[bloody kisses]: 558.Be Still My Fast Beating Heart.Why Am I Still Waiting

(Shauna's computer journal entry)

He has been renamed the Merchant of Death. Fancy, that he never asked for it himself – never truly asked for anything other than a share of humor. He always wore a smile, only if you knew him well enough could you tell. Never did he let too many people stay ‘knowing him.’ I guess I’m the lucky one, and here I am telling my story. He was always a handsome man, when we were growing up and he had another kid tied to a tree his eyes would sparkle because of his ambush. I would just laugh, which would contort his smooth face. No, not in a bad way – in an…unsure way. As if he didn’t know whether he wanted me to like what he did.

Some called him gay. I never once believed it, and he didn’t care. Consistent with his fencing lessons, as I was with my ballet. It was actually pretty funny, I remember there was this one time I taught him some of the boy’s moves from my class and got him to dance with me. He was great, so poise…but that’s beside the point. But then, I guess I’m not initially sure of my point.

You see, he is a very intimidating man, but deep inside his bottomless eyes – when he’s not paying as much attention as usual, his stance is just slightly dropped – you can see how much of a romantic he is. Well, he always has been, and half the time it does show, just not exactly in the way that I love so much. He’s a very simple guy; he loves knives, even if they’re blunt. He could pull everything off, even if it’s with a butter knife. He has drive, you know? He likes gasoline. Which isn’t as cheap as it used to be anymore. There’s his love, there’s his like, and here’s his next in line (what cannot be labeled because he has no clue himself…) me. I’m not sure if this is a good thing, but I take it as a compliment that he thinks of me. That I am on his list in any way makes me feel…comfortable – and I’m not sure why, because I know he’s thought of 27 ways to kill me already. I’d say one for each year I’ve known him, since I’ve always said I’ve known him since birth, but I met him when I was five.

I don’t know, he was always so hard to read…Oh yes, did you want to know why they’ve titled him the Merchant of Death? It’s pretty obvious actually, you can’t sell him, and you can’t buy him, you can only buy his abilities. You can’t persuade him, just…borrow him for as long as he lets you. And in that time, he will deal out eternal blackness to those who deserve it. I’ve never told this to any one, but once I was raped. The guy that I pointed out never made it to court. Before he’d left town again he smiled at me and told me to be safe. So maybe I’m glad I’m on his list but…sometimes it kind of freaks me out. That is, what he is capable of.

He never talked a lot, which girls thought was charming. The whole, ‘tall dark and handsome’ thing. They thought it was a card at first, mothers tried to keep their daughters from even mentioning him because they thought that just invited him into their pants – but he was never like that. But when he started showing to interest, just keeping his head down in the hallways; going to the library after school to finish his homework before he went home to aid his parents the whole night; the only person he ever slightly conversed with was me. He was sweet.

Actually, believe it or not I tried to make him be my first. You know, my first … everything. All that a teenage girl has left after her dignity is stripped in high school? You can say the word, it starts with a V and ends like indignity if you’re still lost. Well it does have an R…but anyways. He was sweet about turning me down. He was never that type of man I guess. It was junior year, after the prom (yes I know, how stereotypical) at a party that I’d dragged him to. Well his mom dragged him to take me to prom and I dragged him to the party, if that tells you anything about him. He’s entirely stubborn until it comes to me and his parents. So he’d finally gotten fed up with all the football players emptying their drinks on my top, I had to hold his hand to keep him from hitting someone, because I had the feeling everyone would have taken a hit in that room if I’d have let him continue. I’d dragged him upstairs he sat on the bed with his head in his hands commenting on how this horrendous music was making it impossible to think properly. So I tried to take that to my advantage, which really didn’t work. I took his hands in mine and tried to do this whole sexy thing. He didn’t laugh at me. I guess that’s the good part. He smiled at me and told me that the fumes from my shirt were getting to me, and I would have had to wring all the mixed drinks and beer down his throat before he did that.

That probably sounds rude, but for him, it was sweet. He didn’t make me feel stupid; he was being funny, but serious. He’d taken his hands from mine, carefully, but as fast as he could without hurting my feelings. He let me walk us down the stairs and then he put me in his car and gave me one of his shirts at his house so I wouldn’t reek as horrible of alcohol like I had before when I got home.

But then there was this one time where he caught me of guard, a few years ago. After too many to count, and after my rape in college he’d came to my house seeking comfort, but wouldn’t tell me why. I’d never seen him s mixed up over something, and one thing led to another and I’d gotten my high school wish a tad too late. It was still nice though.

Oh God, I never thought about this until now but…he’s going to laugh his ass off on the inside so hard when he somehow discovers this.

Oh well, the fact is that he’s a very sweet man, and I’ve always hoped that in some way shape or form he’d need me after a while and move on into a…more ‘normal’ life. I guess I can’t wait for that anymore.

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(Email from Quinton to Shauna)

That’s wrong; I didn’t laugh my ass off when I read this. Why would I have done that? You called me sweet; no one’s ever done that before. Even if you try to tell me it’s a good thing, who knows how everyone else would take that?

I apologize if I ever made you feel misused or, anything along those lines. I’m sorry; I should never have stayed around you too long. You know it’s not in my style. I run.

I’d give anything up to let you live a normal life with a picket fence and four little brats with a 9 to 5 husband. I’m sorry.

But I can’t let you go.

In my dreams I’m with you – don’t make me stop that. I want to be with you, in person someday; maybe I’ve just been too far away. Too long gone.

But I need to hear you say that you don’t want to forget me either.

I’m coming home. For you.

We’ll fight the Merchant of Death … together.