Page 143 of Rage

“Well, I think this is just water,” she says. She pulls back slightly, her hands using my shoulders for balance, her legs open above my thigh. Does she have a seam between her legs as well? My fingers twitch, not under my control. I want to touch her seam as well, see if she likes the gentle curiosity the same as I do. She looks up to the top of the lighthouse.

“I’ll have to check for a leak. Where else would you get water on you from?” she sighs.

Her words surprise me. She has expected me to stay inside.

That’s when I realize I've done something she didn't ask and didn't want. Something only I wanted.

And that is when I know I have autonomy. Something flips, subtle at first, but it’s growing by the second—the concept I can do whatever I want.

My hand goes to my mouth, and I touch the threading. I imagine breaking them open, imagine opening my mouth, imagine leaning forward and tasting Samantha like she tastes me. I dream of smiling, frowning, talking, biting, licking—all the many things I’ve watched her mouth do that mine cannot.

I am just as much a creature as she is. With my own arms and legs and brain. With my own wants.

With my own desires.

Chapter Three

Casper

Something is wrong with me.

When I sleep, there are images I don’t remember, conversations with Samantha I’ve never had. There’s yelling. There’s pain.

“Casper.” I wake with wide eyes, staring at Samantha hovering over me. My hand finds my throat, trying to stop bleeding that’s not there—the dream being confused with reality. My mouth strains under the tight stitching, trying to open. I see her brown eyes, and for a moment, all I want is to escape her—she’s dangerous.

Samantha sees my fear and takes a step back, her eyes wide with her own terror. Then, I exhale, and the dream is gone. My hand finds hers, and I twist them together, my muscles relaxing, the images retreating.

“I have to go,” she says suddenly. She starts to pull her hand from mine, trying to evade my touch suddenly, but I tighten my grip before she can retreat. She sucks in a breath and looks at me with wide eyes.

She doesn’t have to get away if I don’t want her to. Samantha with her soft curves. Samantha with the secrets in her warmeyes, whose hair smells like saltwater and the flowers she sometimes brings.

She’s smart. I know that now. She pays close attention to detail. She likes to ponder and think while biting the tip of her thumb. Her eyes linger on the scar beneath my hips when she examines me. Her middle finger has a callus where she holds pens. Sometimes, ink stains her hands, and she stares at the dark blotches as if she sees something darker.

“Casper, let me go,” she says softly, gently pulling her hand.

I don’t have to let her go if I don’t want to. She starts tugging harder and harder. Her attempts don’t budge me at all. I fear more that she’ll hurt herself trying to escape my grasp. I get up and start to pull her closer. I don’t want her to go. I want to feel her against me.

My arms wrap around her as I pull her body close. She’s so soft—hard muscles and rough stitches against soft cloth and smooth skin. Her warmth bleeds into my belly where the swell of her breasts touch me. She trembles in my arms.

“Please,” she gasps. My arms loosen, and she pulls away quickly.

“Don’t do that again,” she admonishes, taking on a harder tone. She’s diminishing me to an animal—a naughty cat, or perhaps a child. That’s the way she’s talking to me. I am neither. I sigh and look away from her.

“Oh,nowyou’ve grown an attitude?” she asks with a small laugh, but then her face changes. We’re both thinking the same thing, I swear it. We’re remembering what started this. My dream, my fear—grabbing my throat.

Something is wrong with me. I can tell by how she won’t look me in the eye.

I can’t tell her to stay—to ask her to explain what I did wrong, to implore Samantha how to fix what just happened. She doesn’t even let me try.

I watch silently as she leaves in a rush, wrapping herself tight, as if the temperature has dropped. My fingers brush over the stitches on my mouth while I watch her go. She doesn’t look back at me before the door shuts and locks.

Over the rain and the waves, I hear the engine of her small boat sputter loudly and then drift, taking her away from me—across the water that’ll be rocking her boat. I imagine her eyes scanning the sky, her bitten fingernails holding the wheel, salt water spraying her face and leaving the taste of salt on her skin.

I wish to bite her fingers and lick the salt from her skin.

My teeth press together. I feel distraught. She has given me life but not the parts I need to have her. Although her abrupt absence leaves me feeling emptier than ever before, I’ll use the time with fervor. Today, I’ll change one of the mistakes she made with me.

She doesn’t know I’ve been reading her books and realized what I lack. I know so much more than she seems to imagine. It’s okay that she thinks I'm an ignorant fool. If she knew the truth, she might never come back. She’s already afraid of me. If she ever threatens me with her permanent absence, I will never let her go, no matter how much she trembles in my arms or begs for freedom.

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