Re: Sonrisa: Sam A & Cris M
Cris didn't see it as darkness, whatever it was that made him wanna do those things. He could see it was fucked up, huh? But, he was fucked up. To him, it made sense—where he'd come from was fucked up, so how could he be any different? It'd been worse when he was younger, angrier, and all that nail stuff, there was a lil bit before his dad ate his gun—wire hangers, that kinda thing—, pero most came after. Pilar called it coping, trying to take some control over his life or something, like if he had a valve on his pain, least it was something. He didn't do it no more, course. He hadn't for years and years and years, but he got that want, as screwed up as it was, as contrary to self-preservation as it was, and as scary as it looked from the outside.—But, that didn't mean he was gonna sit and let Sam smack herself upside the head every time she wanted to make a point. Maybe he shoulda been more concerned than he was—and he was concerned, but not the 'we need to lock you up' kind—, but mostly, he just wanted her to not do it. That was as deep it went, there, in that bared room.
And, he didn't care if she moved beneath his fingers, if she shimmied or just wriggled under applicationa oil paints. He coated her in pigments that melded into each other unsubtle, garish, gray gooping brown where he mixed them together too much. It was touch, frenetic friction, like just the contacta her skin beneath his was some kinda succor for the guy, something to focus on while he talked to her, as steady as he could manage.—His head was still as foggy as the day behind them had been. He couldn't feel corners coming, not the way he mighta been able to normal, so he wasn't expecting that outburst. Nah, he was pleased, happy, when she undid those buttons and he could press both palms to Sam's belly, run fingers over and under in ribboning blue, green, yellow. He gathered a dollop of red from his own leg, ran it 'round the circle the gringa already painted on.
He kissed her and in his wool-gathering mind, he thought he'd done pretty good, as far as explaining went. But, he wasn't reading her as good as he shoulda been, as clear-eyed, 'cause even though he was expecting huffing and reassertionsa her insanity, he hadn't seen the snowballing guilt that came at the end, culminating in that brush skyrocketing 'cross the room, smacking into the wall, and falling flat.—It didn't scare him or nothing. No amounta yelling was gonna scare him. She could throw a chair and somehow manage to impale him, and he wouldn't be scared. He just wanted to figure out what was behind it.