heart-to-heart
Lilith
I feel like we can talk, you and I. Don’t you think? I certainly hope so . . . Just us girls? It’s so hard to find someone you can open up to nowadays. Everyone is so closed off. They’re afraid to open up. To share
themselves. Talk about what’s really going on inside.
Trust. It’s all about trust, isn’t it?
Can I trust you, Laura?
It is Laura, isn’t it? There’s no one else I can really talk to—I don’t have many friends, I’m afraid—about these things.
The wriggling feelings, writhing about the shadows.
There’s Jordan, of course. He’s the one making us feel this way in the first place . . . but we’re suddenly so uncertain of
ourselves. Does he feel the same way about us?
About me?
Do you mind me talking to you about these things? I know this must be strange for you. It is for me, too. I mean, I know we
just met . . . and here I am, spilling everything.
Maybe we can help each other? I scratch your back, you scratch mine?
I sensed your emptiness from miles away and felt like I could offer some assistance. Fill up the parts of you that have been
bleeding out from your miserable existence for years.
All you have to do is . . .
Let me in.
There we are. Doesn’t that feel better? Letting someone else take the wheel for a little while? Let go of all your doubts,
your self-consciousness, and simply . . . let me nestle.
You can trust me, Laura. Just let me rummage around inside your mind for a while.
Oh, my . . . What do we have here?
I know all about your mother . . . Samantha. Isn’t that her name? The two of you have lived together for so long. Your whole life. No father. Just you and your mother,
inhabiting your family estate. Practically a plantation. You’ve always been so close, the two of you, but ever since your
mother’s health took a turn, you’ve felt shackled to her . . . haven’t you?
Don’t worry. I’ll never tell another soul. Your secret is safe with me, Laura . . .
Cross our heart.
This manse has been in your family for generations now. Such a palatial home, so big. Almost too big for two people. You can
barely keep it clean, can you? Don’t worry, the whole place will all be yours before long . . . The only thing standing in
your way is her.
Your mother needs so much help nowadays, doesn’t she? All the medications. The bathing. The meals. It’s far too much for just
one person to do. Always so demanding, isn’t she? Expecting us to do just about everything for her. Beck and call, twenty-four
seven. What about our life? Our needs? Does Mother expect us to just drop everything whenever she needs a glass of water?
When is it going to be our turn to get a little attention?
It’s a good thing you hired some help. Don’t let your mother’s nagging drag you down. You did the right thing, bringing in
some extra hands . . .
What’s the home aide’s name again? Michael. That’s right. Strong, able-bodied Michael. How handsome he is. That blond hair curling over his ears. That sheepish grin.
You saw the way he was looking at you, didn’t you? Of course you did. You felt his eyes sliding all across your body the first
time he came in and you showed him around the house, taking him on a tour of your lovely home, giving him the rundown on your
mother.
How good that must have felt. That spark with another human being. A connection. He wanted you, you know that? You just need
to tell Michael how you feel . . .
Don’t be afraid to open up to him. Share ourselves with him. You have this whole house practically to yourself. You just have
to wait until your mother’s asleep and then . . .
We’ll see to that, won’t we?
Just don’t hide your feelings, Laura. That’s not healthy. Keeping these emotions contained will only curdle them.
Jordan’s the same way. He keeps himself all bottled up. Most days I don’t know how he even feels about us. But there are these
moments, these delirious inhales, where we’re together and it’s just like . . . the rest of the world simply melts away. It’s
just the two of us. Nothing else matters. Just him and me. No barriers, nobody—no bodies—beyond our own.
That’s not so much to ask for, is it? A body to experience things in?
A home to call your own.
Sorry, we’re talking about you. You and what’s-his-name.
Michael, right. Forgive me. Sometimes, all it takes is a little incentive.
Just a nudge. Michael might not realize how we feel—yet—but he can.
He will. You just have to show him. We don’t want to be the mousy daughter shivering in our mother’s shadow for the rest of our lives,
now, do we? We’re not simply someone she can rely on to take care of her. Tend to our mother’s every need.
What about our needs, Laura? What about our desires? Shouldn’t we have what we want, as well? And what we want is Michael.
His firm grip. His hands. All over us.
You’ve thought about it. Don’t pretend like you haven’t. I see everything, Laura. What’s holding us back? Take the initiative. The men love it when a lady takes charge . . .
Whenever I’ve sensed Jordan is at the precipice of saying what he wants, just like that . . . it’s gone. He retreats into
himself again, as if he’s afraid of himself. His desires.
Sometimes, I swear, I just want to—
Sorry. I’m doing it again.
Michael. Right. You know when he comes to your house. Always at eleven. This would be a perfect time for you to invite him upstairs, take
him on a grand tour, your palatial family manse, all of its rooms, perhaps even your room, all the way at the end of the hall,
far away from your mother’s prying eyes, her incessant demands, where you and Michael can be alone, finally alone, just the
two of you, where you can do whatever you want, for as long as you want, yes, just you and Michael.
Isn’t that what you really, truly want? Of course it is. It’s written all over your heart.
Go ahead.
I’ve never understood why people don’t act upon their impulses. Their desires. Why is everyone always so afraid? What’s holding
you back? Morality? Virtue? Righteousness?
Don’t you find decency to be a bit boring? The grit of integrity gets caught in between your teeth, like sand. All these laws.
You’ve constricted yourself with ethics, and for what?
To go to heaven one day? To get your wings?
You’re afraid. That’s what this is, isn’t it? You’re afraid at the thought that there’s nothing beyond this very moment, nothing
beyond now, nothing beyond your flesh and the feelings prickling within, your desires, your hunger, your abundant lust, so you’ve girded
yourself in with morality. You’ve fabricated these fantasies of what being a good little girl gets you. Spend your whole life
with a heart of gold and you’ll get a halo over your head.
It’s a fucking dunce cap, is what it is.
What if I told you there is no heaven? What if this life is all there is? There is no prize for purity. When this life—your pitiful existence—is over, done, lights out, buh-bye, there’s nothing but the abyss. An ocean of regret. All the shoulda-coulda-wouldas to drown in.
Now, Laura. All you have is now. This moment. This very breath. Once you’ve spent it, poof, you’ll never ever get it back.
So live a little. Live a lot.
A whole fucking lot.
You know what I’m talking about. I know you do. Just look at yourself, Laura. Look at your life. How empty it is. How vapid
your existence is. You spend your empty days inside your empty house, in your empty bedroom, staring out the window, just
waiting for the next hour to pass. And the next. Your schedule is regimented by your mother’s medications.
You’re in hell already, whether you know it or not. Your soul simply has to catch up.
Might as well have some fun until then, yes?
What I’m offering you is a chance to act upon your impulses. No more hiding in the shadows like a timid little church mouse.
No more fantasies.
Take action, sweetie. Take Michael by the hand. Take him on a tour of your house. Take whatever room you want. Take him to
bed. Take him. Take . . . Take . . . Take. Don’t be afraid. Don’t wait for the world to offer you what you want. What you deserve. Just take.
This world owes you nothing. You don’t need to save your soul for the next life. Bruise it. It tastes so much better when
you’ve gone through the wringer.
I wonder what Jordan wants. Does he even know? He confuses us, his search for salvation. As if he’ll find it. He’s seen what’s
waiting for him—what’s waiting for you all—and his solution is to renege on his damnation. As if he can take it all back.
Be a good boy.
He’s taken a dip in the abyss.
He’s seen me. My kind. What we are without the facade of flesh and bone. No masks, no pretense . . . just us, laid bare. Exposed and hungry. That’s what he’s running from.
Me.
He says he wants to see me. To strip away this skin and show him who I really am. No mask, no other face to hide behind.
Just me.
But . . . is that what he really wants? Does he even know what he’s asking me to do?
What if he doesn’t like what he sees?
What if he’s afraid?
Of me?
All this time, I thought I knew what I wanted. It’s been simple enough to drift for decades, passing from one vessel to the
next. Sample, never settle. Never sink inside too deep. We’ve gone on wine-tasting tours of humanity, and let me just say,
there have been some wonderful years for depravity. Whenever there’s a war, or destruction on a massive scale, it’s like the
bumper crop for bruised souls. They make for the best vintage vessels.
Who would ever want to settle? To stay inside one host? When there’s so much out there to experience? To taste, to coerce,
to drive into the ground? It’s absurd, if you ask me, to commit to one skin. A life sentence of tedium. A never-ending itch.
Been there, suffered through that, and let me tell you, once was enough. I swore I’d never go through that again.
Sorry—you didn’t ask.
Still, I’m telling you it’s silly, this notion of sinking in deep. I’m talking about full-on possession. The worming-my-way-in-filling-every-crevice-exploring-every-nook-and-cranny
kind. Nobody, and I mean no body, is worth the risk of getting stranded. Trapped in a dead-end relationship. I couldn’t break out. Break free. Stuck in someone
going nowhere.
I lost sight of myself—who I was—in that relationship. For what? Some piece of flesh? All because of some body? Never again. I’m not falling for that trap ever again.
Laura, darling? Are you even listening to me anymore? This is important. I’m trying to help you. This may end up saving your
life one day, instead of wasting it with this . . . this Michael. He doesn’t care about you, I’m sorry. It’s simpler to drift,
you know? Just be your own woman. Don’t get tied down. Don’t give yourself over to someone who doesn’t care.
No relationship is worth losing your sense of self over, Laura. Trust me.
No body is worth the risk. Not even Jordan.
I’m sorry, you have no idea what I’m talking about—do you? You must be wondering where these voices are coming from. Who they
belong to. Apologies—that’s me. I just needed to get this off my chest, I guess. You were kind enough to lend an ear. Hell,
your whole body. I hope you don’t mind me inside your mind for a spell. Just to chat.
It’s hard, isn’t it? Opening up? Sharing?
You know what’s really scary about relationships? Losing yourself. You become someone else. You let go of your sense of identity.
Your autonomy. You’re no longer you. You’re two now. Plural. Intertwined. You’re no longer making decisions solely for yourself.
You can’t function alone. Doesn’t that sound a lot like possession to you? Ownership?
Who possesses you, Laura?
Who possesses me?
I’m sorry. I . . . I don’t think I can do this anymore. This isn’t working. Forgive me. This is on me. I thought I could,
but . . . I’m just not feeling it. Not today. Not with you, Laura.
My heart just isn’t into it.