|Sequel to "All That I Can Get" and "Addict".
|She moved out last month, but no one's talking. I lasted one day
longer, or should I say night? He never said goodbye, regardless. But
would it have mattered? Whatever he said, would I have cared?
Probably not, but it doesn't make the fact that he didn't say it any less
He's changed his shift and I wonder with some sick, twisted jealousy if he changed it to be away from her or me. Both, I suppose. The two of us - she and I - have come to truce of sorts; at the very least a cease fire. Tom used to be the battlefront, to be conquered, lost, and won again. But somehow the war wandered away while we were plotting our strategies, and now we find ourselves uncomfortable allies in loss.
United, we watch him not watching us, from across the briefing room table. He answers questions but sees some distant point to the left of my shoulder. I find myself turning before I catch myself, to look over my shoulder for the sight of the century, for all the attention he gives it. And so it goes. Besides the official meetings I see him rarely, and we never talk. He flits in and out of my sights like a wraith, pale and insubstantial but all the more noticeable for his absence.
I talk to her now, and we wallow together, lying to each other, fooling ourselves. She says she doesn't love him but I know. I see the way her eyes devour him when he walks into the room; how her body responds to the pull of his. I know because I see it in me. For all the times I told myself it would be better alone than to have been there, with him like that, I lied. I want it all, I want him beneath me, opening himself for my body. I want to inflict my love upon him until he surrenders or until he bleeds.
So when I found myself standing silent over him, late at night, watching him in his uneasy sleep - I knew that we had gone past forgiving or forgetting. The words wouldn't even come anymore.
It was, is, about my obsession and his power and I still can't seem to move on. This hunger for him has become a tangible weight that chokes the air that I breathe, filling up the space between us all, connecting us without a touch. It forces our hearts to beat twice as hard to sustain the same bare existence. But I overcame.
Now, every other night, when I tell myself I'm only going to stand guard, protect him from her touch, I take him. Drinking in the sight of his pale skin and shadowed eyes. Smothering his tears beneath my hand, pouring my betrayal into him, re-marking the skin that she has so recently bruised, dragging us all down - and we feed on each other.
He watches me those empty eyes, and I've come to realize that he's content with this twisted love and he pulls us both in without a word, without a thought, until I know we'll never get beyond this. That we'll keep spiraling downward, out of control, until the ground rushing up to meet us is a blessing.
Deep as he goes, I'll follow. I don't know what else to do.
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