Your gloves, my heart... Our future?
Sometimes, when I see you sitting there, I really believe that everything will turn out to be good, that world is a wonderful place to live in, that the scars in my heart will heal. Sometimes.
Sometimes you remind me of Kenn, of that boy, who was ready to fight of me, you remind me of that boy, who died by your hands. I still remember your face, when you thought you would get me, but I ran away from you. I have no desire to be a trophy that can be won in a fight. You tried to kidnap me, drag me with you by force. I would have come willingly if you only had asked!
Later you came back at my campfire. I felt the conversation, even though nothing was said out aloud. "I love you; come with me", you said. I shot you a serious glance and warned you: "I will deceive you, cheat on you, hurt you and left you behind broken. I accept only one chain, so ponder carefully what it will be. If you stand everything – my unfaithfulness, my betrayals, my lies – I will come back to you, cuddle up under your arm and never go away again." I sensed your next words, I could read them in your gaze: "I can change you." I felt the urge to point out that that was something many people mightier than you had tried to do, in vain. In the end I stayed silent and followed you to that city of strangers you called home.
From the start you were a puzzle to me, I never seemed to understand what you wanted. I thought I knew, but in reality I didn't. I offered myself to you, but you stormed out of the room. Later I found you on the balcony, crying. How fast you dried your tears and placed a smile on your face! That smile made me take a few steps back, it looked so real. I couldn't stop thinking how many of your smiles were like that. How many of them were just masks of sorrow hiding tears and pain behind them? On that moment, while watching your fake smile, I understood that I wasn't the only one capable of feeling mental pain. It was one of the most important things you ever taught me.
You wanted to have conversations with me and I'm still not sure how you endured the first months. Every night you took me to your room, lit candles, dimmed the room so it would not irritate my eyes. You saw barely anything yourself. We were sitting on your bed and you tried to discuss something with me. I acted like a teenaged brat: half the time I was yelling at you and the other half I was hiding behind my silent bitterness.
You treated me with silken gloves, quietly, tenderly, deceitfully. Every now and then I felt the touch of your silken glove and quickly as a flash I entrenched myself in my own bitterness, I built up my defencies of cold hatred. Everytime you retreated silently, calmly you gave up all the areas you had conquered. Everytime I swore you would never, ever, get so close again.
Until one night I realized that you were holding my heart in your hands. The silken gloves were lieing beside you on the bedsheets, and you were gently rubbing the wounds of my heart with your bare hands trying to make them scar beautifully. You were blowing warm air towards my heart, you tried to melt it with your breath. The vision was beautiful, so horribly beautiful that it almost broke my heart. You felt my pain, you didn't understand it, but you felt it. Like always, you let go of me, grabbed your gloves and quietly walked away. Then I finally understood why you did it. You slipped away, out of my reach, to the morning sun. And when the dusk fell, you would come back to try again.
That chain I had promised to accept: you wanted me to never hurt you or force you. Maybe you were afraid of me after all, feared my strength, my proud nature, my thirst for blood. Or then you just knew me too well.
Only once did I break my promise. I will remember it to the end of my days: how you lay under me shivering of fear and pain, how you inhaled with quick and hasty breaths. I wanted you to scream in agony, to beg for mercy. You kept silent, you didn't let out any sound. You were just looking at me and I could read the pain in your eyes. Even that annoyed me. At least you could have asked why I did this! I tore your skin, I ripped it with my claws. Why didn't you cry? Why did you prefer silence when I wanted you to scream? Why couldn't you just plea for mercy?!
I sliced your shoulder open. I drank too much your blood, more than I would have been allowed, more than I should have, more than what was safe. You were trembling because of bloodloss, but even now you didn't say anything. I grabbed you chin and turned your head, so I could look at you. I intended to shot you a cold glare and say one last threat, but your gaze made me freeze, it made me quiver. It was not angry, it was not blaming like I had hoped, it was sad. Only completely sad. Silently I knocked you out. I watched you while you drifted into the mists of unconsciousness. I took you into my arms, healed your wounds and cried in your hair.
We never talked about it after that and I never did it again. You acted like nothing had happened and I followed your example. The sadness in your eyes was the only thing that told me that you hadn't forgotten it and it made it impossible for me to forget it either. It ripped a new wound in my heart.
One night the room was again dimly lit, we had only one candle this time. We were sitting on your bed again, you were wearing your silken gloves and I had narrowed my eyes defensively. The usual setting, exactly same as every night. Except this night I felt something new, something weird. I turned suddenly and blowed out the candle. We were left in the dark. I knew that you couldn't see anything, that you were alone and abandoned in the darkness of the night. I reached towards you and pulled you on my lap, I embraced you like there's no tomorrow.
There we were sitting in the dark hugging one another. I felt your cheek on my own, you said only two words: "Thank you." And I realized that I had given everything I possessed to you: my heart, my body, my soul, my mind, my thoughts, my whole existence was given to you. Everything but my heart's wounds. You had already taken them to yourself.
"Turn me into a vampire", you whispered into my ear. There was nothing I would have done with more delight, but of course I had to warn you. I had to tell you that being vampire was not all the time only stylish clothes and mysterious charm. It was also murdering, escaping, prejudice, fear and sorrow. You reassured me that it was not a problem, that you couldn't care less what price you had to pay to be able to live with me forever. To live the nights of this world with me. After that night you never saw the sun again.
I'm looking at you and I can feel a tender smile playing on my lips. You are sound asleep beside me, not aware of my thoughts. I stroke your hair, my travel companion and mate. Mate. It feels unnatural, totally weird to call somebody, who is physically twice as old as me and by years three times younger than me, a mate. And I never believed that a relationship between people with agegap of over six years could ever work. Let's hope I was totally wrong, shall we.
Whatever happens to us in the future, I still owe you a lot, my dear.
The second story I posted here and again a one-shot. Like "Who opened the doors?" this is also translated from my mother tongue and written originally couple of years ago. What else to say about this story? I never did any notes about the characters or setting, so... yup, I remember next to nothing background info about this story. Feel free to ask something if you like, I'll try to answer if I recall the correct piece of information.
I'm not sure if that "silken glove" saying works in English, but in my mother tongue "to treat somebody with silken gloves" means that you are extremely polite, kind and avoid to offend somebody etc. In this story I wanted to make it less abstract.
And special thanks to Reflections of the Moon, who was the first person who reviewed "Who opened the doors?". You totally saved my day.