.....
Neela knew she wasn't like everyone else; but most of her also thought her better. In this world, where it's a stage. If everyone's just actors, playing a role, a necessary part. If everyone was strung up, being pulled this way and that, by their flimsy limbs and unbreakable wires. Then everyone's just fucking liars.
As crazy as Neela knew herself to be; at least she wasn't a fucking liar. She was her own God. Her own story teller, living her own truth.
If that made her crazy, she was okay with that.
It took time to redress up Dean's wounds. But the relentless man seemed very much to calm down. It was a sorrow to watch his gaze go out with the light. But if relentless he truly was then she knew it would not be out for long. It was okay to be of full sorrow at times. Even most times Neela believed. For when all that was good would occur it would make its juice all the more sweet to drink from. Sorrow ripened the fruits that might've not been ready to eat from, as sorrow was a gift. Unhappiness was the growing that needed to take place.
His eyes may go with the light, but there was something like a baby, growing inside of him of the same likes that which grew between them. Like a baby. A bitter dense fruit, hardened by lack of enough unhappiness. Too tiny, too dry, seedless at that... Soaking sweetly in the sorrow of his tears. Ripening slowly over time to be fed and feed the gut of his very essence.
No sorry would fit in a place here, no words of comfort. Neela would watch the light in his eyes go, she too would go with them, carry its burdened divinity and let the fruits ripen. This was all that could be done. But she could not apologize... No... she loved him. How could she?
She watched instead as his wounds healed up, his eyes would follow her skin, her face and freeze at her own. They would glaze over as though looking into her eyes disturbed him deeply, called for his soul to immediately leave his body.
This of course was not true. Disturbed, yes, sure... Maybe. Dean looked at her skin, and would call something in it, and her body and form, manner and magnetism, and when he closed his eyes her voice... Yes it disturbed his mind, unsettled it deeply even. And when he met her eyes, his soul did in fact leave his body. He was afraid of something. Something that can't be named, afraid of naming it, that the mind's connection to the soul would begin recognizing it deeper and naming the unnamed baby thing. The unripe fruit. So he left... He left his body instead.
To make sure nothing entered that would defy or conflict with the hate he was supposed to feel for her.
And he did hate her. Of course.
The way one would hate the Sun for falling everyday, coming and going as it pleases. Like a destined and eternal tease. Mindlessly soon after, then ignorantly, forgettably... Then doomed to be not at all...
Dean wondered, all alone in painful nights with his healing leg. Is this the same as recognizing the unnamed thing?
The night would answer him. A dear friend now. Yes. With vivid flashing images of her skin. The cellular build up of a notably fashioned body. He would blame the heat in his loins to the nights he's spent alone. Months now. Many night within months alone untouched, fucked up in subtle torture.
He would blame those nights for seeing her more and more everyday... everyday unnamed but recognizable. But he couldn't. Because he wasn't a fool. Not entirely at least, he hoped.
She would sit with him, everyday her words growing fewer and fewer, but her eyes growing kinder and kinder.
Her breast brushing his arm as she'd clean his body, her eyes kissing his stomach, her lips remaining purposefully unspoken about the rising heat underneath his trouser. But they'd perk up at the corners, a gentle knowing smirk. And she wouldn't look into his eyes. At least... she'd spared him that. But they knew. They both knew.
He hated her though... he hated her. Of course. He had to. It was necessary.
But maybe, he didn't hate her body or her voice, or her skin and her touch, and all the drowning woman that she was.
Maybe that was it...
"Hey..." Neela entered the room and almost immediately he took in the whiff of food before he saw the plate of it in her hands.
"You hungry?" Neela shuts the door behind her, "I cooked this time."
His response to this remained cold and no existent as it had been for weeks.
Neela dropped the plate on the bed besides his body.
"Eat." She says, "It's been days already."
Dean still remains as he was; a fancy flimsy thing of a person.
Neela sat and reached in the drawer by the dresser for the vodka she had hidden in it.
Sighing she asks, "Are you trying to kill yourself?"
"... It's that obvious?" Dean's voice rasped out.
"No. I never know what you'll do exactly. You confuse me because you don't know yourself well," Neela downs a swig of the alcohol then continues, "Your lack of direction. You're unknowingness. This is the only thing about you that's certain."
She then adds, "But if you are trying though. You shouldn't kill yourself... There's people who care about you?"
"Who? You?"
"You're brother."
Dean almost froze as though time glazed over into a halt.
His brother, he had been thinking about him as of late. All he had time to do now was think. And was starting to remember strange things from his peculiar and dark life.
His brother... Did he care about him truly.
"No..." Dean spoke aloud, "He doesn't." Hazel eyes hugged by the moonless night. Dark and realizing, and friendly only to the shadows.
"No?" Neela questions.
"You said it yourself..."
"He's your family. He cares about you. Not as I do but well enough I'm sure. He's your brother."
"Has he looked for me?"
Now it was Neela's turn to freeze. To hide the humorous smile she couldn't stop from arising, Neela takes another drink from her bottle, "How should I know?" She questions back.
Except sure enough, she did know. She'd been having Elijah track him since the kidnapping and the time Dean's brother had come to no realization nor suspicion.
And Dean like wise thought Neela might know. The way she moved and spoke with such steel-like control, almost sinister but clean like behaviors. He wondered if she'd been sculpted like that or just born into such a nature since birth. It was frightening. And she was smart. And so he suspected she'd know.
So he turned his head to look into her eyes. Twinkling as she drank, she stared back cleanly.
Dean only needed to see that knowing look to have everything he needed he turned away and again stared at the ceiling.
"...Right."
"What about you? Do you care about your brother?"
"..."
"...Well...."
"Why does it matter." Dean says softly then adds to make his feelings make more sense, "He's my brother it is what it is."
Neela smiled at his sincerity, "Well then," She starts, "I think if you do care about him. It'd be wise to keep me happy. That's all."
Dean's fists tightens at the implications.
Neela in a final tone, "You should eat."
"... Fine..."
He jaws clenched, "Fucking psycho, loosen my chains then."
Neela obliges and watches him pick up the plate and adjust his seating position.
Dean presses his feet flat on the ground and turns to face Neela. He didn't look at her but Neela was alone surprised by this choice of body position.
Hmm? Did he want to have a conversation? Even after she'd just threatened his brother's life.
His feet face forward his shoulder were lax, his elbows pressed into his knees as he held up the plate.
He lifted the omlette wrap with his hands. Took a bite then flicked his gaze up at Neela's.
She wondered... If the time in the room has made him too lonely then...
And something inside him broke.. If she gave him a pity conversation, wasn't it also the same for her too? Captured by a loneliness that broke her.
"It's good right?" She asked with a little smile.
He looked away, he chewed away, but didn't respond he simply took another bite.
Neela lifted her bottle then shrugged, "I'll take that as a yes then..."
He remained quiet while eating but he kept glancing at her. Neela waited concluding that if he had something to share with her, he would. Eventually, surely, at his own time.
He stared at the vodka bottle in her hand, part of him wanting a swig. He hasn't had a taste of alcohol in weeks... Months... And at some point between all the poisonous injections, drugs, and abuse, his body probably went through a withdrawal for sure. But his mind still thristed for it, for the relaxation, for the calmness. Especially now.
Especially now.
Instead of asking for some, he asks, "What's your deal with vodka?"
Neela is surprised by the question. Then she shrugs and stares at the bottle. Looking back to Dean she admits, "I have to drink it here and there... Honestly you stress me out."
Dean stops moving mid bite. His brow twitches in irritation, and the cut corner of his lips twitches as well, cynically humored. He shakes his head then continues taking a bite. His hair sways as he does. He had a full, thick head of hair most women would die for. The curly, wavy brown of it had grown long enough to nearly cover his eyes, and covered his ear lobes at the side, touching the nape of his neck at the back. Neela was fond of it herself. It was similar to how he kept his hair when they were younger, so it made her feel nostalgic, more at home with him. But she knew Dean had long since preferred keeping his cut short.
"I didn't know your hair grew out so fast?" Neela says, "Do you want me to cut it?"
"No."
"Okay." Neela smiles happy he didn't want it cut. She then continues to stare at him, then she stares at her bottle again lifting it slightly, "Did you want some?" She wondered aloud.
Dean responded by staring at the bottle, he thought momentarily. He did crave alcohol. Badly. And Neela could see he was contemplating on his face, she suspected he'd likely say no. He didn't really like vodka.. He chewed away at his food then shook his head and swallowed, "No. I don't really like vodka."
Neela raises a brow, "You're a beer guy then?"
"Maybe..." he shrugs. He puts the plate down beside him and doesn't move for a moment. Neela, patient still, continues to wait.
Dean had a lot of time to think. And so he did, mostly about his past. He thought of his childhood years, his teenage years. He thought a lot about the woods outback his old house. He skated through school pretty well. And couldn't remember anything significant enough to be especially memorable. But he thought about it still.
He thought about the girl who he lost his virginity to in 9th grade. Virginia Gray. She was... pretty obsessed with him after. But she was blonde, and bubbly, and small and short. Nothing like the woman sitting before him now. Not in looks, not in personality.
To be fair, Dean grew up in a pretty big town though, there were a lot of people to run through, to remember. He attended a highschool of at least 1200 kids. But although it was a big town, people knew each other well, especially him and his family. They were very well off. His father was deeply involved with politics and close to the town mayor. His mother was one of the top real estate agents in the county and several surrounding ones too, and she owned her own business.
A lot of people knew him.
A lot of people.
Not a lot of people liked him though.
He had it pretty rough at times. But he skated by still. Pretty well...
well enough.
He thought a lot about his past, trying to recall the details, which was hard after he'd tried to blank it out for most of his life. But he still couldn't remember her. He couldn't remember Neela being a part of his past at all.
"You..." he says, "You never told me... you never answered my question about if I know you. From before the bar?"
Ah... Neela thought, that's what was having his panties all in a bunch. Has he grown more curious then? She could see him as he wondered and wondered as he sat down so very stiffly. As if his brain were working on overdrive.
"I don't know..." she says softly.
He shook his head, "I... I was in an accident when I was 19. I don't remember a lot of things because of it. So... if you do know me... somehow..."
Neela shrugged, "I already told you I don't know."
"How could you not know if you knew me or not?" He asks angrily, already frustrated. He fist balled in his laps and his brow began twitching again. Something it did very often now.
Neela humored him, "I had an accident too. When I was 16... guess amnesias more common than you thought."
Dean shook his head and sighed, "You clearly do know me. You act like you do... why don't you just... help me remember?"
"And what exactly do you think that would do for you Dean?" Neela sounded angry now. Which made Dean afraid. The last thing he wanted was another punishment.
He didn't answer her, he just stared.
Neela was perplexed why she herself was reacting this way. She desired for him to recall as well, far more than he could wonder, far more than he wanted to right now. She just didn't wish for him to remember her in this way.
If he was to remember her. It must be through love. Through his heart.
She slammed the bottle down on the desk behind her and shook her head herself.
"I keep..." he utters out, "...going back to the woods." Neela looks at him with a slighted glance, "The woods behind my house."
"I don't know what it will do for me if I remember," he offers. "But I figured it could help if I do remember. Not just for me," he offers, "But for you too."
Neela gazes at the man more clearly now, her gaze reveals a strange surprise. Dean's heart beats a bit faster. He softens his own eyes. Surprised but impressed that he could so easily slip into his smolder. Neela seemed to be responding to it well, her mouth parted, and her hands and shoulders seemed to relax. She listened to him as though he were on the verge of something significant. The verge of something she had to hear, she had to bear witness to.
"Isn't that what you wanted?" He asks her gently.
Neela purses her lips. She shuts her eyes for a second then breathes out calmly.
She stands up, "I found you one day. I stalked you. I took you." She looks at him sharply, "That's all. We don't know each other."
"Bullshit." He responded completely out of the composed character.
Neela scoffed, then stood up, she grabbed the plate of food even though it wasn't finished. Clearly it was time for her to go.
"Whose woods these are, I think I know..." He spewed out.
Neela stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes widened. Her hands shook.
"His house is in the village though." He continues.
Neela turns around.
Dean reveals agin, "I keep thinking about that poem ever since you shot me. And I keep.... thinking about the woods. The ones behind my old house."
Neela stands frozen.
"You know it too. Don't you..." he waits for a response but Neela is too afraid to speak, too on the edge. Could he remember. Could he really remember.
"I can't remember who it's by...." He reveals, "I just know someone told it to me one day..." which was true. He remembered that much at least. One evening, as he sat alone, he was staring at the ceiling feeling the dreadful ache in his thigh. He was wondering if he would lose his leg... he wondered what would have happened if the bullet hit his heart or his head, or a more vital and favorable organ. He would be dead then. Finally at peace. Then he focused at the clouds painted on his walls.
And then thought of how the sky looked that day in the woods. And he thought of the poem... Whose woods these are... I think I know....
Dean continued, but the next part he took a leap of faith with, he made a guess. He told a lie, "Someone I loved told me that poem ; and so I fell in love with it."
"You know it too," he moved as though he were going to stand up. He hands shooting out, his arms reaching out. He legs lifting. Neela steps back forgetting that he couldn't get up. The chains immediately limit his movements and his wounded legs leave him wincing at the slightly applied weight.
He groans in pain but continues to pursue the idea with Neela. "You said it." He says, "I heard you say it in the woods after you shot me. You know the poem."
Neela feels the urge to smile. The urge to cry. Her heart palpitates in her chest. She feels as though she were overflowing.
"Do you know who it's by?"
"Robert Frost," she reveals quietly, "the poem is by Robert Frost."
Her brows raise in an interested way and Dean bears witness to Neela's switch. The look in her eyes. All knowing. All crazy. All in love. All lost. Frightening. Overwhelming. But... too captivating.
She walks back over to him and placed the plate down. She gets on her knees and Dean finds himself flinching back away from her.
Her hand touches his own knees and she looks up at him sincerely, "You almost... you almost had it right Dean," she told him, "But that poem..." She closed eyes. She closed her mouth. And didn't say another word. Instead she recalled it. She recalled the moment. She could almost feel the cool air now, she could... hear the howling wind and wet snow the soft patter against the wooden grounds. She could almost make out the touch of his knees against her own knee as they sat on the porch. And his voice as he whispered to her the poem.
She laid her head down.
Dean watched her lay her head down on his leg. She was careful not to apply pressure to his injured one.
She closed her eyes.
Dean watched her close her eyes, there was a small smile on her lips, but her brows were pressed and tight, and he quickly discerned it as a pain. A sadness.
She remained quiet.
Dean waited, and waited but she was only quiet; she was only still. And he felt his stiffened body repose slowly as the seconds went by. As the minutes went by.
He was warm, Neela thought. So warm.
Dean also thought she was warm. He thought she was close right now. He could hurt her maybe. His gaze fell to her exposed neck.
His hand reached out on their own accord. His finger barely touched her soft skin when her gaze flew open.
Neela didn't move though. But Dean immediately retracted away from her and stiffened up again.
Neela's eyes softened, she thought of the snow and allowed her memory to drift back to it, back to the sound of his voice and the grey intimacy. It was... so, so long ago. She missed it dearly. Neela wanted it back. In this room, somehow, she wished to recreate it. But she was afraid...
She was afraid it wouldn't be the same.
She wished to reach her hand out. To intertwine her fingers into his fingers. A simple but deceptive sensual act. She would stroke his fingers. He would stroke hers. His hand would be warm. It would excite her deeply. Just the same when he touched her neck just now...
She would remain as so, there, holding his hand, head lying in his lap; then she would ask him, "Dean, will you tell it to me again. Tell me the poem."
Maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he would. If he did. She would fall into heaven, and his voice: sensually deep, like warm thick and rich honey. The baritone of it would fill the entire room. Would fill her body.
And she would cry.
For the woods. For Dean. For herself.
Just as her eyes shut against the sweetness of the fantasy she feels his fingers at her neck again, this time she isn't surprised, this time Dean doesn't pull away.
Soft Dean thought. She's soft. And her hair was soft to. He slid his hand down the back of her neck, and he could feel the bump of her spine, he slid it over her shoulder.
And for some reason he remembers how she'd just threatened his brother's life just now. How she shot him in his leg. How she carved out his flesh on his lower stomach. How it's been weeks, and it still hurts. His whole body still hurts.
She injected him with poison.
Dean's finger trembled. His jaw clenched. He squeezed his eyes shut.
She hurt him.
And he was busy trying so hard to resist an urge, to ignore this feeling in his stomach, in his limbs. A heat. Her neck was slender, her shoulders were soft. He could hurt her. He could... do other things.
His hand squeezed, lowered. Down her collar... and her chest.
"I have beer," Neela whispered.
He stopped moving. He sighed and closed his eyes. His fingers lingered on her skin for a moment. He thought of it again, how he could hurt her. Or how he could do other things...
He moved his hand away. "I'll take beer." He said.
Neela sat upright. She picked up the plate and didn't look directly into his eyes. Her whole body was burning. Her heart was beating ready to burst out her chest. She couldn't sit there a second more. Something might snap, something would break. And her control was not strong enough for this... for this tension.
So she picked up the plate. And as she stood, she stopped and looked up, only a fraction of a second. But he saw it. And she knew he saw it. His eyes widened. Neela's face deepened in the red. Her eyes had grown shiny. Her hands were even shaking.
She spun around as fast as she could but Dean saw it, that he'd disarmed. So much so, she did not know what to do with herself. Or with him.
And as she went to fetch the beer and the door shut behind her. He felt himself smile. He felt himself smile so wide he almost barked out a loud laugh. He hadn't smiled like that in so long, it's like his cheeks were finally getting a stretch in.
She was a psycho for sure he realized. There was no doubt about it. And then he gazed down at his hand. He thought of the way he touched her. How he wanted to kill her, and touch her. Kill her, and touch her. How he wanted to find a way out, how he needed to find a way out. She was... right there in her lap. And he just stroked her skin. Timidly, gently. And she was soft, and she was warm. And he didn't kill her. He didn't snap her neck, he didn't escape.
His eyes teared. His smile dimmed, it remained now only hypocritical and weak. He let out a sound deep in his throat then. A small laugh. A tiny one that grew.
Psycho he thought....
He dropped his face into his hand and laughed hard, tears fell down his cheek harder, "Fucking psycho," he whispered through the laughs, "Fucking psycho!"
And Neela lent her back against the door. She listened to him, from the otherside, as he fell apart only the slightest bit. Her body was still burning from his touch. And she was smiling all over, her body: all over, filled with delightful goosebumps. He unnerved her, and he could tell, but somehow it broke him... it made him realize. That she unnerved him just the same. Neela closed her eyes and listened to him cry, and laugh, and whisper fucking psycho, fucking psycho...
A poem. All it took was a poem. And a mere touch.