'Lucy,' he coos. 'Little, Lucy Saxon, is that you?'
'Leave her alone,' the Old Man says, softly, so, so softly.
Harry's gaze flicks between us and he sits back on his haunches, clapping his hands together like a grinder monkey.
'Oh! Are we being naughty? Very, very, naughty?'
'Harry,' I whisper, letting go all thoughts of the knife, praying he doesn’t see it. Praying he does and will use it and set me free. 'It isn't what you think...'
To my shame, I realize that I will lie. I will say anything, do anything to escape the inevitable.
'Lucy,' he whispers again, crawling through the straw, parting my lips with his fingers, 'you silly little thing. You forgot to take your medicine...'
I would beg him to stop, but he has a handful of pills--pink and blue and white--and the Old Man is vulnerable. I take them all.
With one strong hand, Harry draws me roughly to himself, bending me over with lustful intent. With the other, he takes hold of the Old Man’s collar and drags him to unsteady feet. He will make examples of us both.
He parades us loudly through the halls, past the weary staff, their eyes downcast. I force myself to laugh; become a willing participant in our punishment, surrendering myself to the cloying numbness that defines my life. Once more, down the rabbit hole.
'Lucy, my Lucy,' he spins me like on long-forgotten dance floors in a time before I knew anything at all about the nature of Time. When he spins the Old Man, the poor dear stumbles, sprawling on the ground. No one laughs except for Harry.
'My darling, must you- '
'Must I? Must I?' Again, only his lips are smiling. 'Lucy, fetch me my fiddle. I want to play while Rome burns. Oh, wait. Rome already burned! Oh, what the hell. Let’s burn it again.'
He clicks his fingers, and half of Italy is gone.
'Oooh,' he says a moment later, mock concern creasing his brow. 'Now where will I get my pizza? Is Chicago still there? Someone! See if Chicago is still there. I...want…pizza!'
I can’t help but laugh now, twining my arms through his as he lifts the Old Man effortlessly and propels him ahead of us. Someone curses me as we move on to visit more interesting prisoners. They might thank me later, when he doesn't come back.
This is the game we play. The ritual we observe. They are his puppets and he is their Master, and I...? I am the Mistress of Ceremonies. Either I play my part, or I cry and beg them to intervene. Why should they help me? I have done little enough to help any of them. They have no pity for me tonight. If ever they did. They look to the Old Man to make it right. They plot and scheme and secrets pass between them in the shadows. They think I don’t know. But I do. And I could betray them with a word. But I need for the Old Man to make it right as much as they do. Perhaps more. Only he can gave me back what I’ve lost. Who I have lost. The man I thought I knew. The man I love.
In the kitchen, Harry dances with the knives and fills his pockets with Jelly Babies. He feeds them to us one by one, sealing them with suffocating kisses until my head is spinning and the Old Man is choking.
I reach to help when my staggering co-conspirator stumbles to his knees, but I am thrust aside, my face stinging with the warning of what will follow. Another bruise to powder away. Another reason to kill or be killed.
Who am I fooling? There is no escape. Not for any of us. I should have known better than to tempt a Time Lord’s wrath.
~~~
The night is dark and raw. After the final blow falls, his rage is spent, and he is no longer screaming obscenities, accusing us of betrayal, he weeps like a child without a home and falls asleep in my arms. I pride myself in knowing that it is the only place he ever sleeps. My arms. My loving arms. No one else can give him what I can.
Is this what I have become? A shameless, shameful plaything, groomed for some secret purpose? The blade of the knife I had hidden earlier glints in the false moonlight, a shimmering, metal promise.
Slowly, so as not to wake him, I wrap my fingers around the blade until it hurts, until that pain is the only thing I can feel. I will end this. I will end it all.
'No…'
I’m startled by the strength of the Old Man’s hand on my wrist. He pries the knife from my hand and throws it away.
Let me die, I want to tell him. Let him die.
The Old Man levels his gaze on me. His face is dark with bruises. Dried blood clings to his nose and lips. He wheezes four words that fall like hammers in my already aching head. 'I’m not finished yet.'
And just like that, I realize that I will never be free.
I turn back to Harry Saxon, caress his cheek with the tips of my bloody fingers. take him in my arms, and wait for it all to happen again.
I will never forgive him.
The Old Man’s eyes are full of tears.
I wonder how he will.
written by
MEG MacDONALD
copyright 2013
artwork by
COLIN JOHN
copyright 2013
also from the pen of Meg MacDonald...
