Chapter thirty-five:
But I am not cruel.
Or hard.
Or bad.
Not like you, Carrie.
So I make you something to eat. Beans, because that’s pretty much all you seem to buy—except tomato soup, which is fucking gross.
Why would you buy that shit, Carrie? You know I don’t like it. Is that why you bought it? To spite me?
But see, I’m better than you. I even make you a shitty-tasting coffee. And I even remember to put three sugars in like you used to like it, because really you prefer tea, but you don’t have any tea, so coffee it is.
See, Carrie? I am thoughtful. And I remember.
I take the food (tipped into your only bowl) and the coffee up the stairs. I push open the door and find her on the floor. Her head is cut and bleeding, but it’s not really that bad.
I don’t rush as I put down the food and drink on the tall set of drawers. And I am still careful as I reach down and pick her up before carrying her to the bed. I lay her on it, staring for a second too long at her beautiful form, her nakedness plain for me to see.
Because I still find you attractive, Carrie. Even though I know you’re really a bitch inside. I still think you’re beautiful.
I help her sit up, and then I pull the duvet up to cover her body, and though I let my hand brush against her breasts as I pull the duvet tight around her, I don’t let her know it was on purpose. I make her think it was an accident.
I’m ashamed of myself. Not for touching her. But because she still has some power over me.
I sit on the edge of the bed and I pull out the sock, and she doesn’t say anything and neither do I, and then I spoon-feed her the beans. They are warm, and I bet they feel good in her stomach. It has been too long since she ate, and I’m sorry for that. I didn’t mean to be so forgetful.
It’s all gone wrong, though. Things got out of hand too quickly. The days have slipped by and now we’re almost out of time. I am a good boy, a good man, but I know how this will seem to others.
She is silent as she eats the beans. The only sounds are the rumbles from her stomach as I fill that empty hole, and the spoon against the cheap pottery of the bowl.
When the food is gone, I put the empty bowl down and I reach for her coffee. She slurps it down greedily, and she doesn’t even wince at the bitter taste of the coffee. And I can’t help it. I have to say something. I have to talk to her. Because like I said, she still has some sort of power over me.
“Is that better?” I ask.
She nods and continues to drink the coffee. When it is gone I put the empty mug inside the empty bowl. It’s sort of strange, I think as I stare at the two items. Both empty and nestled within one another.
“That’s how we used to be,” I say. And I nod toward the cup and the bowl.
She turns her head to look, a small frown puckering between her eyebrows.
“We were both empty, but we fit together somehow.”
It hurts to speak. To think of her as anything but perfect. But I have to be realistic now. I have to be here and present and I have to get her to understand.
“That was all I ever wanted. For you to be with me. For me to be inside of you, a part of you.” I look back at you. My eyes sting with unshed tears, but I mustn’t cry, because I’m not a pussy. Not anymore.
Carrie is staring at me blankly, coldly.
“Say something.”
She’s silent for a very long time. So long that I wonder if I spoke at all. And then when she speaks, her voice is so low and quiet that I wonder if she spoke at all.
“What do you want me to say?” she eventually says.
“My name,” I reply almost instantly, and with a little confusion. Because I do. I want to hear my name on her lips one last time.
