[ Sometimes she wishes he would break her, would ruin her forever and leave her chest gaping. When he'd left the Aviary — still Sapsucker then — it had left a hairline crack in the foundation of Ruth's life. Not enough to kill, but profound enough to feel: a flaw that ran far deeper than simply cosmetic housekeeping, one that let the ivy grow on through into the basement of her otherwise empty soul and let the mortar of her bloodless veins be chewed to dust by a thousand little tendrils of pale green and ash white.
(The first time he'd come to see her, she shrieked at him: I should kill you! Those are my orders, you stupid little boy. The last time he'd come to see her, she cried: Kill me, kill me. Be a man, Sally, and kill me. Isn't that what you're trying to do? Afterwards, she'd held him, or maybe let him hold her, arms twisted tight around them and the sheets holding them together with a dozen different knots. It wasn't until after he was gone, two months back, that Ruth finally understood.
That pain in her chest, that creeping ache like a bruise that won't heal or that phantom tickle like a limb hacked without reason. Those were merely symptoms of a greater disease — a diseased he'd infected her with.
That word again: love.)
If only he would reach out and snap her neck instead of hold her. That is a pain that Ruth is trained to deal with. That is something she knows how to endure. ]
Don't call me that. [ Her voice is a whipcrack, but she doesn't pull away, doesn't turn her cheek. Frigid is a word easily used to describe Ruth, but when it comes to Saul she runs blisteringly hot — never cold, never lukewarm — always an uncharacteristically extreme.
Her hands tremble, flexing slowly at her sides. She wants to hurt him; she wants to set her claws deep and never let got. ] You have no right.
no subject
(The first time he'd come to see her, she shrieked at him: I should kill you! Those are my orders, you stupid little boy. The last time he'd come to see her, she cried: Kill me, kill me. Be a man, Sally, and kill me. Isn't that what you're trying to do? Afterwards, she'd held him, or maybe let him hold her, arms twisted tight around them and the sheets holding them together with a dozen different knots. It wasn't until after he was gone, two months back, that Ruth finally understood.
That pain in her chest, that creeping ache like a bruise that won't heal or that phantom tickle like a limb hacked without reason. Those were merely symptoms of a greater disease — a diseased he'd infected her with.
That word again: love.)
If only he would reach out and snap her neck instead of hold her. That is a pain that Ruth is trained to deal with. That is something she knows how to endure. ]
Don't call me that. [ Her voice is a whipcrack, but she doesn't pull away, doesn't turn her cheek. Frigid is a word easily used to describe Ruth, but when it comes to Saul she runs blisteringly hot — never cold, never lukewarm — always an uncharacteristically extreme.
Her hands tremble, flexing slowly at her sides. She wants to hurt him; she wants to set her claws deep and never let got. ] You have no right.