closed my eyes and steadied myself with a hand on the counter. I pictured myself coming up behind him, sliding my arms around him, flattening my palms against his chest, kissing the place where strongshoulder rose to elegant neck, pressing my breasts against his back.
It was almost overpowering. I think I would have done it, except for the fact that I knew what would happen the moment I made physical contact with him. Far more than the images on his flesh would have flooded my mind. I would have touched him and been assaulted by detailed memories of each horrorâthe wicked things done, the games endured, the punishments that could drive a person mad.
It would have been a high price to pay simply to let my lips brush his neck. And yet such was my loneliness and my sad longing for him, that it still seemed possible.
I pushed the thought aside, feeling frustrated, and with my loneliness only exacerbated.
I made him another sandwich. Meat this time. He ate it. I gave him his dried shirt. He put it on and left.
I kicked the stool heâd been sitting on, and hurt my toe.
I ate and took a bath. Normally I bathe in the morning, but morning doesnât seem to mean here what it used to mean in my old life. I didnât have a schedule.There was no set wake-up time.
In my old life I seldom took baths per se; I preferred showers. But I didnât want to sleep just yet, I wanted to think. I wanted to soak in hot water and think about who I was now and what I might yet be.
I would become the Messenger of Fear, that much was decided. I had taken the punishment on myself, and I did not regret it. I had caused a girlâs death. Yes, I had done that, motivated by spite and jealousy. I hadnât meant for Samantha Early to shoot herself in the head, but I had nevertheless caused it to happen. I had only meant to hurt her, never to kill her. Just a poison thorn, and yet her heart had died.
As hard as this new life was for me, I did not regret my decision to accept the responsibility and the penance that came with it. There are things we do in this life that are wrong but not terribly important. There are things we do that are wrong but that we can make right, mostly right at least. But this was neither of those kinds of wrong. What I had done was deadly and permanent. Punishment should fit the crime.
I was restoring the balance.
When I had completed my time, first as apprenticeand then as a messenger, I would feel that I had a right to resume my old life, though I was not certain such a thing would happen. I would never be able to undo what had been done, but I would have done all I could to pay for my sins. Beyond that . . .
The water was hot, just on the edge of painful, and there was no bubble bath to obscure from me the sight of my own body. I looked down at myself, at frappuccino flesh bent by waterâs refraction, and imagined myself as covered in tattoos as Messenger. It would happen, I knew that. The day would come when I would not be able to bear looking at myself this way. And no boy would ever be able to tolerate touching me.
That was what made the longing so terrible, I realized. Because it wasnât just some crush, or even desire in the usual sense of that word. It was a realization that for me the door to all of that messy, complicated, emotional reality was beginning to close. Even now any boy who touched so much as the back of my hand, or rubbed my neck, let alone kissed me, would be sickened by the images that would flood his mind.
I am not to be touched.
Never?
What did it matter? Was I still laboring under the pitiful misconception that I had some pride to defend? Was there someone I was trying to impress with my stoicism?
I was alone. I would someday be free of this duty, but I feared that I would be forever alone.
And there, just behind my closed eyelids, was the image of Messenger. No wonder I had stared at him so hungrily. No wonder Oriax had so quickly deduced what would happen
It was almost overpowering. I think I would have done it, except for the fact that I knew what would happen the moment I made physical contact with him. Far more than the images on his flesh would have flooded my mind. I would have touched him and been assaulted by detailed memories of each horrorâthe wicked things done, the games endured, the punishments that could drive a person mad.
It would have been a high price to pay simply to let my lips brush his neck. And yet such was my loneliness and my sad longing for him, that it still seemed possible.
I pushed the thought aside, feeling frustrated, and with my loneliness only exacerbated.
I made him another sandwich. Meat this time. He ate it. I gave him his dried shirt. He put it on and left.
I kicked the stool heâd been sitting on, and hurt my toe.
I ate and took a bath. Normally I bathe in the morning, but morning doesnât seem to mean here what it used to mean in my old life. I didnât have a schedule.There was no set wake-up time.
In my old life I seldom took baths per se; I preferred showers. But I didnât want to sleep just yet, I wanted to think. I wanted to soak in hot water and think about who I was now and what I might yet be.
I would become the Messenger of Fear, that much was decided. I had taken the punishment on myself, and I did not regret it. I had caused a girlâs death. Yes, I had done that, motivated by spite and jealousy. I hadnât meant for Samantha Early to shoot herself in the head, but I had nevertheless caused it to happen. I had only meant to hurt her, never to kill her. Just a poison thorn, and yet her heart had died.
As hard as this new life was for me, I did not regret my decision to accept the responsibility and the penance that came with it. There are things we do in this life that are wrong but not terribly important. There are things we do that are wrong but that we can make right, mostly right at least. But this was neither of those kinds of wrong. What I had done was deadly and permanent. Punishment should fit the crime.
I was restoring the balance.
When I had completed my time, first as apprenticeand then as a messenger, I would feel that I had a right to resume my old life, though I was not certain such a thing would happen. I would never be able to undo what had been done, but I would have done all I could to pay for my sins. Beyond that . . .
The water was hot, just on the edge of painful, and there was no bubble bath to obscure from me the sight of my own body. I looked down at myself, at frappuccino flesh bent by waterâs refraction, and imagined myself as covered in tattoos as Messenger. It would happen, I knew that. The day would come when I would not be able to bear looking at myself this way. And no boy would ever be able to tolerate touching me.
That was what made the longing so terrible, I realized. Because it wasnât just some crush, or even desire in the usual sense of that word. It was a realization that for me the door to all of that messy, complicated, emotional reality was beginning to close. Even now any boy who touched so much as the back of my hand, or rubbed my neck, let alone kissed me, would be sickened by the images that would flood his mind.
I am not to be touched.
Never?
What did it matter? Was I still laboring under the pitiful misconception that I had some pride to defend? Was there someone I was trying to impress with my stoicism?
I was alone. I would someday be free of this duty, but I feared that I would be forever alone.
And there, just behind my closed eyelids, was the image of Messenger. No wonder I had stared at him so hungrily. No wonder Oriax had so quickly deduced what would happen
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