Title: A Saint's Downfall
Author: PenM (email@example.com)
Summary: Will goes about in circles. He can only hate Jack for so long. Then there comes the inevitable realization that it must be him.
Disclaimer: ... you all know the drill.
Author's Notes: Part three in a series of vignettes. Part One - Lost and Bound, and Part Two - Pathway to Hell.
He's gone, he's always gone by the time I wake up. Leaves me with a room heady with the smell of sex and rum, and the faint indent in the pillow where I know he's lain hours ago, maybe even minutes.
I wake up and I recall everything. I will touch the bruises on my arm. There will be angry red lines from where he's clawed at my back. I will look at my hands and remember them sliding over his body, over his pronounced collarbone, over the ribs that jut out, sharp enough to cut, down the crevice of his hips. I will look at my hands and see callouses and wonder how he can lean into my touch like he does, when my hands are so rough.
I will slowly build up resolve. I will dress myself, try to walk as normally as possible. When he says something, I will smile where there are others. Where there are none, I will pin him against the wall and ravish his mouth. He will smile at that, and I will only kiss him harder to burn away that smirk. My resolve will melt, and I will curse myself for that.
Sometimes I wonder why I don't give in, why I don't want to love him. Is it because of her? No, it is not. Is it because of him? No, it is not. That leaves me then. Is it because of me?
I think it might well be.
I will retreat to the deck then, when the sun is touching the water, turning the blue into gold touched with fire. I worked with gold once; I made a wealthy man's trinket. It was pleasant; a very lovely metal to work with indeed. Willing to forgive mistakes as I handled it.
I will hold open my hand; there will be blood welling there. I will have been unaware of digging my fingernails into my palm; but I will have, and they will bleed. He will saunter out then, and find me there; he will pour some rum over it, and it will sting in a clean sort of way.
I will do all that, later. Now I have to build up enough resolve to want to slide out of bed. There is a faint indent on the pillow. I trace the outline of it, and bury my face in the pillow. It's still warm. It smells familiar. Salt, sex, and alcohol.