“Miranda, I didn’t mean—”
“But not too much pain, am I right? Not too much, never too much. If it was too much, you wouldn’t know what to do with me, would you? Too much would make you uncomfortable. Bored. My crying would leave a bad taste. That would just be bad theater, wouldn’t it? A bad show. You want a good show. They all do. A few pretty tears on my cheeks that you can brush away. Just a delicate little bit of ouch so you know there’s someone in there. So you don’t get too scared of me, am I right? So you know I’m still a vulnerable thing. That I can be brought down if need be.”
He looks at me. “Miranda, that’s really not what I—”
“Why don’t we try it? Why don’t you try hurting me right now and see? See if I can feel it. See if you can make me feel it. Make me cry out. You probably like a little of that, don’t you?”
A flicker of recognition in his eyes. Yes. He likes a little of that. Of course he does. But he plays shocked, confused. Looks at me like I’m fucking crazy.
“What? No. Of course not,” he says. Shakes his head again and again as I move in closer to him. Asking him to pull my hair, to punch me in the gut, go on. To strangle me if it turns him on. Does it turn him on? Yes.
“No. Miranda, look, stop this, okay? I’m leaving. I’m—”
But I’ve already grabbed his hands and put them around my neck. He tries to resist but my grip is surprisingly strong, my strength surprises both of us. He looks at me in horror as he tries to pry his hands away, but he can’t now. I’m holding his hands down. Holding them down around my neck. His hands encircling my throat.
“Miranda, what the fuck are you doing?”
“Go on,” I tell him. “Hurt me.”
He shakes his head, horrified. So appalled by the fact of his own hands around my throat. The drumming of my pulse under his thumbs. He tries to pull away again but I hold him there.
“Is this what you did?” I ask him quietly. “Was it like this?”
He shakes his head again. I press his hands deeper into my neck.
“It’s all right, you didn’t mean to. We never mean to, do we? Or maybe we do. Maybe we fucking do mean to, don’t we? Anyway, it’s done, isn’t it? No going back now. Too late, am I right? So do it. You know you want to. I feel it. I feel it from you.”
I drop my hands. Now he’s the one gripping my neck all by himself. His hands, resting hot on either side, holding tight. Each thumb poised above the clavicle. Ready to press. I know he’s tempted to press into my flesh and see. Will he leave a bruise? Will he leave a mark like Mark used to? All of Mark’s little marks. All those soft black, purple, and yellow spots blooming down my legs and flanks, the strangest watercolors. John’s welts on my thigh. The surgeon’s scars on my hip. Three prongs like a pitchfork under the Scotsman’s tongue. And Paul? The hurts Paul inflicted, his marks, are on the inside. Does Hugo want to leave his mark too? Here on the neck where the skin is so thin, shot through with blue veins, right here in the little hollow where my pulse jumps. See what I’m made of? See if he can make me cry, make me scream?
“You want to. I know you do. They all do.”
He wrenches his hands away from my neck. Wrenches his hands away like I’m the one still holding them there. He drops his hands like he’s awakened from a terrible dream. He hasn’t had one like this in a long, long time. He looks at me. Wide-eyed. Afraid.
Then he walks away. He doesn’t look back once as he pushes through the exit doors. Gold hair glowing in the dark morning. Red-gold like a fish.
“Probably just as well,” I call after him. “You couldn’t handle my pain. Couldn’t handle my tears when they were actually falling, could you? That was just a bad scene, wasn’t it, Goldfish? A bad show. And you want to see a good show, don’t you?” My voice is singing, light and carefree as my heart of air. So light I can’t even feel it beating. No marks, no tears. Just smiling here. We just want to see a good show, Ms. Fitch. Just put on a good show. That’s all they want is a good show. So that’s what I’ll give. Tomorrow night, am I right? Or is it tonight now? Opening night. So very soon, ticktock. I better get some rest, hadn’t I, Grace?
CHAPTER 26
I DRIVE HOME in the predawn dark, singing. I’m really my own radio these days. I tell myself I’ll stop at Grace’s on the way home again. Just to check in on her. Definitely. Make sure she’s all right. All’s well? I’ll ask her.