I tell my lies And I despise Every second I’m with you - “Trash”, Korn * * * * * There’s something intoxicating about her, something I can’t quite explain. I knew the moment I saw her that she would be the death of me. I was an addict before I’d even taken my first hit. And it was odd, really, how attached I felt, because I honestly had no reason to feel so. I was her enemy; I despised her and her ideals; I mocked her. And all the while she merely stood, smiling at me. A perfect smile. A fake smile. A doll’s smile. I wanted to rip it off her pretty little face. I wanted her to know true pain. I wanted to make her cry, beg, bleed. I wanted her to see just how foolish she really was. And yet, I’d never felt closer to anyone in my life. I genuinely enjoyed listening to her talk of peace and pacifism and her other foolish notions. I loved the way my name rolled out of her mouth, fully of false pleasantness and true exasperation. I felt an overwhelming sense of control when I was in her presence, because it was, after all, me who was in control. I wonder sometimes if she even knew it. She was starved for friendship when I came along, and I offered it to her. And I like to think that at least some of the time, I was a good little friend. I listened to her woes and gave her false sympathy and praised her when I saw it fit. Maybe we really became some demented version of friends, maybe we never did. I personally don’t think that we did, but it hardly matters. Either way, she still would have crawled into my bed in the middle of the night like she did. She still would have leaned into me, silently begged for me to be the first to take her. She still would have moaned when I did and arched her back when she came. And she still would have held on to me afterwards and kissed me until I felt lightheaded. Friendship didn’t push her into that bed that night, just as it didn’t the next night and then the night after. She came for the same reason that I let her, because we were supposed to hate each other. And there was something so utterly delicious about fucking your ‘enemy’. * * * * * She glances up at me and I watch her eyes flicker before she returns them to her papers, a sign that she wants me to go so that she can finish her paperwork. I’ve never met anyone else who enjoys doing paperwork after sex. Her deformity simply delights me. I refuse to leave her alone. “Miss Relena,” I murmur, shivering as a rush of power gushes through me, “may I inquire as to what you’re working on?” She gives me an irritated glance. “I have a meeting tomorrow,” she tells me in her perfect princess voice, as if it should explain everything. “Hm. You work so hard, Miss Relena.” I fill my voice with false enthusiasm, and I know that she can hear the underlying disgust. I so despise her work and the amount of time that she spends working. “Is there something that you want, Dorothy?” I can’t hold back a delighted smirk at her annoyance as our gazes meet; I can feel the heat of it and I wonder idly if she can too. “No, not really,” I say, moving slowly closer to her until I’m sitting on the bed with her, nearly lying on her. I expect her to push me away from her, as she’s done countless times before. I so love when she does that, because she looks so intense when she does so. She surprises me this time. Her lips cover mine hungrily, her tongue slipping inside my mouth. She tastes like cherries, innocence. Her arms grasp a hold of mine, pushing me into her, the paperwork long forgotten by her side. I pull away, feeling dizzy and alive. “I hate you,” she tells me quietly, moving to nibble my neck. Such a tender gesture joined with such hateful words. It’s beautiful. I step off the bed, leaving her gazing up at me, breathing heavily and face flushed. I study her for a moment as I do quite often. She looks her age now, not at all like her normal self, which resembles a thirty-year-old single mother. I pointed it out to her once, how her wonderful pacifist life made her appear so tired, so unhappy. She laughed at me, that bland nasal sound, and told me she was happy enough. We never spoke of it again. “The war is over, you know,” I say, not allowing my gaze to falter. It seems irrelevant and I’m unaware of exactly where the thought came from. She stares at me evenly. “It’s been over for several months.” “I know,” I tell her. “But we’ve never discussed it, and I want to hear your thoughts on it.” Then as an afterthought, “Miss Relena.” Whatever unusual mood spread over the room only minutes before was broken, and I could feel with relief her annoyance returning. “You may go now, Dorothy.” Just as though I’m her servant. She returns her attention to her papers, and with a smile I turn to leave. She still believes that she’s in control. It’s tragic, really, how something so beautiful can be so exceedingly naïve. * * * * * I remember a conversation I had with Milliardo once, about her. I forget when or where it was, but I remember the rest vividly. “You love her, don’t you?” he had asked me, his eyes glittering, not at all unlike hers. “What?” I had been caught off guard, and it was a peculiar question. “Relena,” he clarified softly, turning away. “You’re in love with her.” I considered lying to him, because it would be so easy. He was her brother; lying seemed to be the only option. But I didn’t. Instead I stayed silent and thought the situation through. Was I in love with her? Maybe I had been, once upon a time, for a brief period before we began to share a bed. I really didn’t remember that far back. But was I then, at that moment? I answered him completely and honestly. “No,” I said. “I want to corrupt her.”
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