Chapter 4 Tenderness

"You aren't supposed to be here," he said, "leave."

But how dare she to forget, really, that this world she couldn't help and no choice but to deal with including its sheer unfairness and just ruthless indifference against her wasn't a setting of an untold fairytale, and would never be. And therefore there would never be a lost prince charming to rescue her, nor a happy ever after, and that no, she'd just realized now years after, that after all, fairytales weren't right, because even magic couldn't make her out of here. She'd been dead, and this reality where she was currently living was merely the afterlife of the world of her make-believe. Her imaginations were really just memories of her fantasies.

She was grasping the air enough to hold her into place, to not collapse and break her kneecaps into submission to whoever lay silent behind the gloom, determined to beg for mercy to spare her life if deemed necessary yet still with assured dignity, the last thing she had. But he was no killer, indeed he wasn't, nor the manifested death, but perhaps an angel, the god's remaining gift to the mortals' futile demands. Because his kerosene-blue eyes flickered like a rekindled candle upon caressing her own, honey brown eyes, warm and sheltering. And she had a marvelous epiphany right at that moment: which was that there was actually someone who could rival that brightness of the moon hanging softly above, perhaps even the sun itself behind, because even just a faint touch of its brilliance that had gone astray and lost on him, it looked like his immaculate face already held a day's worth of sunlight, carrying it through the night and beyond like a torch enough to pamper even the most desperate eyes.

"What are you doing here?" he asked suddenly, rough and clearly masculine, a bit distant and cold, with an authoritative voice primed to invariably assert, to command, and for the recipient to immediately acquiesce.

She collected herself as fast as she could. Shaking and stuttering, she said, "I'm... lost."

After an eternity of meditative silence, twitching eyebrows, creasing forehead, and faintly clenching jaw, he said, "It doesn't seem like it is the case."

Was it to be here, of all places, was enough proof to tell explicitly that indeed she was really lost?

Despite no further evidence to support her statement she replied anyway that, "It's true." Simply, defeated, and nothing more, or else. Then an unnecessary sob escaped from her mouth which she caught immediately with her lips, eventually resulting to abrupt silence.

She could only imagine how his mind surprisingly took a step back that was subtly expressed through his slightly parted reddening lips and a couple of blink, like a delayed realization of truth. "I-I'm sorry..." His voice cracked a little, failing him now to express his sincere apology, a hand on the back of his neck like he was tending an itch up there, unconsciously causing the muscles of his arm to flex in elegant curves. "I just thought how such a beautiful young lady like you by any chance would be here, of all places. That would surely not be a loss on my part." Then after a brief shame-laced laugh he further said, "That's selfishness I know... and stupidity."

Had he been staring already for a long while at her before she even noticed and realized that she wasn't alone all along here?

He looked down now shyly and at the same time cautiously at what he was carrying carefully on his other muscular arm, a grey cat embracing herself, cowering in fear as she purred lowly for his comforting warmth. Eyes tightly closed, slightly damped and shaking, like she currently was. "And sorry I just don't want anyone to cause any trouble to you here, that's why I was asking you to leave," he said, then silence.

Despite the boiling distress inside her, she almost laughed, not at him exactly nor at his child-like innocence, but at herself. She'd just never imagined how a serious and genuine confession of concern stated by this stranger she would just have treated as a joke after. Because her life was, is, will always be one. She even thought in what way should she tell him that she'd been in trouble even before she came here, therefore he needed not to worry much. She'd already numbed by everything anyway and so another trouble right ahead was nothing to her anymore.

But this wasn't really much of a problem, after all. When, in an assured manner, along with a closer measured step towards her, he asked with definite and earnest curiosity: "Is there anything I can help you with?"

The shifting of the sky for the new upcoming light enveloping the world was fast approaching, like it was gradually peeling off, like a bandage, for another bright day dressed in white. He could be seen in all his glory now, standing mightily underneath the broad nightlight like a lone wolf on a cliff before the full moon. He was wearing a white school uniform pressed neatly against his fair skin. His apparently long legs behind the pants, sturdy and dignified. Broad shoulders blocking the passing of the winds, catching occasional raindrops. Dark hair darker than the starless sky. Playful lips, probing eyes, flushed cheeks. He was visibly marred by dirt at some place, like a knife wound in a renaissance painting or a crack in a Greek sculpture imitating the gods' physical form, nonetheless it was still apparent by the way the lights captured the edges of his face how he was curved into perfection, in every angle, in any distance the eyes allowed. Not that he really was, because humans were, after all, inherently flawed. However, the main point was that the aim, his proximity, was towards perfection. He was, in conclusion, the closest embodiment of perfection among all of us.

If he was God Himself and asking you what do you need, offering you whatever you want, what would you tell Him?

Surely for her it was, "Can I... hug you?"

Welcoming smile was then revealed behind his lips and with a wide open arm he said finally, "Go on, then."

Being offered tenderness, after all this time, was what she really longed for. Perhaps, that's why the body was made so soft was for someone to be touched without hurting the other. Maybe it was made so soft for someone. Maybe he was made for her. But she couldn't go further beyond that thought. She must not ask even more of this, or perhaps even allowed of more than this. But merely just to reassure herself, by someone, through a hug, that there was still light here remained untouched by darkness. The willingness of him, to make himself vulnerable of touch for her, without restraint, leaning fervently on her just to listen to her prayer, without knowing anything about her, was too overwhelming, surreal even, for her to even feel fully. Even she was already embracing his soft neck with both arms, her right cheeks caressing his stubbled chin, her front body to his right side (the left was saved for the cat), his arm along the length of her back, vigilant strokes of his lean fingers behind; all wasn't really enough at all. But to tell him about it, ask him about it, was scaring her, much worst fright than what had happened to her life so far. However, she knew she couldn't be satiated by this only, and she knew also that to satisfy herself her body itself was at stake, but she couldn't care less. She didn't feel any violence around him at all, nor forced generosity, but only amicable compassion, the burning passion to help another.

"Fuck me," she whispered near his ear, quick and shameless.