Give Me That Body (Oneshots)

The Pleasure of Your Presence(Leechtin - October 30, 1993)

I found my child sitting at the kitchen table, and sat beside him because he seemed upset to me. "Little flower, tell me your mind," I whispered, touching his hand. He was ten years old. Or older? I wondered his age. "How old are you now, please?" I asked him.

"I'm busy," he said, showing me his book, which I had neglected to see.

"Oh, I see now," I said, softly.

"Can we get a TV?" he asked.

He looked up at me, dark eyes looked directly into mine. I held his gaze and forgot to answer him, lips parted.

"I never get to do anything," he said, when I didn't respond. "I don't get to go to school or go out for Halloween or anything. I don't get to talk to anyone."

"That's not true, flower of my spirit. Your tutor comes. You have playmates."

"Marcello is weird lately. And he gets to go out for Halloween, but not me. I know why, because you love me and you don't want me to get hurt. I understand that." He paused. "I want a TV."

"We will think about it, Cuca. I think that you want its noise, but understand my spirit is fragile against too many voices."

"I understand," he said, sounding sad.

"What are you reading?"

"It's Dune," he said, showing me the cover. "I read it a few times."

"Ah. It has been read to me. I like it much." Then, sensing a presence, I looked up and behind me, and saw my child there.

Escha stood silent, as a statue in the kitchen doorway, looking very tired. His head was bowed slightly, and he seemed to shiver. He had been sleeping for a long time.

"Escha," I said.

"Do not call me that," he whispered slowly, sharpening every word. "Where is your telephone? I would call my own children."

"It is in the sitting room."

"I cannot hold anything in my head."

I patted Cuca's head and rose, him ducking his face back into his book, afraid of my child. Escha hugged his arms around himself as I approached, and turned his body away. At my touch, he batted my hand. "No," he said, "no. Do not touch me. I will be hysterical."

"You are looking fragile. I will take to my bed. Come."

He did not resist, pushing his wild blond hair back with the back of his hand, and taking my arm for support. "Respect my boundaries, beloved," he whispered.

In my chamber, he went to bed easily, twisting himself up in the sheets. "Where is your lover?" he asked, face pressed against the mattress.

"Town. You are as his own, little one. Have no care about it."

"When will you stop calling me 'little one'? I must be near the age you were when you found me."

"Oh no, little one. You are not near that age. Where do you hurt today?" I sat on the edge of the mattress, glad of his form. "What is this robe that you are wearing?"

"Kimono. Brocade. Good for sleeping," he said softly, untying it, and rolled over to show his body to me, gesturing weakly to his ribs. His skin seemed sallow and over pale, almost ivory. And I went to him, and when I touched him, his hand covered mine. "Talk to me of Herculaneum. I cannot remember very much these days. Is this what it was like for you? I am foggy often," and when I slipped my hand under his ribs, pushing gently, he moaned long, and arched his back. "Oh blood of God, it's rapture," he whispered.