtle paralleling Romeo and Juliet, either. I always hated that story because the kids were far too impulsive for their own good. And I had no patience for those who would romanticize them because they die. What is the point of making a grand romantic gesture when it ends in death? I fail to understand.
Ugh.
Excuse me while I go throw up.
I started to read Eclipse, but I couldn’t get past her father’s (extremely accurate) Voice of Reason, which she (of course) promptly disregards.
“I don’t think you should dump all your other friends for your boyfriend, Bella,” he said in a stern voice. ”It’s not nice, and I think your life would be better balanced if you kept some other people in it. What happened last September…”
I flinched.
“Well,” he said defensively. ”If you’d had more of a life outside of Edward Cullen, it might not have been like that.”
“It would have been exactly like that,” I muttered.
What.
The.
Hell.
What is wrong with her? What is wrong with people, that Bella’s life is full of acceptable logic? What is the draw for these books?
I have to laugh, because otherwise I’d turn all glitter-rage-sparkle-vengeance and smash.
I’ve had a few relationships. I was even deeply invested in them. There was one, in fact, that sent me into the spiraling depths of despair that Bella describes. However, I knew that if I spent time obsessing sulking dwelling on it, I’d turn into a zombie too.
So I threw my time and energy into my friends, various activities, and lots (and lots) of Friends. (What can I say. We all have our forms of escapism.) And hey guess what. As time went on, I was able to see that he wasn’t the best thing to happen to me, and that I was okay without him, and I was even happy.
I didn’t throw myself into a crutch relationship with another boy. I didn’t wake my apartment-mates screaming. I didn’t fall into a catatonic state. I moved on.
And actually, it’s better this way; I’m infinitely happier (and healthier) with the bf than I was with the ex. (Yeah, the ex could give Edward lessons in co-dependent psycho emotional-abuse.)
So I have very little patience for her stubbornness and her inability to pull herself out of the moping. SMeyer tries to make her sound heroic, cast her in a sympathetic light for all her suffering, but it just makes me wish I could reach into the book and throttle her. I don’t blame any of her “friends” for refusing to speak to her. (Poor, puny mortals with your normal lives and your average human qualities.)
::stretches for something positive to say::
Jacob is the healthiest of all the characters that she’s written. (so far; I hear has a weird personality transplant in Eclipse.) But honey, as the brilliant cleolinda puts it,
(Jacob, give up. Also, any guys somehow reading this: sometimes, girls get fixated on guys, to the point where they’ll drop whatever they’re doing, whoever they’re with, to run to them. Give up on those girls. If they can’t collect themselves and make that choice to stay with you, they’re not ready to treat you with any kind of respect. I’m saying this from an observer’s experience here.)
yeah. It’s sad but true. Don’t waste your time. Somebody worthwhile is bound to notice you; don’t spend your time bashing your head against a brick wall.
also, she ties in WH very well.
[Jacob is] far too good and normal for her. Notice how she can’t even pay attention to him? It’s because she’s exactly like Cathy Earnshaw–she can’t function unless she’s got Heathcliff to bounce her angst off. (Have I ever told you my theory that Wuthering Heights is not romance but actually horror, about two emotional sadomasochists who lay waste to everyone around them, using them as pawns in their own personal war of attrition? Because, I mean… that’s pretty much the whole theory. ~The More You Know~)
It makes me sad fills me with frustrated anger. The whole mopey “I’m not worth it” angst that Bella has, Edward’s inability to understand how she could believe him when he lied to her face (also the lack of apology and how she just kinda went “oh well I still love you let’s just forget anything bad ever happened” and got annoyed with her dad for being normal and a father)…
::deep breath::
These books are sooo bad! There’s no concept of adulthood! It’s written from a teenager’s standpoint, and of course they already know everything, so anyone who could offer a voice of reason is portrayed as distant or helpless in some other way (see: Renee’s childlike view of the world as well as her physical distance, Charlie’s inability to cook as well as his emotional distance, and the blatant portrayal of Billy Black in a wheelchair).
And those who could be adults, even though they are eternally 17-25? Carlisle and Esme are distant until after confrontation, always about twelve paces back, unable to tell Edward to take a chill pill and stop being such a drama queen, even when he needs a giant (and swift) kick to the pants. Emmett and Rosalie are perpetually in their own world, apparently stuck at the emotional maturity of their physical age. The ones who become the usual “adults” in situations are also hobbled: Jasper’s bloodlust, suddenly a huge issue, and Alice’s inability to take charge because she’s a woman. (Notice how she won’t do anything proactive, only reactive, even though she can see the future. Jasper’s leaving? I must comfort. Edward’s off to kill himself? I must prevent. Edward’s scheming to keep Bella captive? I must assist!)
Augh. I need to go read some good fiction.
Sherlock Holmes, here I come.
The Storyteller… chapter 11
A/N: I’ve had a general sketch of where this story should go for a while, but it’s been slow going. It’s picking up a bit now, so I should be posting (somewhat) regular updates. (of course, now that I say that, who knows what’ll happen.) Thanks again for your reviews; they truly make my day!
Chapter 11
Wendy stretched, smiling sleepily, her arms above her head. She’d had such a delicious dream. It had been so difficult to sleep at first, but as she finally dropped off, she could have sworn that someone had been with her, lulling her to sleep with his steady breathing and soft touches to her hair. She slid her hand to the place beside her, only to find that the sheets were cold. Strange, I could’ve sworn…
The doors flew open with the now-typical flourish that preceded Smee’s appearance. She sat up in bed, blinking as he carried in a tray of questionable-looking porridge and a steaming cup of… something. But what caught her attention was the fact that he was accompanied by the Captain, looking as pristine as ever. She was suddenly aware of her tousled hair and the fact that she was clad in only a nightshirt—his shirt. Wendy hesitated, then drew up her chin, refusing to be intimidated by his mere presence.
“Good morning, Red-Handed Jill,” Smee said cheerfully as he placed the tray on the bedside table. “Did you sleep well?”
She smiled gratefully at the friendly pirate, realizing that she was hungry. “Yes, thank you.” She turned to the Captain, and offered a smile in truce. “Thank you, Captain, for the use of your quarters. It was quite kind of you.” And, she realized in surprise, it had been unexpected. Their discussion the night before had certainly raised a few questions in her mind. He’d been polite and courteous to her, while she had been tense and combative. Perhaps she needed to reevaluate both his position and her own.
His expression did not change, although she thought he seemed pleased as he said casually, “Well, we couldn’t place you below with the men; you’d never get out alive.” She flushed slightly, but couldn’t keep a cough of shocked laughter from escaping. His lips twitched in return.
Smee looked as if he were torn between amusement and embarrassment. “Yes, well, we have clothes in the hold that may fit you. When you finish eating, come find me and I’ll help you look through them. They’re not ladies clothes, but you can’t exactly be picky, now, can you.”
She merely nodded, and Smee turned and left the room. The Captain stood in the doorway, avoiding her gaze, looking at a book that he’d selected at random. He seemed uncharacteristically off-kilter, and she wondered where he’d spent the night, and whether he’d slept at all.
“Is there something you forgot, Captain?” she asked sweetly.
He hesitated, staring at the book he’d lifted, then looked up at her. “How long has it been, for you?” She looked so comfortable in his shirt and his bed that he nearly groaned. Why was she sent to torment him so?
She instinctively knew what he meant, and swallowed hard. “Years. Many years.” Much had happened since she’d last been in Neverland.
He looked confused. “Yet you say that I have not aged.”
She blinked. “I don’t recall mentioning such a thing,” she said, willing herself not to turn red. She could not let him know that she had memorized his every characteristic, that she had been so aware of him in her younger days that she’d been able to tell instantly that every line on his face had been the same. Her attention had not changed, either; she was still hyper-sensitive when it came to the Captain.
He relented, surveying her silently for a moment, then said softly, “The men do need a Storyteller, Red. Simple pirating is not enough. It never has been.”
Suspicious of this apparent non sequitur, she nodded wordlessly. He closed the book, put it on the shelf, and left the room without another word.
Wendy bit her lip as she pulled the breakfast tray towards her. A Storyteller was needed, and she just so happened to have thousands hidden, repressed deep inside. Perhaps she could truly become Red-Handed Jill once again. It wouldn’t bring back all of her memories, would it? Some could still stay hidden?
-+-
Wendy made the giant bed, then donned her clothes from yesterday and went to find Smee. She was pleased to discover as she walked that while her wounded leg still throbbed with pain, she was able to get by with a limp. She wouldn’t need a stick to lean on.
Smee took her down to the hold, chattering all the while. As she walked through the ship, she was uncomfortably aware of the many eyes upon her. She wondered if the Captain had made a general announcement about her presence on board, for the eyes did not seem curious, but simply watchful. Some felt rather predatory, however, and she quickened her step behind Smee as he led her to the giant trunks in a corner of the hold.
“Here we are.” Smee groaned with effort as he opened one. An explosion of fabric lay inside, and he began pulling out pieces of clothing, one by one. “We’ve been gathering booty for so long that we never know exactly what we have anymore. We’ve gone through about eight cabin boys, and I’m sure some of them left their old clothes behind, so we’re bound to find something to fit you,” he said kindly.
She pulled aside shirts that looked about her size, and found a few pairs of trousers that could fit. There was so much inside the first trunk that they didn’t need to look inside the second, although Smee insisted upon opening it as well.
As she looked at all of the fabric, an idea came into her head. “Smee,” she asked cautiously. “You say that you and the men never use these clothes?”
“Not to my knowledge, no,” he said, then looked at her curiously. “Why do you ask?”
A slow smile began to cross her face. “Oh, no matter. I need to bring something up with the Captain later.” She got to her feet, stretching out the soreness in her leg, and began to help him put the clothes away. “Tell me, is there anything I can do to help pull my weight around here?”
Smee paused. “Well, you could ask Cookie if he needs help fixin’ the meals. The man’s a master chef but I’m sure more hands won’t hurt. Anything else and you’d be stuck with the men for long periods of time, and that wouldn’t be fun for anyone, least of all you.”
She smiled at Smee even as she fought back a shudder, grateful for his thoughtfulness. “Well, would you show me where to find Cookie?”
-+-
Wendy growled at the full five-gallon buckets she was attempting to drag towards the stairs. The cook hadn’t taken kindly to her intrusion upon his domain, and had relegated the task of water retrieval to her. Of course, the freshwater hold was kept down two flights of stairs; something about the necessary relocation due to dry rot and rat infestation had been muttered as he’d shoved the buckets into her arms and pointed her to the steps. She’d shouldered her burden and marched away, as best she could. It seems the man took a personal dislike to her, and had decided heavy labor would be the best punishment. Had he heard her thoughts on the porridge that morning?
“Men,” she muttered as the bucket sloshed alarmingly. “Too stubborn to know what’s good for them.”
Footsteps sounded down the shadowy corridor, and she fought against the sudden pounding of her heart. She hadn’t seen the Captain since his cryptic words before breakfast, and he was not likely to show his face down here. She forced her breath to slow; she did not like the way her heart leapt at the first sound of boots on the steps. Calm down, Red. He’s a bloodthirsty pirate who may or may not be holding you captive on this boat. Simply because you happen to dream about him in disturbing detail does not mean that reality will comply with your imagination.
Yet she still looked up eagerly as the footsteps drew nearer, only to see an impeccably dressed pirate making his way down the steps towards her.
She waited, shoulders back, eyes focused on the bucket, hoping that the man would simply ignore her and walk by. She moved back into the wall as he approached, giving him ample room to pass her, but he suddenly stopped and looked at her. His immaculate appearance began to fade upon closer inspection; he appeared out of place in the spotless clothes, as if he were playing a part, but felt ill at ease in the material.
His expression, however, was what caused chills to run down her spine; his gaze was fixed upon her and there was a hint of hatred as well as anger and desire on his face. Yellow eyes narrowed as he closed in on her personal space. “Well, if it ain’t the Captain’s newest pet,” he growled, his breath making her gag.
“Please step aside; I need to be on my way,” she said resolutely, but he moved in closer and lifted a hand to trail down the side of her face. She flinched away, but he pressed closer still and chuckled. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end in sudden premonition.
She tried to push him aside, but he grabbed her forearms and squeezed, making her bones nearly grind together and bringing tears to her eyes from the pain. “Now, now, girlie, I’ve had my eye on you, and you’re going to appreciate it proper, like a good girl should.”
Oh, God, here came the memories. Wife is second to Husband. When will you learn to speak properly to your betters? If I’m going to marry you and take you out of this hovel, you are going to learn some respect! He had appeared so pleasant at first, and her family had liked him. Too bad the most innocent looking sheep often turned out to be the worst kind of wolves.
She shook off the past and focused on the alarming present. “Let me go,” she said firmly, willing the tears in her eyes to disappear even as she wished her voice could be louder.
The pirate laughed. “Why isn’t that charming, she’s trying to tell us what to do.” Fear rose in her as she realized he wasn’t talking to himself, that another man had appeared in the small corridor. Her odds had just gone from bad to worse.
Making up her mind quickly, she flew into action. Twisting her wrist around, she kneed him in the groin and pulled away as he let go and yelled in surprise at the pain. Whirling around, she raced towards the stairs only to find herself falling suddenly. The second pirate had tripped her, and was pulling her backwards by her injured leg. She kicked out desperately, but the first man was stepping over her now and pulling her up by her hair. She gave a strangled cry of pain, but he punched her in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her.
Panic flooded her, and she found herself desperately crying, “No, please stop, not again,” wordlessly as they pushed her against the wall. Help, please help me. The first man grabbed her neck and began steadily squeezing as the world slowly went black.
-+-
The Captain was moving before he realized it, striding, nearly running across the deck of the ship to get down into the hold. His men moved out of his way quickly once they saw the look in his red eyes; they recognized the spectre of death in his gaze.
He couldn’t quite understand the deep-set trepidation that motivated him; he only knew that if he didn’t get somewhere now, something horrible was going to happen. As he raced down the stairs, he heard a yelp, then a thud from the darkened corridor ahead. Another voice cried out, and his blood ran cold. Help, please help me.
Wendy.
