Pg. 8

I have not died. The crusts were not poisoned. But I have not slept, either.

I keep thinking of the two of them, Nor and David, dancing around eachother, dancing around me. Trying to make me dance, too.

I keep thinking of the games I played with David, his hands on my body, his fingers fumbling for things I did not understand. My fingers fumbling towards his ecstasy.

And how I loved those games.

I didn't understand them, but I didn't think they were wrong. Even when Nor told me they were. Of course, I never told her my full thoughts on anything, never even told her all that we did or said, not that she would have believed or understood me.

He was different to her. He was different with her. And he was different after her.

He hated her, but was drawn to her, something I would see again and again in the time I knew Nor. People did not like her, she was not likeable. People couldn't stay away, either.

She didn't have powers, not the kind that run in my family. But she was able to tell someone she was beautiful, and they'd believe her.

They'd praise her softness, her pliability, her delicacy.

She was reedy and looked weak, but hid some strange strength. An angry strength.

She was not pretty, she was clumsy and callous. And people, once she told them she was, would tell me how beautiful they found her.

"Fathomless deep eyes," they would tell me. Her eyes were grey and clear and dull, nearly see-through. The eyes of an Ice Princess in a fairytale. Eyes that showed me only greed, anger and fear. And which she convinced others were warm and caring, deep and deeply blue. But which weren't.

"Perfectly shaped lips," they would describe to me. Her lips formed a "moue" like an old time starlet without her makeup. But as we grew older they got thinner and meaner, with small creases at the sides. And still I was told they were perfect.

"Hair like spun gold" or honey or sunshine, depending on the lyrical bent of hte speaker. In reality, her hair was coarse as a wash pad. I know, I've touched it. I've woken up with it under me, around me, scratching at my cheeks. It wasn't like anything that'd been spun, but rather something created, tangled and left.

Her beautiful body they'd describe to me. Her beautiful body, with it's sharp turns and angles. A softness others would tell me about, but I would rarely see. But I'd touched her, hugged her, felt her. I'd felt the points of her bones, the places where most girls have meat, even at a young age, and which on her filled out, but still remained hard like bone or spikes, something protective. Definitely not soft.

I don't know if she knew what she was doing, exactly, or how she did it, but she had a glamour about her, she could create blinding magics. And most of the time, but never when it mattered, I could see right through them.

But never when it mattered.