Jul 25, 2019 17:05:07 GMT
Post by CBE-177/"Anna" on Jul 25, 2019 17:05:07 GMT
It came as a shock to him. She the glassy look creep over has eyes, the distant expression, the tensing of his (sculpted, crafted) muscles. The remembering. So he did not forget what his other form did, at least not completely. He only shoved it off, avoided it. Hid from it. Slowly he made his way into the other room, and she followed. It was strange. To back away, to sit down, it was a display of the sort of weakness she despised so. Yet something in her seemed to catch, made her hesitate before passing judgment. He sat down, and after a moment's hesitation show lowered herself onto the armrest of the same couch. In this way their faces were on the same level.
She let him sit. Let him remember. And realized, as she did so, that perhaps she understood slightly what must be in his mind at this moment. For she too had an animal side to her, a ferocious predator that, if not sated with blood, was not fully under her control. Didn't she remember those many hours of trying to integrate the two, to find a path that was herself and not the beast? An integration that was, even today, unfinished?
Yes. She did know. And perhaps that made her look more gently on him than otherwise. He asked if she was "one of them" and slowly she nodded. She watched the expressions go by on his face: the confusion, the fear, the memories he had pushed aside rushing back. For all his great size and strength he looked very small. With a note of surprise she thought: Why, if he is a cat, then he must be a kitten! How strange. Where was the posturing she always associated with men? Where was the need to be bigger, stronger, more imposing? She had seen men afraid before, but it had always been an agry kind of fear, a fear that said how dare you be a threat to me; don't you know what I am. But this one had fear that ran him through and through. It was, she thought, unassuming. It was not a facade or fury that a facade had been broken. It was really, truly him.
Suddenly she had the immense urge to touch him. To tell him, somehow, that he didn't have to be afraid of what he was, that what he was was pure and swift and beautiful (not only the lion). It was as if she saw the spark of some distant fire in him, and in that second she was gripped by the possibility of what could be. As if- as if there was something good and important that they shared, and that it was vital, so vital, that he see it.
For a moment all she could do was stare. Her throat seemed to dry and tighten, an odd sensation given she had so little feeling there. She wanted so badly to speak but felt at a loss for what to say. But the moment could not be allowed to simply pass. Swallowing, she pulled out her phone and typed.
She showed it to him. She waited for his approval. And she began to write.
She didn't understand why she started to write. Or she did, but she had hidden it from herself, as he had hidden his lion acts. A dozen things seemed to come together in her mind at once. The beast in the forest, the romp and play. The kindness of the mand before her. Jack affectations and mocking sneers, so different from what Alistair showed her now. Cory. Cory in the old mattress factory, telling her she had to share to know others. It was as if everything had built towards this moment.
She had to swallow, twice. And she rubbed the back of her hand furiously at something in her eye and turned away so that he would not see. But she wrote, and she kept writing, and it seemed to all pour out of her at once, so that she could hardly stop and at the end had to drop the phone in his lap and turn away suddenly, hands clenched, eyes shut and looking away-
-because that was all she could say. And somewhere along the line she had lost track of what she meant, and everything she had written seemed wrong and not what she meant at all, yet she wrote it because it seemed she had to say something, because something in her had changed in a way she didn't understand and somehow or other she had to communicate this glorious and beautiful man and make him see himself, just once, the way she had in that moment.
She let him sit. Let him remember. And realized, as she did so, that perhaps she understood slightly what must be in his mind at this moment. For she too had an animal side to her, a ferocious predator that, if not sated with blood, was not fully under her control. Didn't she remember those many hours of trying to integrate the two, to find a path that was herself and not the beast? An integration that was, even today, unfinished?
Yes. She did know. And perhaps that made her look more gently on him than otherwise. He asked if she was "one of them" and slowly she nodded. She watched the expressions go by on his face: the confusion, the fear, the memories he had pushed aside rushing back. For all his great size and strength he looked very small. With a note of surprise she thought: Why, if he is a cat, then he must be a kitten! How strange. Where was the posturing she always associated with men? Where was the need to be bigger, stronger, more imposing? She had seen men afraid before, but it had always been an agry kind of fear, a fear that said how dare you be a threat to me; don't you know what I am. But this one had fear that ran him through and through. It was, she thought, unassuming. It was not a facade or fury that a facade had been broken. It was really, truly him.
Suddenly she had the immense urge to touch him. To tell him, somehow, that he didn't have to be afraid of what he was, that what he was was pure and swift and beautiful (not only the lion). It was as if she saw the spark of some distant fire in him, and in that second she was gripped by the possibility of what could be. As if- as if there was something good and important that they shared, and that it was vital, so vital, that he see it.
For a moment all she could do was stare. Her throat seemed to dry and tighten, an odd sensation given she had so little feeling there. She wanted so badly to speak but felt at a loss for what to say. But the moment could not be allowed to simply pass. Swallowing, she pulled out her phone and typed.
I must write something for you. It will take some time. Please allow me.
She showed it to him. She waited for his approval. And she began to write.
She didn't understand why she started to write. Or she did, but she had hidden it from herself, as he had hidden his lion acts. A dozen things seemed to come together in her mind at once. The beast in the forest, the romp and play. The kindness of the mand before her. Jack affectations and mocking sneers, so different from what Alistair showed her now. Cory. Cory in the old mattress factory, telling her she had to share to know others. It was as if everything had built towards this moment.
She had to swallow, twice. And she rubbed the back of her hand furiously at something in her eye and turned away so that he would not see. But she wrote, and she kept writing, and it seemed to all pour out of her at once, so that she could hardly stop and at the end had to drop the phone in his lap and turn away suddenly, hands clenched, eyes shut and looking away-
When I was a child my mother found me licking blood from the butcher's stairs. She told me I must stop and gave me a whipping. But I could not stop and when i did not drink it began to be like the blood was calling to me. so i sneak out and found where the blood for sausage was kept and i swallowed that and i had to keep doing it because i could not stop. and when they made me stop and kept me from it for days i went mad and killed a dog and was saber again when i tasted its blood I had to ahve it and i must have it still I must hunt and i cannot stop. when i smell blood I must get it anmd when i do not I grow wild. but I am a person. I am trying not to be split in two. there are not two selves but only one self. I was in another place once and they said I was a monster because of how the blood rages took me. that i know is not right. they said i would hurt someone and i did but it was all right. it is not blood rage that makes a monster it is wickedness and cruelty and it was they who were wicked. i am triyng to tell you that you should not be afraid but this does not sound right but you are no cruel and i donot know what to say any more but I must tell you this I do not know how to say it except that
-because that was all she could say. And somewhere along the line she had lost track of what she meant, and everything she had written seemed wrong and not what she meant at all, yet she wrote it because it seemed she had to say something, because something in her had changed in a way she didn't understand and somehow or other she had to communicate this glorious and beautiful man and make him see himself, just once, the way she had in that moment.
