It was crazy how she'd thought of him as venomous when he called her the same. Maybe they were both the poison. Maybe they were both the antidote,Maybe what they thought would infect them was going to cure them after all.
Trust was paramount, pivotal, powerful. If she couldn't trust someone to carry her baggage, how could she share it with them in the first place?
His hands began to play with her strands, in the way that she'd found hypnotic, lulling, on the street. It still was. She didn't understand why her brain felt it was safe for her to fall asleep, why it was sending those signals to her body. She didn't want to fall asleep, not like this, not with him and so many unsaid secrets between them, not when she didn't know what could happen.
But somehow, suddenly, her arms were like lead, her body heavy, her eyelids sluggish, made even more so by the gentle, repeated movement of his hands on her hair.
"We're not done," she mumbled. They weren't done talking. They would talk. But maybe after a nap.His steady heartbeat under her ear was nice. It felt so nice, just to stop her brain and let go.
"You seem to have a mistaken impression that you have a say in what I do with my life," she began. "Let me make it very clear. You don't. If I want to walk off a cliff, I will. If I want to take early morning walks with a handsome stranger, I will. If I want to apply for an award knowing it makes me bait, I will. You don't have a say in it."
Her chest was heaving by the end of the tirade, the number of words coming from her mouth surprising even her.
He sat still, watching her with icy eyes burning, the side of his mouth curled in that damn smirk. "Try it. Try walking off a cliff, I will block you. Try making yourself bait, I will catch you. And try being with another man, I will use his blood and make you the canvas."
She wanted to ask him,
"Can you maybe stroke my hair and make my mind quiet for a little bit, mute my demons long enough for me to rest for a bit?"
When does a war end? When can I say your name and have it mean only your name and not what you left behind?
It took him a few moments, not too many but still too many, before he exhaled and pulled back, loosening his grip in her hair, now gentling it, stroking it, petting it, following the bend of each curl with his fingers as he'd done with his pencil two months ago, the memory becoming core in her mind.
It was so soothing, the motion of his hands, almost lulling her, relaxing her so much she could have fallen asleep standing up in the middle of the street.
God, she was so tired.
She walked back to the residential block, not knowing what she was going to do to dispel this sense of restlessness that seemed to have taken over her life. It never quietened, not when she was awake, not when she was asleep, and there was a part of her deep inside that just wanted to lie down on the street and close her eyes until it passed.
She felt tired.
Loneliness made fools out of all of them.
And thus the heart will break,yet beokenly live on.
The hunter did not hate the wolf. The wolf did not hate the sheep. But violence felt inevitable between them.
Perhaps, I thought, this was they way of world.
It would hunt you and kill you just for being who you are.
Believing something does not make it true.
Something had to give.
Something had to snap.
Something had to break.
"I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun."
Caz van der Waal was an enigma, an unknown variable in her equation, an unsolved mystery, and she had always loved and hated those in equal measure.
Seeing her shaking against the door had almost made him want to turn her around and see the emotion in her eyes, see something there other than disdain and aloofness, the untouchable air she wrapped around her like a cloak, threatening to freeze anyone who got too close.
He'd tried not to. He had really, really fucking tried. But there she had been, shaking against the door, whimpering in a way he'd never expected her to, shedding outer skin to show him the stunning insides,
It had gone to his blood like shot of psychedelic, rushing to his head, his heart.
It was intoxicating.
She was intoxicating.
And all he'd wanted to do had been to capture it, capture her terror, her transformation, her transcendence.
He was an unknown, his motives unclear, his reactions uncertain. For all she knew, he could be directly involved in some of the deaths or know something about them; he could be killing people on the side for a special shade of crimson paint; or he could be involved in none of it. And for some reason, her twisted brain found the mystery of him even more attractive, like the opposite of a moth drawn to a flame, drawn to his darkness she could feel calling to hers.
"Regardless of what you do on the outside add love, law, or medication the inherent traits someone is born with don't go away. Take away the external factors and people revert back to who they are born as."
She saw his eyes flare up as she spoke in her icy tone, daring him to refute her.
"But it can be contained, can it not?"
The riveting eyes, the rumbling voice, the rugged face, the entire combination was making her heart pound for some reason as he continued staring at her with a glance she recognized, having seen it on herself a few times. It was the look of mentally splitting something open, looking at the insides, and unearthing everything to be unearthed about it. He looked at her like that.
It was not the thorn bending to the honeysuckles, but the honeysuckles embracing the thorn.
The weight of another gaze made her shift her focus to the man who had occupied her thoughts so annoyingly since she'd bumped into him that night at the beach. The one who drew over dead bodies and threatened people with pencils and held her up in the woods. It sounded ridiculous even in her own head, would have been ridiculous, had it been anyone else but him. He had an air around him, something chaotic, unpredictable, that made her feel off-center.
Caz. The Psycho Painter.
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