All that is dark | ✓

7| dollhouse

EVEN WITH HIS HANDS wrapped around her throat she loved him. Or at least, the idea of him loving her. Perhaps Zion had been right. She was art, in the way that tragedies were, a painting with a contorted smile and screaming eyes bleeding colors to the point that looking at her was enough to taste iron already. There was nothing beautiful about her, about the twisted person she was beneath the personality she had so carefully crafted. Sometimes she wondered if she should just run away and leave everything behind again, but no matter how fast she went, her legs always gave way right as her nightmares caught up to her.

It was no wonder that Zion was here, even when she had moved, even when her information was classified. Her memories were rippling across her mind like waves, Helene breathing as she let it come over her. There was no need to panic, there never had been, really. After all, this wasn't her first time handling her emotions nor people who thought they owned her. In the end, that was what this was about, wasn't it? Putting her like a trophy on his walls again for everyone to see, so he could feel creative again as he dissected her to the point of rigor mortis.

"Why are you here?" she said.

"I asked you a question," he said, annoyance flashing over his beautiful face for only a second," tell me, have you missed me?"

"It's pleasing to see you've missed me," she said, leaning back against the couch, Zion's hands loosely on her throat," enough to come find me."

"What makes you think I ever lost you?" he smiled," come on now, don't tell me you think I'm that stupid? You are the sun to my Icarus, my muse."

"You do know how that story ends, don't you?" she said, looking up at him.

"Don't you worry," he murmured, his hand running through her hair as he lifted the locks to his lips," my wings of wax aren't going to melt, not when I have you. I'm glad to see you again, finally." He let her hair slip through his fingers again, a smile curling up on his lips. "Your beauty soothes my eyes."

"Zion," she said softly," again, why are you here? You know why I left."

He suddenly let her go, his fingerprints still burning on her skin as he walked around the couch. She watched him silently, cursing herself for how her gaze still followed the slope of his neck, the curve of his muscles, the veins on his hands. Without any words he let himself fall on his knees in front of her, taking her hands in his and pressing them against his heart, almost as if in prayer. The rhythmic thudding of his heart was synchrone with hers, the vibrations of the valves closing somehow feeling so intimate.

"I don't," he said," please tell me, Helene, why did you leave? I closed my whole gallery when I heard you had left within seconds, I scoured the whole city. If not for the GPS on your phone I would never have guessed you'd actually move away, to be a psychiatrist in a prison, nonetheless. I was worried sick, you know, I still am."

"You put me on display," she said, the words rushing out as she shook her head fervently," I never told you I wanted to be part of your art, Zion. You know I don't like pictures of myself, never mind to see them plastered all over the walls."

"That's because you have yet to see yourself the way I do," Zion protested," that was my whole intention with my exhibition, to show you how intrinsically lovely you are, how every single piece of you is art."

The words sounded nice, but somehow she still couldn't forgive him. One of the first things she had told him when they had gotten together was how she hated the pressure on her to be who everyone else expected her to be, the way everyone perceived her. Yet he had done exactly that, put her on a pedestal with a crown of thorns and pushed his own perspective on her. In the end she had been right, it was best to remain alone. Love didn't seem to be made for hearts like hers.