I can't fix her.

I don't know what to do, so I just follow her lead. She doesn't complain, so I must be doing something right.

She drinks too much, smokes too much, and eats too little. When I still had skin, I knew guys like this. They forgot who they were, or maybe, they became something else, something they couldn't understand. Sometimes they got better; sometimes they didn't.

When she came for me, she was an arrogant bitch. She needed a man with a gun; she didn't think twice about buying me – a slaver, I knew. Only a slaver would be that flippant about buying someone.

I hated her. I thought I'd be forced to send people to the same Hell I'm in – but I wasn't. I don't know what happened, but she stopped slaving after she bought my contract. Well, after she…got to know me. When she didn't take me with her, I knew what she was doing. The first few times, she came back with caps. Then, she started coming back empty-handed.

This morning, the way she looks over the balcony, into the distance, that thousand-yard stare – it makes me think of the first time we were…intimate.

It was months ago. We'd been traveling together for three weeks or so. We'd cleared out a nest of raiders, and as she finished searching their bodies for anything valuable, she sat on a picnic table bench, lit a cigarette and stared off into the distance, watching the sunset. I stood behind her – watching her, studying her. I savored the strands of raven-black hair falling out of a hastily-made bun; her left cheek, ruddy and windburnt; full lips, chapped. It's like the wasteland sucks the moisture right out of you.

She breaks the silence. "I know when a man wants me."

I stayed still; quiet.

"I'm not stupid, Charon."

I replied, "I didn't say you were."

"I can see it in your eyes, in how you shadow me in town. Like I'm yours, and I just don't know it yet."

I can't say anything. I can't lie to her.

"So," she said, "you gonna fuck me or not?" She drops her cigarette, grinds it into the ground with the ball of her foot.

I couldn't believe my ears. "Is that an order?"

"It's whatever you want it to be, big guy."

I took her right there, on that picnic table – a foolish thing to do, out in the open. She's a scratcher, a biter – but she pulled me closer; she liked to fight, and she liked it rough. I was more than happy to oblige. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had a woman. Instinct took over – after I fought her pants off her, I flipped her over, pinned her squirming body to the rough wood, and entered her from behind, harder than I'd intended.

She screamed – whether in pain or passion, I still don't know. With her, I doubt those two could ever be separated.

It didn't take me long – she was tight, wet, and like I said before…it'd been a long time.

We stayed like that for a minute – both breathing hard, me softening inside her. I slipped out, buckled up my pants. She laid there, bent over the table, bare-assed. Slowly, she straightened, cleaned herself up with a rag, tossed it in the dirt.

As she buckled her own pants, she looked at me, a glint of light from the dying sun catching her eye. She smiled.

After that day, she changed.

No, that's not right. After that day – I changed her.

She began to do favors for people in the wasteland – not even for money, just to do them. She was trying to atone for the monster she'd been. She was trying to redeem herself, although, she wouldn't admit it. I loved her for it, and once, on impulse, told her so.

"Mallie…?" I feel myself getting hard, wanting her again. I had her last night – it was gentle and tender, kisses and sweet nothings, dulled by alcohol. It wouldn't be like that today. She was angry at herself, angry at the world. Maybe even angry at me for staying.

"You want me?" she says, still staring out into the distance. I can't hold back the rumble in my throat.

"You gotta soften me up a little first."

I hate to say it, but I like it. I can just say that she orders me to do it – she does – and leave it at that, but I can't lie to myself. I like doing it. It makes her wet faster than anything else. The first time she told me to do it, I hesitated. This was a conflict in my programming; I didn't want to hurt her. "You won't hurt me," she said, "because I like it." Confused, I stood – indecision personified. As an incentive, she hurled insults at me – "Hey, big and ugly," she taunted, "if you ever wanna fuck this again, you'll do what I tell you." I take a step towards her, and she sneers. "Shuffler." She must have seen the muscle twitch in my face at the epithet. "Make a move you rotten zomb-" WHACK! I'd slapped her, right in the mouth. She held her hand to her face, shuddered, and looked at me, and her gaze was of pure passion, pure desire, pure need. Breathlessly, she whispered, "Do it again."

She steps toward me, and I ready myself for the command. "Just a couple," she says. I can't hit her as hard as I can – It'd really hurt her, no matter what she says – but I have to make sure to hit her hard enough, or she'll order me to stop, and then torture me until she gets tired of the game. Last time, she walked around the suite naked all day – not a stitch of clothing – and made me watch her. She even danced suggestively in front of the jukebox, rubbing salt in the wound.

I learned my lesson.

"I'm yours."

Those two words meant more to me than a command – now, and until we finished, she was mine. A draught of freedom, brief, but deep.

My arm was swift and strong. WHACK…WHACK!

Her eyes, half-open, drunk with desire.

I dragged her to the patio table, shoving her back into the steel grate of the tabletop. I wanted to see her eyes this time. Clear, sparkling blue – defiant and strong. Resisting little, she let me strip her bottom half, and unbuckle mine.

I shove up her t-shirt and pinch her nipple - hard. She likes that, too.

When I thrust up into her, hard, she gasps. I don't stop – she loves the pain, she savors it. Instead, I clamp my hand over her mouth – she doesn't need to be making noise. It'd piss people off, them knowing what we do. Even ghouls don't like it. I can feel her moaning against my hand, watch her eyes roll back in her head, and -Oooooh! Sweet release.

When I'm done, I slap her on the hip – a little much, I know, just to see if I can get away with it. I watch the handprint appear, redden. She's mine. My mark. I smirk as I stuff myself back into my pants. She trembles and sighs, taking her brief post-orgasm rest.

She takes a shower, and then we head out to shoot.

I think she'll be one of the ones that get better. She has me, and enough caps and ammo to tide her over for a while.

She'll find herself, or redefine herself – whatever she needs to do.

Sometimes I feel guilty, knowing that it was me who changed her into something confusing, something alien to herself.

But she'll get better. She'll find purpose. I'll be here.

I'll help her.

That's what I'm programmed to do.

Author's Note: If you liked this, you'll definitely like The Right Road Lost, a much longer continuation of this story, also written in gritty first-person monologues. Make sure to follow it, because it'll be updated regularly. You can find it listed on my profile. Thanks for reading and reviewing!