= Monsters Under The Bed =
by Katalyst
No, that's not true. I wasn't becoming anything. I had always been like this,
if I only let myself admit it. And I was nothing like Muraki. Nothing at all.
Muraki never played with other's hearts. Perhaps he found it boring, not
enough of a challenge, or even too much of one. He never cared to take someone's
emotions and twist them around, play the game of love with his victims.
Hisoka's body in my arms was tiny, fragile. So utterly perfect and breakable.
And I hated myself for holding him, for softly kissing his hair. Hated myself
with such a ferocity, that it seemed sometimes I would scream.
But I couldn't stop. Didn't really want to. Needed to have someone there...
not just -someone-, but someone like Hisoka. Vulnerable. Someone who I could
watch break apart in my arms, someone to convince myself that I could still
-feel- something, and that I wasn't, at least, as weak as they. Even though I
knew I was, had bowed and broken myself before under another's knowing touch,
the right words, a harsh caress.
Hisoka was perfect for me. Absolutely perfect, and it both thrilled and
scared me. I could lose myself in him, in kissing him, in convincing him, and
myself, that I loved him. But always, always the darkness came back, usually
when it was like this, him stretched out carelessly in my arms, asleep.
His only flaw was that it was almost impossible to really hide things from
him. His weakness, that wonderful emotional sensitivity, so easy to use to
convince us both of my pretty little lie, was also his strength. So I had to
hide my true feelings, deeper and deeper inside of me.
They came out when he dreamed. And I know what he dreamed about, imprisoned
in my arms in the shadows. I knew, even though he never told me, even when he
woke up shaking and crying.
He was dreaming that dark, ugly place of my soul, giving it a name, a face
that wasn't mine. He gave it Muraki's, and I breathed a sigh of relief and
shame.
He dreamt of being pinned to the ground, used, fucked until he was raw, and
his voice was long since screamed away. And he put it where he believed it
belonged - in the past, and never spoke about it, even to me. But I knew what
was behind his tired, bruised eyes, and I knew that it wasn't the past that
haunted him. It was the present.
And I hated myself, and I wanted to throw up when I thought about it. But I
couldn't stop. Couldn't stop touching him, torturing him night after night, as
he shuddered and cried in my arms, clung to me when he woke up, never realizing
that -I- was the reason he was crying in the first place.
He said he loved me. That I was human, that he -needed- me. But it wasn't
true, not any of it. How could he love me? I was a monster, disgusting and foul
and vile, worse than his murderer. He thought he needed me. What he really
needed was to realize what I was and run away. He wasn't safe with me. But he
wouldn't realize the truth, denying what his dreams told him, and I wouldn't
tell him, carefully locking it away in the deepest corners of my heart.
When I told him "I love you," he believed it. He didn't hear what I really
felt, because he needed the illusion almost as much as I did.
I was worse than Muraki, who was at least human. I was a demon. I knew I
would hurt him, tear him apart from the inside, so that he could never be whole
again. It didn't give me more than a moment's pause.
Because, you see, part of me hated him, almost much as I hated myself. Hated
the way he could just -move on-, even after everything that had happened in his
life, and I was stuck, unable to find my way out.
And I hated the way he was so damned pretty -- pure and innocent, fresh. So
unlike me. And I loathed the way he could soften his glares into genuine, shy
smiles, when mine were always such a mask, and the way he could fall so -easily-
into love, even though he had never had the chance to even love his family. And
the way he looked at me, so clearly, fearlessly.
After the beginning, he never flinched, not even knowing my past, or how much
blood stained my hands (far more than Muraki's) or when he held me as I poured
out my self-loathing. And he loved me. How could he love me? I was disgusting.
He must be disgusting too, to love something like me.
And I wanted to -kill- him when he first shyly whispered those words to me,
even though I knew they were coming, had seem them building for weeks, past all
his insecurity and fear, and wanted to kiss him and hold him and never let him
escape.
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