Presence

You are the one I fear most.

I can't meet her eyes. I stare at the muddied carpet as she pulls the bandage tight around my left bicep--a bit too tight, her anger just showing through. I deserve it. I wince but say nothing. I feel her hesitate momentarily before she moves to my back. Her hands are gentler as she applies a salve to the already purpling bruises. The touch of her fingers is cool. Would almost be soothing. My eyes are rooted to the nap of the green wool carpet. I tracked a deep, silt-coloured mud when I came in, but it's begun to dry. The smaller splashes have turned grey, attached themselves to individual fibres and become part of the carpet.

"Why are you still fighting?"

I can't answer her, and I can't meet her eyes. If I did, if I tried, she might find out the truth--one which I'm sure she already suspects. How could she not know, with her powers? Is that not the root of the disapproval in her eyes when she looks at me? The disappointment lurking in the hazel depths with every new wound and every old scar she discovers on my body? All I can do is pray she misunderstands what she reads in my heart. Which is why I can't speak to her now, though I ache to, for fear of further betraying myself. Because if she laid out my sins before me and passed judgement, I...

The silence stretches out between us, eloquent only of my guilt. I realize she has finished her treatment. I feel her forehead warm against my nape, her hair brushes softly against my back.

"I'm worried about you." Her arms slide loosely around my waist. "But I don't know what to do for you."

I resist the urge to touch her hand. I want to turn into her embrace, be warm and secure like I used to. But I'm too cold inside to move, and I don't deserve the comfort.

The larger blotches have almost finished drying; stiff islands of grey in a sea of forest green. I stand. Her arms fall away. I feel colder than before.

"Why?" she asks, as I reach the door to my room. I turn. Maybe at this distance she won't see my eyes. I see her looking at me, searching for her little brother and not recognizing him in the man before her. The pain in her expression deepens. She who taught me to take what blows the world might give without flinching. "A friend wouldn't do this."

No.

She sees her words have stung, begins to take them back. She can't know how deeply they cut--but not for the reason she would guess. I drop my eyes again, the mockery of a smile twisting my lips.

"Not if he had the choice," I answer.

I slip into my room and lock the door before she can speak. I lean against it and close my eyes. I can see her looking after me against my lids, confused and hurt. Then her shoulders sag, her long brown hair cloaks her face. When she lifts her head again, her mask is in place. She will light a cigarette and let it hang from her lips as she puts away the bandages. Then she will retreat to her own room. The house will be still.

I wait there, my back arched so that only my shoulders and the top of my head touch the wood, until I hear the latch of my sister's door click. The ensuing silence lends an extra chill to a badly insulated house on an autumn evening. For another moment I stand there, before fatigue makes me dizzy and I cross my room to collapse on my bed.

My body is instantly afire again. It wouldn't have done any good to lie differently--there isn't an inch of my body not in agony. And now that I am alone, I can finally revel in it. Because I prefer the company of my injuries to that of anyone living. Because every twisted ligament and swelling bruise was inflicted by you. Because every pang and every throb that runs up my spine to explode in my brain makes your presence in this room as real as if you were lying in my arms.

I stare past the ceiling, let my vision fade to white. I haven't the strength to drag myself into the shower--and I prefer it this way. Your scent is still on me from when we grappled, faint but there. My sister asked me why. Because this is the only way I can keep you with me. Because this is the most of you I can have. It's been maybe two weeks since the last time, and before these wounds have faded I'll do it again.

She said a friend wouldn't do this. It's true. When I was your enemy you hit me without compunction. You didn't pull your blows. Now by becoming my friend you would deprive me of everything--the one thing I am still living for. You deny me the splendid show of your superior strength, holding back because you don't want to hurt me.

You don't wait for me in the street with your fists clenched in your pockets. If I'm lucky you spare me a slap on the back before our job begins. I have to work so much harder for even a tussle. I have to risk a lot for the all-out brawls that keep me alive. For those few seconds stretching into a minute when you forget yourself, your brown eyes flash fury, and you tear into me with the passion you now reserve for your enemies.

If I was stronger... perhaps I could be your rival again. Perhaps I could make you angry or insecure enough to fight me with no reservations. Perhaps we could hammer each other into the ground the way I've seen you do with your more powerful adversaries. But I am by far your inferior. And so the best I can do is to make sure during our brief altercations that you inflict much more damage than you think. Then I limp away, leaving you to think all you've done is bruised my pride, and savour the pain in the interim. Because if you knew what was really happening, you would never touch me again. Because...

Because the one I fear the most is you.

What is it that I dread? That I lie awake anticipating or wake in a cold sweat from dreams of? Not that you will come to hate me--I've wished for that--but that you will cease to care. That you will realize just how much separates us. That instead of staying long enough for me to pick a fight, when I spring at you with my fists upraised you will simply brush me aside. You're capable of it now; I know. But you have enough regard for my pride that you'll still fight if I try hard enough. But when you lose that regard... I'll have nothing. Which is why I let weeks pass between our arguments rather than challenging you every day as I used to. Which is why I have to let you hurt me worse every time--so that I can still feel your touch a week later, even when all you do is nod a greeting. Because...

Because what I fear most is your indifference.

I try to chase such thoughts from my mind. I have what I need from you, for now. I throw my head back into my pillows and reach between my legs. If only temporarily, I have to quench the fire I have tried to make you beat out of me for years. I grasp it in my hands, the physical manifestation of what I originally mistook for hate. Maybe if I had recognized it at first, things could have been different. But I doubt it.

Forget it. Hypotheticals don't interest me now. I only want to lose myself in the physical. In my recreation of you. You are here with me, though you don't know it. In every muscle that hurts to move, in the split lip that stretches painfully every time I open my mouth.

My sprained arm, twisted shoulder and bruised knuckles make the hands that grasp me yours. Suddenly I feel you behind me. I wonder how you got in without my noticing, how you managed to slip into my bed. But of course it's just another proof of your superior capabilities. I wonder why you chose now. You pull me in between your legs, your knees pressing against places you kicked me earlier. Your chin rests on my shoulder and I twist to see you. You smile--that lopsided grin that means you'll indulge me--that "Sure, what the Hell!" expression that means I've gotten what I wanted... but probably not the way I wanted to go about it.

I don't remember when I got undressed, but you, of course, are fully clothed. Why would you bother to undress for me? Your chestnut eyes glitter knowingly. "What, was this all you wanted?" You sound amused. "All you had to do was ask."

Of course, how stupid of me. I gasp as your hand starts moving on my length--slow, firm, not rough, but forceful enough to make it clear I shouldn't object. As if I would ever protest anything you chose to do to me. My head lolls back. I feel your lips curve against my cheek. You don't kiss me--why would you? I feel the pressure of your other hand where you bruised my ribs today. I'm already exhausted to near death, so I let you--not that I would resist, even could I--pull me back, tightly against you. You're going to hurt me, of course--when have I ever asked you for more? But I can feel it, I am pressed up against it--the physical evidence that you need it, too. That you need me, if not as badly as I you.

You enter me as if you're doing me a favour--slowly, evenly, you are completely controlled. You let me know that if I want your involvement, your passion, I'll have to work for it. I'll have to provoke you far enough to really care. So I try. I throw what little energy I have left against you, torn between the frustration of the denied reaction and being much to full of you to care. And finally I get your response. Your chin digs deeper into my shoulder and your grip on my battered ribs tightens almost unbearably, further constricting my ragged breathing. You pull me down against you and thrust up into me with that fury that I love so much. The abandon that means, 'Just for now, I'll forget that I shouldn't be doing this. I'll forget that you don't deserve it.'

I hardly need your hand--I'm concentrating so hard on you. I sob out my climax when I feel you come inside of me. Your warmth penetrates me everywhere, robs the air around me of its chill. I hold the evidence. Of what exactly, I don't know, but I have it. I fall on my side. I want to turn and throw my arms around you, but I can't seem to find them--yours are still where they were: one hand between my legs, one pressed just under my heart.

You are of course, gone before I find the energy to roll over and see you again. Proof once more of your superiority that you get out of my windowless room without using the door--indeed without leaving any traces anywhere.

But I can still feel you. All through me. In everything that hurts. And what hurts most of all is that when I see you tomorrow, you and I will both act as though none of this happened. And I'll have to continue living like this... until you finally kill me, or someone else does. That thought is a comfort. Even tomorrow could be our last job. I don't care where I'm sent. No one can intimidate me now. And I no longer fear death.

Because the only one I fear is you.

--Utopian Trunks, June 27th, 2000

So, did you figure out who it was? Just to clarify, I don't think this is the actual psychology of the character in the canon, it's just an alternate possibility that occurred to me... In any case, I'd love any feedback on this one...

E-mail me (Go on, tell me I belong in a mental institution.)
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