L.

[7.] Let Me Be A Hunter

It has been two weeks and Dasius has kept his word, though he could not come himself, he has sent a young lawyer. 

The young lawyer claims that he is not a lawyer. He says that he is an intern. I think that he is enthralled to Dasius. I think that he has tasted a little of his blood. He has that wet-eyed look. He has that habit of looking longingly out of windows. His name is Felix. I do not like it. He has dry lips. I will call him Flaque. Puddle.

He has been sent to take this apartment and find a new one, but I have decided to stay here. It feels like a dark, little hole. It is different from my former apartment -- it of the high ceilings and small iron-faced balcony. It of the latticed windows and bed hangings. There is no place to hide here. The bed, even, has no space beneath it. Drawers underneath, too small for the smallest body. 

Small closets. 

Windows that do not open far.

A door made of steel.

I have decided to like it much. Flaque disagrees. He insists upon Dasius's word. At present I loathe Flaque playfully, but we will see. 

Puddle is young but he is older than I was when I died. He is old enough for mortal questions. He has a rash of old pimple scars upon his narrow face. I ask if I must see him every day. He says no. I tell him, "That it is very good for both of us." 

He decides to be afraid of me. I have always liked that. It is easier to measure a man who is afraid, because he cannot ever be trusted. There is no guessing. Soon, I am betting, the Puddle will beg to be relieved, and someone better will be forced to come. Perhaps someone more fun. 

But I have always been fatally stupid, haven't I? I have always let people into my life because I wanted to. I cannot be trusted, can I? Not to preserve myself. A door made of steel cannot stop me from opening it to the sound of tears. Nothing can. No one can stop me from opening it and scooping up ma petite wespe, my little wasp, who is crying because I will not let him in to sting me. 

Wasp, wasp. "Do not let them come near. Swat them. They are not your sweet honeybees. They will sting and live to sting you again and again," a kind whispering, in childhood from cool lips, after falling from a fig tree at the shock of a sting. 

Never learning. Never learning.

"Kill them," Faya whispered to me, always. "Kill them."

But we are both lovers, Faya and I. Aren't we? Above all. Though he is the smarter, who does his killing through training little hornets to do it for him. Hard headed little bastards with hard hearts and cold eyes. Steel-willed soldiers with strong hands, all in a pretty sniveling row. Spit on it. Spit on it all.

I too have teeth, and long fingers. I too have a heart, and if I lack pragmatism, my arms are open. Vulnerable perhaps, but what is living? Come, Wasp, sting me upon my breast. Come, Nicolas, and whisper to me with your knife if it speaks to you. 

Nothing worries me. I succumb gladly. I will be nothing what they tell me to be. I smile when Nicky says, "I have you now, what do you say?"

I say nothing because I have let this happen, and now it is mine. There is nowhere for him to hide. I will see him with unseeing eyes. I will know him by what he does at the shift in power. He will know that I am no longer afraid.

And so he fears me. And there is no guessing.

"I do not know you," Nicky says, sniffing and wiping his face with his free hand, the other holds the knife. A streak of blood across his face. "Where has Laurent gone? Let me find him inside."