The Truth, The Whole Truth And Nothing But The Truth

Number of words: 1667

Summary: Sequel to Nightmare. This is the story of a schizophrenic writer who has started talking to her characters like they were real.

Author's note: I realise the title isn't the most appropriate; I'll be happy to hear any suggestions you may have. And I'm not quite sure if this really belongs in FF, seeing as the "he" could be anyone. Reviews are welcome.

Disclaimer: i do not own Chase Young but Eva is my OC. (Please read Nightmare .net/s/5081151/1/Nightmare before reading this.)

Christmas carols blared from the shopping centre's speakers. After a month long exposure to the same songs played repeatedly at inhumane volumes, I'm ready to run around the shopping centre with a bat in one hand, smashing every one of the speakers, but destruction of public property is illegal, and of course I would get into a hell lot of trouble. I settled for the not-as-satisfactory action of turning up the volume of my iPod.

I'm on the third floor, leaning on the banister that stretches along the perimeter of the shopping complex, watching the people moving around below. Scurrying like ants, I think. Or rats. I'm not in a good mood.

Somehow, I'm not surprised when he sidles up close to me. Close, but not uncomfortably so. I wait for him to speak, still gazing down at the families and couples moving in and out of shops, stubbornly resisting all urges to turn and face him directly. It's an old game he's playing, and one I don't want to lose.

From the corner of my eye, I can see he's wearing an ordinary pair of black jeans and a nice long-sleeved pale blue shirt. His long black hair is pulled into a neat queue at the nape of his neck. I don't look at his face, almost afraid of the expression I would see on it, but he appears to be studying the people, as I'm supposed to be.

I count the passing seconds. After five minutes, when it becomes apparent that he's not going to speak anytime soon, I decide I'd better start.

"Hi," I say quietly.

A long pause. When I start to wonder if he is ever going to reply, he clears his throat.

"Hello."

His voice, I notice, is rougher and huskier than I'd remembered, as if he were recovering from a sore throat, or maybe because he hasn't spoken for a long time and has rusted from disuse. I suspect the latter.

"I've not seen you for a long time," I say, still determined not to look at him.

"Is that so?"

"Yeah."

"I tend to lose track of time." To my surprise, he loses at his own game and turns to look at me. "Can we get out of here? I need a smoke."

Again, I am surprised. "Since when did you smoke?"

"Picked it up when I was gone."

I look at him for the first time, and almost faint from shock.

He looks exhausted. His skin is almost paper white, and violet shadows ring his still-lovely golden eyes. And he is so, so thin...

"What happened?" The question can't help but jump out of my mouth. I have never seen him look tired in any degree before; in fact, I have never seen him anything less than strong, arrogant and beautiful. I hadn't ever thought it was possible for him to feel fatigue, but he now he had the world-weary look I'd only ever seen on the old and dying.

He doesn't answer, just jerks his head in the direction of the exit and walks towards it, not bothering to check if I would follow or not.

I follow of course. It has been the only thing I can do since meeting him, and I think he knows it.

There is a field across the road, full of teenage couples who are busy drinking, smoking and kissing. He sits at a spot further away from everyone else, and I flop down beside him.

"How's Eva?" I ask.

He studies the measly few stars visible in the sky before answering. "Fine."

"Is that so?"

"Have your dreams stopped?"

For a second, I'm back at the top of the cliff, the shrieking girl's hands wrapped tight around my throat. For a moment, I can feel the fear again, as suffocating as a blanket wrapped around my face. I can almost see the dagger she whips out of nowhere, taste the coppery blood in my mouth.

"Pretty much," I say to him instead and lick my suddenly dry lips. "Does she know you're here?"

"Not yet. I suppose she will, eventually," he says casually, as if it doesn't matter. But then, it doesn't. Not for him anyway.

"Is she..." I lick my lips again. I wonder if he knows that my heartbeat has sped up to twice its usual rate. "Does she still hate me?"

A long pause, as if he were trying to find the right words to answer me. It's strange; he never was one to mince his words. I wonder when he started to weigh his words, and why.

"I don't know."

Somehow, I expected that. Maybe she has grown tired, like him. Maybe she is tired of hating me too.

"Do you hate me?"

He sighs and says very softly, "I did, once." he rummages in his pocket and extracts a packet of cigarettes and a Zippo lighter. It's a flat silver rectangle that gleams as sharp as a knife, a red Oriental dragon curling along its length.

Why did you, when did you stop, why did you stop? The words are a confused tangle in my mouth, each one fighting to come out first. "Why?" is all I can manage.

With a metallic ping, he flips the top of the lighter and stares at the red gold flame for a few seconds longer than necessary before lighting his cigarette.

"Because you never listened to me." He puts the cigarette to his mouth and takes a long deep drag before exhaling puffs of blue grey smoke. "You wanted me to help you, and I showed you how the way free from pain. You refused to listen, and got hurt, again and again and again. "

I blink, and wonder if his rhyme was intentional. "And you hate me because of that?" It seems silly. I never expected him to be anything less than cold and cruel to me, and now he was genuinely concerned about me?

"Until I grew weary of your complete indifference to your emotional welfare." He takes another long deep drag on his cigarette. The end of the slender white stick flares cherry red for a brief moment, then subsides to a soft ruby glow. The smoke hangs in the air, as heavy as our silence.

"I see." Not really, but it doesn't matter. I notice that no matter how much he puffs at the cigarette, it doesn't seem to get any shorter. There are other things I notice, like the elegance and glamour that he exudes as always, despite his drained expression. The way his fingers wrap lightly around the slender white cigarette. His eyes, shining like gold coins in the dimness. Details, all unnecessary details. Suddenly, I'm exhausted, probably feeling as tired as he looks.

"Kiss me," I say, wanting to feel in control again; wanting to feel more than I really am; tired, pathetic and completely powerless. At my command, he leans towards me stops when he is just a hair's breadth away from my lips.

"Are you sure?" he whispers. He almost sounds afraid. But that can't be right. He was never afraid.

"Is it Eva then?" I ask, my voice as low as his. I reach out to brush a hand against his hair lightly. He doesn't move, but I see the flinch in his eyes. "I'll worry about the consequences later."

"You know that's not it," he says, his voice so soft I can just barely make put the words.

"Kiss me," I say again, even though what I want to do is scream at him. It hurts; I want to be cruel, yet I want him to be kind. I want his love – or at least, some semblance to it - I realise, more than I had ever known. The night will not end well.

This time, he doesn't hesitate to press his lips against mine, rough and demanding. I wonder if it's anger that he feels, or need, then think I don't really care.

I am the one to break the kiss. Even then, he pulls me to him, pressing his body tightly against mine, his hands angling themselves in my hair, his mouth moving down my neck.

"You belong to me," I say harshly. I don't know if it's triumph I'm feeling, or something else.

He doesn't reply. Is it defeat, or fatigue he's feeling, or is he snickering in his head as he keeps something from me?

"You're mine," I can't help but reassert.

"No," he says, his deep voice like the rumble of thunder.

I try to still my shaking fingers, then bring my hands to his face, forcing him to look at me in the eye.

"Yes." The word comes out as a hiss, angrier and harsher than I had expected. "A mere servant, no, a slave can never hope to disobey his master." I had taken that sentence, almost word for word from a manga and hope he doesn't know it.

The laugh that escapes his mouth is a short and sharp sound, like a bark. "And who is the slave here?"

"You," I say immediately.

He shakes his head pityingly.

"No," he says. "You. It has always been you."

"I created you," I manage to mumble through bloodless lips.

He laughs again, short and sharp and incredibly harsh. "You sound like every mad scientist from cheap horror movies. Creations can turn against their maker. Look at Eva."

Again, the cliff, the girl with green eyes that glitter with insanity, the overwhelming fear and pain.

"So what now?" I finally say. "Do I kneel and call you 'milord'? Obey your every word?"

He smiles, and the bitterness of it is so sharp it hurts to see it. "You know you never had to do any of that. You created me so you could bind yourself to me, and you know it."

He kisses the top of my head and disappears, leaving me alone with his words, his silence, and his absence.

End.