I remember seeing you for the first time from across the room. You were seated at the bar, bidding someone goodbye, a client, I assumed, only twenty one and full of charm. The bartender poured you a drink, something you weren’t allowed to have, I believe, and you smiled at him. I remember vividly how full of light you seemed to be, but the moment he turned around, your mask seemed to slip and I caught sight of something dark just below your glowing skin.
Nothing in a brothel is real, not the sex and definitely not the charm, but in that fraction of second, I saw something real in you, raw and unpolished, not meant for show, but to be kept in your own inner darkness. Do you remember what was the first thing I ever said to you? After I threaded through the crowd of strangers masked with faux charm and took a seat on the stool by your side at the bar. After you looked at me for the first time with curious and careful eyes. Do you remember?
I said I would buy you a proper drink if you didn’t lie to me and you didn’t. I thought you wouldn’t. I don’t know how I knew you wouldn’t, but I did. Maybe I just needed to believe someone wouldn’t. I took you into a room and I heard your story. I could read it on your face when you kept some of the details to yourself. I could tell which parts you were ashamed of by how your heartbeat raced in your chest. You didn’t lie and that was enough for me at the time.
It took me a long time to understand the reason why you stayed with me after we left Ibiza. It wasn’t for the places I showed you, was it? The comfort and the riches we shared across the globe. You claimed you had nothing in Russia. You said you had nothing but me. That wasn’t true, though I wonder whether you are aware of it. No, perhaps you kept me company at first because I was curious, a creature who stepped out of your imagination, terrible and worth getting to know better.
After the novelty wore off, though, it was your own stubborn heart that kept you around. Even before we were more than master and servant, you served your heart to me. You didn’t do just as you were told. Did you ever do that? I don’t think so. You have always been reckless, an impulsive creature with too much in his mind. You did more than take care of my schedules, organize my belongings and offer me your company. You made sure I was taken care of even when I didn’t want you to.
You forced me to feed when I didn’t feel like eating. You kept me company when I was alone. You never asked for much in return for your devotion, thankfully, for I don’t think I can ever repay you for that. You cared too quickly, too openly and too deeply, so much so that by the time I realized your feelings for me, I had already hurt you. There is a part of me that still wonders whether what you feel for me isn’t just the product of gratitude and loneliness, but maybe doubt is a product of my own guilty conscience.
In the end, I didn’t really set you free, did I? Or is love not a shackle in its own? I don’t understand the first thing about it and I won’t pretend to.
We are a mess. I am too selfish and you are too selfless. You make friends wherever you go while I make enemies. You sacrifice everything for others and I’d sacrifice them for you. What is it about me that you are drawn to? Is it your predisposition for self-destruction? Are you looking to be broken beyond repair? I am good at that. Sometimes I wonder whether there’s anything left I can offer you at all, anything but danger and trouble. I know you are good for me and if I lost you, I would revert to an earlier version of myself, something wicked and cold. Maybe you keep these inner monsters at bay. Part of me hates that you hold such power over me. I never meant to give it away. Most of the time it’s easy to ignore how I feel about you, just tuck it somewhere at the back of my head and avoid thinking about it. Then the Red Witch happened. Then Houston happened. Then Marcel happened and it all forced me to think about what it would feel like to lose you.
