Hungry for Your Love || Francis and Penelope
@francisraynier
They lived in separate rooms, side by side, whiling away hours in resigned, terrified silence. Sometimes, she couldn’t remember why they had thought this was such a good idea. Was it simply too harrowing to go all the way back to his home or was it that the loneliness would simply be too horribly soul-crushing? There was some merit to the latter of the two. There were times when Penelope would lean her head against the wall, knowing by how loud his heartbeat sounded that he was right on the other side, and imagine actually being able to touch him safely. It would help, every now and then. At other times, it made her feel more lonely than if he were across town.
Daylight was the worst, of course. Francis could move about wherever he pleased but Penelope was trapped wearing tracks into the carpet in her dark little room. She felt like a caged, wild thing. It was true, she probably could have made a better effort to sun-proof the rest of the house, but perhaps on some level she believed she deserved it. For what she did to the postman, for every close call she had on the street, every moment she thought of people as more of a tap than individuals with souls. She deserved to stay shut up and buried up to her head in books and cheap fragrance.
At night, partly out of pure necessity, she let herself wonder about the house. Even the yard, if she was feeling particularly generous. Couldn’t have herself making a wreck of everything or going mad. But it was still a difficult dance, timing her steps with the opening and closing of doors. She could still smell him, even through the wall that separated her bedroom. One bad brush against each other and.... She knew all too well what and. That was its own special kind of torture. Whenever Penelope wasn’t fighting to keep down her obscene hunger, all she wanted was to run into his arms and promise him that everything was going to be alright even if it wasn’t true. She wanted to be comforted.
But she couldn’t.
Francis was having an even harder time controlling himself than she was. They just couldn’t.
And so when she tip-toed down to the kitchen that night, she found herself struck frozen with fear. Francis was there. He looked a mess. She knew this was hurting him badly, but it was different seeing it. He looked paler, sickly. Almost as bad as when those things were feeding on him. My poor darling. What have they done to us?
She should go back inside, wait for him to finish whatever he was doing, and then have her turn. She should run outside. She should do something besides just standing there, frozen with worry and useless longing.
She hated this, needing him more than ever and being forced to keep her distance. It was too cruel. Much too cruel to bear.
She braced herself against the wall and met his eyes. “Hello, Francis,” she whispered.
