Cold Comfort IV: Here There Be

Written By: Lar

The face in the mirror is so fucking cold. The eyes are hard and black like chips of jet, obsidian slivers reflecting nothing from inside. The liner goes on so smooth, like you never stopped using it, like a baby finds its mother's breast the first time, instinct pure and simple. That's how the makeup goes on, black liner and dark shadow and red lips.

//Killer smile// And a flinch like you've been slapped at the thought, like it was out loud. That was new, that sensitive spot. Get rid of it, pack it away like you packed away all the other new things.

Put it in the box with the feelings of safety and security, of belonging, of being cherished and needed and wanted. Of being fine and sweet, of being accepted. Of being just you and still being here. Put that fucking flinch in there with it, wrap it up in the stupid blanket of vulnerability, and seal the box. Make it gone. Fed ex it to Hell or Sunnydale or someplace where someone might actually have some use for those feelings and emotions.

Replace it with the boots, with the liner and the lipstick and the black leather. The hard line of a cynical smirk instead of that weak-ass smile. Nothing soft in that mouth anymore. Try the grin again, get it right this time.

//Killer smile, baby!// Yeah, nailed it. The bitch is back.

Don't turn around when the door opens, when the scent of him drifts in to you, clean skin and baby shampoo, for the love of God. Don't turn around, even though there's no reflection in the damn mirror; you can just picture that look on his too-perfect face, the head down, eyes peering up like some puppy dog who got paddled with the morning paper. Put that back up straight. Too late for him, that stuff is already out the door. It won't work now.

And can you get rid of that fucking knot in your stomach? The one that matches the one in your throat right now, the one that's keeping you from telling him to fuck off, to take a stroll back into the sewers where he belongs, piece of shit that he is. You're the one in charge, he had his fucking shot and he pissed it away. He's even stupider than you are to think that there was going to be some miracle - praise Jesus, I been saved! Not too fucking likely.

Go ahead, look at him, might as well get it over with. Head up, hair tossed with the old spirit. Let him see you in full gear, all turned out in style. Watch his eyes take in the makeup you haven't worn for weeks. Let him gaze on the curves packed hot and tight in leather and denim, spilling out in all the right places. Let him remember that you gave it all to him, all of it, everything he sees and everything he never saw. He held you in his arms, body and soul, and he missed the part of you he couldn't see when you laid it at his feet. No matter how often you said the words, he was deaf to them and to the unspoken pleas.

//Too late, lover// But the words stick in your throat. All that comes out is that weak, sorry whimper that makes you want to smack your own face. He's going to pretend he didn't hear it but you know he did anyway. He hears the heartbeat rushing in your chest, let alone that pathetic noise you just made.

Walk over there, just go over and look him in the eye. Right in his face, that perfect, beautiful face that you had hoped to have near you - over you, under you - forever. The things you asked him to do, the things you granted him, just save them for another time when you aren't here anymore and you can afford the luxury of the tears you want to shed now. Get right up there. See the mouth that kissed you, the lips that have been over every inch of your body more times than you can count. See the eyes that you used to imagine held affection and maybe, just maybe, something else that you won't even let your brain try to form words for anymore. You said those words to that face, looked into those eyes, breathed yourself into that mouth. And it meant nothing at all to anyone but you.

Remember not to break down when you think about the times - all the God damn times - you bared your soul to him. Never to anyone but him, not ever. Trusted him to heal you, believe in you, trusted him to be the hero that he always was for everyone else. Of course he failed you. Everyone fails you. Why should he be any different?

Why? Because you never could say those things before, never could feel those things, never had those thoughts. Until that face was over you. Until those hands caressed you. Until every touch you received was one made in tenderness and acceptance and there was nothing there that was dirty or ugly. Because every time he was near you, you breathed in his goodness and let the darkness slip away. Because you actually believed the things your heart told you. Because you believed the dreams. Because you opened the gates, let him in the citadel of your soul.

Go ahead, watch him try to say something deep and meaningful on the outside, words all shiny and sparkling like something from the Penny Pincher - cheap and easy. Might as well let him press that knife in all the way home. And let's not forget how that knife he is pressing goes in even deeper than the last knife that cut you. That last knife put you away for how long? Take that number and multiply it by all the hopes you foolishly had that you'd finally come through the shit and washed yourself clean. Can you count that high? How many angels dance on the head of a pin? How many devils are dancing in your nightmares?

Just because he's crying now, not a single word spoken, doesn't mean you get to lose the only part of you that you have left. Just because every tear makes you want to reach out and kiss them away, it doesn't mean anything. It might mean that you're not the bitch you thought you were, but you can't let him see it. Did he think you'd be his toy forever? Did he believe you could stay and pour out your every dream and thought and emotion, like some eternal fountain just there to refresh him at his leisure? Did he think he could take and take and take, forever and eternally draining you of all you had to give without giving back the one thing you needed? Just one word, that's all you needed. And you told him over and over and a million times more.

No more chances now. That old girl is gone. Mailed off in the box, sealed up forever. His tears don't matter. The hands reaching out to you don't matter. What's here for you now? His lips on your hair? His arms pulling you in? His tears, cold as ice chips, sliding off his porcelain skin and dropping onto your forehead? The way they feel when you lick them up, salty as the ocean, shouldn't be making you raise your head up. You shouldn't be reaching out to lick them from his skin now. You shouldn't be.

You shouldn't be pulling that face down, nose to your nose, hands in his hair that's like silk on your fingertips. You shouldn't be kissing that mouth, your lips shouldn't be warming his.

Here's what you're left with now: arms around you, holding you tighter than you've ever been held. You've got his scent in your skin again. You've got the sound of his sadness in your ears, the oddest sound you've ever heard, something like the death of an exotic animal, a phoenix or a gryffin in its final moments. You never made those sounds yourself. But you know what they mean.

Here's that trap again, knowing it all but hearing none of it. And remember that you've got the kisses and the caresses right now, know that you can feel what he needs to say, you can practically read it printed on his skin, it's in his eyes, in the curve of his mouth when he opens it to kiss you again. But you're not hearing it. He won't say it, won't give you that. And that was where we started this whole thing, right? Goodbye to the girl who believed in what she felt. Goodbye to her, hello to the bitch. Hello to the one who can take care of herself and doesn't need anyone else.

So where is she now? Why is it that you're crying yourself and letting him kiss _your_ tears off _your_ face? Why are you washing away the makeup that you wore like a mask? He's kissing away your safety, your protection. He's taking the strength from you with his fingers when they wipe away the liner, when his mouth kisses off your lipstick, devouring your colors and leaving you bare again.

So why aren't you striking out? Why does the hand that should be raised in a fist only curve around his neck? Why does the mouth that should be telling him goodbye only open again and again for his lips and his tongue; why does the taste of him make it seem like everything else was wrong? Why are you clinging to him, asking without words for him to pick you up and hold you, when your boots should be carrying you out the door and into the sunlight for the first time in weeks?

And why - oh God, why - are you saying it again? Telling him those words, letting him have free access to your soul again, one more chance for him to trample on it in ignorance and refuse you the one thing that would bind you to him forever? Why do you need that verbal chain to tie you down? You know, you just know, that you're going to die waiting for that from him.

So, here you have it. You've got him wrapped around you again. You've got those arms holding you to the body that makes you weak to be near it. You've got the kisses on your lips and your cheeks and, Jesus, your hair and your eyelids. You've got tears mixed with your own. You've got his screaming silent plea for you to stay. You've got everything you ever wanted in this man, this place, this sanctuary.

And in one moment which you will have frozen in your mind forever, even if you live to be a hundred and twelve, you have his voice in your ear. And you have the words. You finally have the words.

The End

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