Relationship Dynamics Under Supernatural Compulsion, Late 19th Cen

[libraryofbabel]

The last of your wounds are just healing as you stumble in the door,¹ but you’re still reeling—just, glad, so glad to be home.²

███████ is waiting for you—no surprise, since you’re late—and you collapse against him, letting him fold you into his arms.³

“Michèle,”⁴ he says, softly, gently, “what happened?”

You’re… shaking, and curl in against him. “Had to fight, but—it’s all fine, I promise. It’s all right. I swear. I took care of it.”⁵

You can’t quite look at his face for fear of disapproval, but he tilts your chin up with a hand, firmly, and smiles. “You don’t have to look away,” he says. “Look at you—you’ve come so far, here. You've earned my trust. My clever, talented, lovely girl.”⁶

Your heart leaps—it’s not a reprimand at all, even though you’re in disarray and your clothes are bloodied, and all those kind words from his mouth… you stand on your tiptoes, leaning up to throw your arms around his neck and kiss him hungrily, not being able to get enough off his regard.⁷

And you think to yourself, as he presses you back against the wall, fingers already going to the buttons of your shirt, hands cool against your skin—

You think:

I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him—⁸

[1] It was at least, in that moment, a small favor that she had very much come out better in that fight; in the last few years, she had become very effective with the use of a knife in combat.

[2] This was not the home she grew up in; at this point, "home" was Paris, France, in a much nicer apartment than she could have imagined as a girl—clean, painted in light colors, airy, always with fresh-cut flowers. It should have been a place she liked.

[3] In that moment, she felt a sting of resentment—that she had gone through all of that for him. But she knew without him, she would be alone in the world.

[4] This was not her name. This had never been her name, and would never be her name. Still, she learned to respond to it.

[5] "Took care of it" was a clean and tidy way to say that she had committed a murder on his behalf. He never liked to get into the specifics, which she resented as well; if she were to tear her soul apart for him, she thought he should at least want to hear the details.

[6] To hear that kind of thing was always what she wanted, and never what he led with.

[7] It would be an overstatement to say that she liked him; however, during that time she thought she loved him, and as any sitcom of the modern era can demonstrate for you, love and resentment can easily exist side by side for years and years and years. She wanted to prove to him that she was worthy of his regard, of being seen as a peer—she wanted to devour him.

[8] At that point, she had killed him in her thoughts and her dreams hundreds of times over. It would be hundreds more before she eventually did.