(wip)Floating fish
Under the dim moon, he watched her.
As he always did, from shadows to which the light would never dare to pierce.
She never noticed, naked and waist-deep within the calm waves of the small lake; to her, this was another day held together by her ritual. Another night of scrubbing her skin red and raw, removing filth that could not be seen, but only felt. The sins of her birth, perhaps. The sins of her father, of youth and beauty. She felt the intention of every gaze, every passing glance— they sunk into her flesh like disgusting mars of muck and grime that, if left for long enough, would only eat away at every last bit of her comfort within a body she could not escape.
If she could remove her skin for a fresh set untainted by the world, she would. But perhaps in doing so, she would hate to expose her insides to the outside. There were at least some things that were hers alone. Which could evade prying eyes, such as now.
Or so she thought.
Some nights had been tainted by chills of something ominous, lurking patiently, evoking fear within her beating heart. She often wrote the feeling off as a product of living alone. Or, perhaps a symptom of being surrounded by trees. If neither of those, surely it was just the eerie silence of the night that got to her, the threat of the dark lake waiting to swallow her whole if she dared to venture too far. Or perhaps, she expected him. Perhaps she hoped for him to return. So that she could know he was not just a figment of her imagination, so that she could know he existed. That he had been alive. But, she always found herself alone.
He always wondered what she so viscously attempted to cleanse herself from each night— eyes fettered to the fast scrubbing of her hands over willowy limbs. Always glued to the way her dark hair clung to the curve of her back when wet. Cloaking her like an annoying, beautiful veil. Ears expecting the gentle gasps that fled her throat from the cruel, cold kiss of the water.
She was always none the wiser to his presence.
If he could have her within his grasp, he would not be so harsh. He would grip her wrists which were so rough atop her fragile flesh, teach her to be gentle, demand it. He would tip her chin upwards and enjoy the proximity of her expressions as though it were a privilege none other could experience. If he could help it, none other would witness it. His mind throbbed imagining the beating of her heart, the red flush of her cheeks, the surprise on her face. And, more. He imagined more, and more, and more. The scent of her skin, her warmth, her noise. She made many sounds that were foreign to him. Through her cleansing she would sometimes cry, on a bad day, he supposed. Silently, the heavy droplets slipped down her cheeks. One, two. Rarely were there more than three. He hated having to leave during the daytime, missing whatever burdened her so. Her tears alleviated the weight of his actions, though he hadn’t cared much for the immorality of them to begin with. He looked away only to glance upon his hands, dipping them beneath the surface of the water and bearing witness to the thick red blood that dispersed slowly into nothingness.
“That’s the third,” he mumbled to himself, rubbing his palms over one another while recounting the events leading to their staining. "He wasn't one of them, though.."
Very rarely, someone would venture into the woods. Close enough to catch his attention. Even more rarely, curious little wretches would venture too close. Close enough to observe this lake, close enough to smell the fires from the cottage she had moved into. Close enough to speak with her, even. To recognize her. To rap their filthy knuckles atop her door. Perhaps to steal her from this forest, thrust her into the throws of "civilization". To pay "debts". What a joke. He chuckled to himself, noticing the heavy heat of anger flooding his chest. What he found to be even worse was the potential that they wanted to marry her, save her that way. Or perhaps, only act like a husband. For a few moments, whether she agreed or not. Have a couple men act like a husband, for the price her pretty face could fetch. That they would have thought of her the same, minds full of their hands atop-
A splash resounded, his head lifting to focus once more on the woman. She had stumbled, lifting herself with quite a frown. Again he chuckled, the unpleasant warmth dissipating from his chest.
With her, he forgot for a moment. He always forgot. The fragility of life. Of youth. He'd forget the way it felt to grasp a wandering man by the neck, to watch as his face aged years within seconds, until it became a shriveled mess that crumbled to dust, all within his clutch. To decompose by his hand. Life was not leached by his touch, no- life fled from it. Just by a caress of his palm, a tap of his finger. The graze of his step, even. And he loved it.
Never once did he find himself lonely, he loved solitude. He loved silence; the scent of death. Never once had he dreamt of warmth, of coupling. Of woman.
But, she just had to touch him; he had never figured out how she had stepped beyond his senses on that day, recounting how her hand came from behind and startled his cheek. How she could even reach so high was especially beyond him as he swung around, mouth silently agape.
"Excuse me, is your mouth ajar to speak or just to catch stray flies?" She spoke with a straight face as seconds passed, his brows twitching at her words. Clearing his throat, he gathered himself.
"You will poke a stranger, but you fail to introduce yourself? What a rude girl you are."
"I am Irina." She stepped beyond him, to which he did not mind. Perhaps it was a fluke, they had only made contact for a short moment.
"Well, Irina. Don't go around touching random men."
He intended to leave it there, turning away from her just for the uncomfortable flush of heat to overtake his palm as she clung to it. She seemed to be on the brink of asking him something, however, his swift ripping away cut her off. The force of his pull disturbed her balance, and he surprised himself with the thought of catching her while watching her fall flatly onto the hard ground. He intended to leave it there. But he didn't. She lay unconscious from such an unreasonably small fall, how could he leave? He ripped away to not harm her, harming her in the process. How ridiculous. His fingers tapped her cautiously, palms hesitantly lifting her before enveloping her in his arms. Nothing happened, for the first time. The warmth and constant subtle noise of life emanating from her body made him feel strangely ill.
'Repulsive,' he had thought, as he laid her in his bed. 'Disgusting,' he thought, as he covered her with dusty linens. His finger draped beneath her nose to feel the gentle, rhythmic warmth she exhaled. 'Sweet breaths,' his mind murmured, his fingertip dragging down to trace her lip. 'Beautiful.' She looked far too peaceful for a woman beneath the clutch of death. He would leave her that way, yes. He would leave her Peaceful. Peaceful, and alive.
His heavy steps carried him away from her side before his curiosity threatened to explore her more. Why she hadn't withered beneath his touch, he did not know. He would not test finding the answer, either. "See yourself out," he hissed, vanishing deep into the trees. For days he worked without returning, ending lives across nations. Months even, perhaps years. He'd return only when it felt as though her heat would have dissipated entirely from his bed, her scent covered by the dust her presence disturbed. So that he may then cleanse his mind, and return to the comfortable existence she had interrupted. In the thick of winter, he had finished his voyage back.
Not only had she failed to disappear, no. She had made a little home during his absence, and brought with her more life. Large men relentlessly banged on his door, their overwhelming stenches curdling at the back of his throat, causing his nose to scrunch.
"Pay your debts," they would yell. "Pay your debts!"
"I have no debt," she would refute from the windows upstairs, tossing cold buckets of water over the men. "My father's burdens are not my own!"
The men would scream obscenities in return, rushing away to escape the looming danger of wet clothes in this icy tundra. If only they had the foresight to stay away, forever.
They returned, many times. Always escalating their antics. Always met with a clever little instigation from a woman who wished to be left alone, residing within the home of a man who wanted no part in this little game. He remained unseen, assessing his options from the shadows. He had planned to hand her over if the men hadn't been such disgusting brutes. Yes, he would have happily given her to them if they could have been patient men. They left him with no choice. What kind of person shows up in the middle of the night, unannounced? Truthfully, he had followed them long before their 'sudden' arrival.
Yes, he had followed them back to their stinking towns the previous night, after another unsuccessful attempt to gather money, ending with the men covered in welts and bruises from having been pelted with rocks. She said she'd kill them if they came back, words that held no weight as she promptly cried when they vanished. She always cried so silently, always alone. Perhaps he pitied her hopelessness, that which drove her into the woods. Into him. He had listened carefully to their plans, their purpose for her. He followed them as they gathered their tools to break into her home, to bind her. He watched as they gulped ales and bellowed about the ways they would violate her. And he watched as they trekked back into the woods. Just as they watched as he made his presence known.
He didn't recall much after.
Just that he had missed a few. Cowards who ran the second they saw the other condensed to red and gray mush. He felt creative that night, he was too enveloped in the distinct joy that came from hurting them that he mistakenly allowed the others to go. Which brought him back to the present. Nights spent watching her, days spent searching.
Every single face of theirs he remembered. Until they all vanished, how could he dream of touching her? How could he lay his violent hands on something so delicate? How could he long for a warmth he contradicted? He was cold. His body was still, his breaths did not exist. He was not scared of her repulsion, of her rejection. He did not need her or her acceptance. But something felt unpleasant when he thought of her lifeless. When he thought of her cold and still.
"I had always known there was a monster in these woods."
A soft voice thrust his attention upwards. Lost to his thoughts he had found himself scrubbing, too. Scrubbing his hands, noisily perhaps. So noisily he didn't notice as she waded closer, covering herself with her hands. Watching him with a sharp glare.
"I'd have never thought he was the type to watch me bathe."
She found him amusing, enough to forgive his gaze. Enough to allow it to sit atop her skin and sink. His did not feel quite as awful. Perhaps it felt warm.
"Are you catching flies again, or are you perhaps thinking of telling me your name?"
He sighed out a long breath, watching her still with eyes that felt akin to a wolf. Her teasing did not seem to fluster him by any means, nor did it anger him to violence like others.
"My name is Cain."
"Well, Cain. Nice to meet you, again." She reached out swiftly, covering his eyes with her palm. He had flinched at her touch, in a silent way that was hardly discernable. "It is rude to stare at me. Close your eyes so that I may leave, and come back in the morning. I wanted to talk to you." Irina hesitantly removed her hand, checking that his eyes truly were shut. She turned from him, intending to slip out of the lake to go and settle in for the night. He disrupted her in a rather rude way, but she was happy. Happy to see him, happy to know he was real. She hadn't expected to feel a cold tap, jumping rigid before his fingers curled around her thin forearms.
"But," he breathed over her ear, pressing her back neatly to his chest, "I'm not done with you yet."
