Wherever we turn in the storm of roses,
the night is lit up by thorns, and the thunder
of leaves, once so quiet within the bushes,
rumbling at our heels.
Ingeborg Bachmann - In a Storm of Roses
Nerves chewed like rats on the inside of my stomach. I was being ridiculous. I've faced down demons without breaking a sweat. Standing up to family members and a few professors judging our art at the school's end of year student gallery opening shouldn't be a problem. Only it was. Connor the Destroyer was gone, magically shunted aside until I had reclaimed him two weeks prior, thanks to Tshaya's magic.
But Connor the Almost Happy Teen I had been turned into was still with me, inside my head like Dr. Jekyll. It was disconcerting, that second set of memories. I almost hated that silly, carefree boy and yet was grateful to have him. He brought some strange serenity to the seething emotions inside me. When my lover's magic had broken the spell Angel had cast over me, I wanted to run after him, to make Angel pay for this violation of self.
Tshaya and her relatives encouraged me to kill him. Well, her relatives at any rate. Tshaya had reservations. She was a descendant of the few lucky Kalderash who had escaped Mother and her companions after they exacted their revenge for the Rom tribe cursing Dad. Somehow, my anger dissipated almost as fast as it had redeveloped in my heart. I didn't go to kill Angel, nor did I go to thank him.
I think I knew why I had been unmade and reconstructed. I had only vague recollections of those days after my daughter's birth. I wasn't even sure if she had been alive days, weeks or maybe just hours. What I did know was I had wanted to die. That suicidal urge haunted me now, a sick echo deep inside me. Angel had done the only thing he thought would save me, that's what I'm telling myself.
Did I die in the process? I think maybe I did. I am the phoenix, and that was my first painting after my memories returned; another self-portrait, me lying in a pool of blood with a brilliant new me awash in color leaving that body, joining Tshaya in one of my primordial forest backgrounds, plump with hungry, waiting eyes just beyond the clearings. In this, Tshaya was surrounded by magical symbols in that dangerous forest, which was a recurring theme with me. She was defiant, bold and beautiful warrior woman, alluring, holding a sword in one hand while magic curled from her open hand. A whip rode her hip, a pomegranate in its coiled center.
I spent five days locked away in my studio, read spare bedroom of my apartment where I wouldn't be bothered by my fellow art students. Some were a help; half were either jealous, or talent-less or both. It was all Tshaya could do to make me take breaks, to nibble food I didn't want or to lie down for futile attempts to sleep. I screamed at her for every interruption of my fugue. I didn't want distracted and to hell with my body's needs. The end result was a half dozen new paintings that looked like Dali after taking L.S.D and Ecstasy, and careening into a massively bad trip. Tshaya thought they were brilliant expressions of my inner mind, which really ought to scare me. She's a psych and journalism double major. Journalism is her true love, and she would be covering the show for the school. She blended psych into the mix to get a better handle on human nature, good luck.
The hard part about this show was picking which six pieces I wanted to go into the show, which was a generous amount but still seemed inadequate. All three self portraits went in. The first one was old, from before I knew myself, The Hollow Man. This one I had no head because Fred was leaning over me, dissecting my chest, which held nothing inside but swirls of red and black. Gunn stood at her side and Angel watched from the rain outside. This one had won before from when I entered it in shows last semester. I probably should have picked another picture but this was one of my favorites, even if I knew it wouldn't count toward this contest.
The Phoenix self-portrait hung next to it, along with another new self-portrait, a blistering unleashed piece of rage called Childhood Denied. Quor-Toth played background in heavy red acrylics with broken bits of toys I had never played with jammed onto the canvas. In either corner, two sets of eyes watched me from swirls of hellish clouds, eyes, that if you knew them, were obviously Angel's and Holtz's. Even Tshaya was creeped out by the eyes. I wasn't sure if it was a damn good piece of art or a pretentious waste of canvas. It's so hard to tell sometimes. Of course, the big blue ribbon with first place on it said it wasn't crap, but I still had my doubts.
The other three I entered were a triptych of femininity. The first was of Jasmine, blue and calm, half hidden remembrances of the peaceful lies she tried to bring. Looking at this picture there was no hints of the evils my daughter had done. I knew what she would have done if I hadn't stopped her. Eventually she would have ruined the world but that wasn't in this portrait. I hadn't known myself when I painted this but obviously my love for my child had been inside me, spilling onto the canvas. Still, it was the one I liked the least out of what I was exhibiting, but it would be the one least likely to disturbed the parents. Tshaya wasn't sure this packed the emotional punch of some of my others. She was probably right but I liked it just the same. I was hoping not to hear too many negative remarks about it. Artists need a thick skin but I was still growing it. I had tender spots still, chinks in my armor.
The next was of my mother. I don't know what possessed me to do this, since that terrible delusion of seeing her couldn't be real. I must have been mad at that time when she came to stop me and Cordy...surely it was all a hallucination or else I was a murderer and I'm not sure I could live with that. Maybe that's why Angel did this to me, to protect me from myself. Regardless of whether it was real and whatever Angel's motives were, this image of my mother dug its fangs into me, not letting me go. She didn't look as she had in my memory. I made her older, from Holtz's time, her blonde curls arranged neatly, her gown a verdant green, luxurious, becoming. She was beautiful on her throne of bones surrounded by red rose petals. If one stepped back and looked at her from afar, she seemed to be surrounded by a sea of blood. From either corner, amidst a crazed mixed on knotwork and spirals that made the boundaries, were my eyes and Angel's. She was so beautiful and I loved her for all her wicked grin in my painting.
The most disturbing of the feminine paintings was the one of Cordelia. I had started it before the memories had flooded back. At that point she had just been a ghost on the canvas. It was me, swathed in a purple cocoon, naked, curled into a fetal position, that had ben rendered in heartbreaking detail, previous to the spell breaking. Even then I had realized on some level my first time had left me exposed, devastated, feeling almost raped. I had included a sprinkle of white rose petals over my lithe body, the symbol of lost innocence. When everything broke free, Cordelia sprung to life like a vengeful Aphrodite. At first glance she spoke of beauty and lust, but upon deeper inspection one could see the arrogance, the hint of wickedness. Again, Angel was off in a corner, looking in as fire rained down. I knew now that must have been how he knew I was Cordy's lover. The mere thought of him catching us made me feel like getting sick.
Just looking at this picture tore my soul to tatters. I wanted to howl at it, beg it for answers. I think maybe I had done just that when I was creating it in a vicious burst of energy that wouldn't let me go until I was wrung out and useless. Was Cordy still in a coma? Had she died? Dare I find her? What would Tshaya think if I did?
I looked closer at the me in that picture. I was so small and scared, caught in the paints. Even though this had been started when I was still blissfully unaware of my former life - except for the nightmares that spilled out onto my canvases and forced me to try the spell to discover myself - I obviously still felt the anguish Cordelia had caused me, the betrayal, the utter confusion of love rendered into enslavement. I fought back the tears but couldn't keep my memory from unspooling.
I shake, not knowing what is coming. I'm barely listening to Cordelia's soft voice. The pain in my side makes my every breath hitch. How did this happen? I've fought so hard, so long, for so many years and nothing had ever broken me. Now, feeling the grating of bone, terror threatens to undo me. I had never felt this kind of panic, not even as a child fighting the worse Quor-Toth had to throw at me.
Cordy is telling me I'm not to blame, that it's not my fault that it's raining fire. I don't believe her. It has to be. It can't be an accident the monster came through where I was born. It's tethered to me, to the evil that has to be inside me because of my birth. Then her lips are on mine, soft and warm. She tastes salty and slightly sour, not a surprise after what we've been through. We've kissed before and every time she tells me its wrong.
I wait for it, to hear again how I'm never quite right, how this is wrong.. She doesn't speak. It's like she's barely breathing. Like a voice from somewhere else, I hear myself asking, why she did it. I'm confused. Why does she keep pressing her lips to mine then act like it's a sin? Why do I want her to do it? I don't understand my own feelings. When I think about Cordy, my mind locks. There is no thought, just raw emotion. I want. I covet. I think this must be lust but I don't know. I have no frame of reference. I know I want to touch her, have touched her when she was sleeping. I know it's wrong but the things churning inside me make me do it. Is this the sinful desires Father warned me about? He never gave me details, just dire warnings.
Fear swells in me, devouring the goodness of the kiss. Her hands are on my face. Her words are full of pity and sorrow. We are going to die soon. We both know it. Her words jumble in my head, making no sense except for this one fact. I'm different. I've never been normal. There is too much I have never known and now, never will. Tears scald down my cheeks. I can not stop then nor want to. I am unashamed. She promises me something real.
And I am more afraid than before as she takes me in her arms. I want this but I don't understand it. My heart pounds as she takes my hand, moving it across her belly. I understand the command to explore but I'm shaking too hard. She has to be able to hear the drum of my heart. The Beast could hear it. I'm becoming a lure for the evil. I try to break away but she doesn't let me go.
There is tenderness in her gaze but no understanding of my fright. Her lips meet mine again as she starts to pull my shirt over my head. Never before have I been uncomfortable with being naked in front of others, not even when Fred and Gunn told me it was wrong, but now, I felt somehow small, like a little boy again. Like the time Father wanted me to be more grown up than I was when he trained me to track. This fear was like that, the terror of not knowing what waits on the other side of adulthood, knowing that once the road is traveled, I can't go back.
She presses me back against the bed. I lie braced against the sheets, willing this feeling to ebb. She and I had shared this bed before without the emotions racking me now. I have touched her but now that she wants me to, I am afraid. What if I do it wrong? I don't know what to do when a man lies with a woman. No one ever told me. I have never seen a woman without clothing before. I know that they are different but I don't know how.
My breath catches as Cordelia removes her shirt and bra. Her breasts look so soft but I am afraid to touch them now, even with her asking. My hands won't move. My stomach does. I try not to vomit. This can't be normal, to be this afraid. I pretended all this time to be an adult to Gunn and to Angel but it was a lie. I'm a boy and growing up scares me.
Cordelia straddles me, touching my hand to her breasts. I grow bolder. If I tell her I'm not ready, she'll hate me. There is no other time. We will die before the dawn. She is giving me a gift, I remind myself. I know this to be true. This is my only night to grow up and be a man. The tips of her breasts are so soft under my rough fingers but they hardened and point. She guides my face to them. "Go ahead, Connor."
Go ahead what? I don't understand. I can't ask. Can't we just curl up together and wait for the end? That's all I want. I don't want this gift knowing I'll never live to enjoy it. Maybe it's better not to taste of joy I'll never have. But parts of me go to war with my fear. I don't know what to do and she doesn't explain so I try just to feel. It was how I learned to fight, feel it out, do what felt natural. I press my lips her breast, and she makes an encouraging sound. I push my tongue against her, feeling her nipple harden more. I suck against her warm flesh, and she smooths my hair. I feel a tingling rush down between my legs.
I have felt that rush before, know it to be a wanton thing that Father discouraged me feeling. He never explained beyond the fact that it was wrong unless I had a wife. I will never have one now so maybe it doesn't matter. Cordy's hands travel over me and I yelp when she hits the broken ribs. She mumbles apologies.
Her hand goes to my zipper and the confusion shoots as high as the fire in the sky. She pulls me up, her hands on my waistband, and suddenly I'm naked. She pushes me back on the bed again. Cordy stretches out beside me and her hand touches me intimately. My whole body tenses. I can't move away.
"No," I mumble, not sure why she's doing this or why it feels so good.
"It's okay, Connor. I won't hurt you," she whispers. "You love me, right? This is what people in love do."
I don't say anything. I can't. Thoughts don't come. It's like all of me has moved down to under my belly button and all I know is the touch of her hand on my flesh. It grows hard, which has happened a time or two before, prompting Father's lectures on wantonness. Yes, it must be a sin because it feels too good.
"You like this," she said, not a question. I don't answer. I don't have to. "We'll do this first so next time, it'll be better, longer."
I have no idea what she means. Her fist cups me, going faster. Oh God, it feels wonderful. Why was I so afraid, am still afraid? She lets me go and slips off the bed. I watch her remove the rest of her clothing. She is beautiful. Even through my trepidation, I desire her. My manhood is hard, arching upward. She rejoins me, her hand pushing my penis up against my belly as she strokes me.
Her scent has changed. This must be her own desire. Her hand moves more insistently and my breathing moves to match her speed. Oh, it hurts. I hear the ends of rib bones struggling against each other. Cordy doesn't, she can't. She's not like me. Her senses are dull like Gunn and Fred's. She smiles at me.
"You have such endurance. I should have known."
I don't know what she means. She lets me go and I whimper. I don't want her to stop, but I am hers to do with because without her I am lost. She lies beside me and guides my hand up her thigh. Her fingers move mine over her folds of flesh. She is hot and wet, and it is somehow inviting. I am wet all the way to my toes, fear, desire, pain raising sweat all over me. She lets me explore on my own but I do it wrong. I know I do. I am clumsy but she doesn't complain.
The fire between my legs has banked some. Breathing is easier. Cordy slips free of my hands. I pray that I haven't disappointed her. What if she changes her mind now? But the expression on her face doesn't say that I had or she would. She straddles me and my heart seizes. What happens now? My fists curl in the sheets. I don't know how to touch her so I just let her teach me.
Cordelia caresses my hard flesh again and then guides me inside her. I stop breathing for a moment, sensations overwhelming me. I had never been so connected to anyone. I want this to never end. How could God be so cruel as to let me know this existed on the last day of the world?
When I started breathing again, the pain is worse but the feel of Cordy on top of me, around me, drives it to the back of my mind. Even though I know it could happen, I am not prepared for the explosion of fluids from deep within me. Would she be mad? Give me that disappointed look Father had and tell me to clean up? Was it normal and I just didn't know?
Then she kisses me and I know everything was all right.
