THE PAIN CYCLE   by M J Leitch
   C. 2000

Judas Kisses

     I hate looking at her.

     Hannah.  My girlfriend.  The Fed.  Agent Scott; damn her, if Jason hadn't--if Carly hadn't--

     That night, when Jason told me who she really was, I didn't want to hear it.  I didn't want to think it; this was a woman to whom I had given everything.  Everything I had, my heart, my soul, my *trust*--everything, she had it all.  No matter what I had done to her, she did not go away.  So I let her in, let her have...everything.

     I thought it was because she loved me too much to leave.  Instead it was her job that kept her with me, her orders to watch me, to spy on me, to betray me to the Feds--

     No.  No, 'betray' is wrong.  There can't be betrayal when nothing was real in the first place.

     That night.  I couldn't think; I heard the tape, and I saw in Jason's eyes that it was real, that he wished to God it wasn't--but we couldn't ignore it.  She was our leak; the woman that I had taken into my home, into my confidence, into my *bed*--she'd lied.  Every word, every smile, every night.  None of it had meant a thing.

     God, I wish I could feel how it hurt me.  I can't; I can't feel anything when I think about it, nothing--except this dull, angry hate that I have to fight to keep down every time I look at her.  As soon as Jason told me I went numb, went cold...I'll feel it at some point, I'll feel everything, I know I will.  But for now--nothing.  And that's good, that's the way I want it, because I can't afford to feel things I can't hide.  Not right now.

     Right now I have to keep pretending, keep that FBI whore thinking that I don't know.  It's hard, it's damn hard; living in the same place, sleeping in the same bed, touching her, kissing her--because every kiss makes me remember the ones that came before it, makes me remember that none of them meant anything.  All of it, lies.

     I've come close to slipping.  Too close; that kiss when I could hardly wait for her to turn her back before I wiped my mouth, that casual hug when I could barely get my arms around her...and that night.  That was the closest I'd ever come to finishing it all.

     She was sleeping.  In my bed, beside me, she was sleeping--looking so peaceful that I couldn't help but watch her.  Couldn't help but hate her even more; they trained her well, to sleep with the enemy and look completely at ease.  And as I watched her I couldn't help it; I reached over and slid my hand over her hair, smoothed my fingers over her cheek.  Her skin had always been so soft, I'd always loved touching her...my other hand slid over her, then both of them stopped at her chin, just for a second.  I kept the pressure very light, very careful...and I wrapped both my hands around her throat.  I wanted to tighten my grip, I wanted to squeeze with all my strength, watch her fight for air as I crushed her smooth, silky neck--I wanted that so badly my fingers were trembling.  I
wanted her to look into my eyes and see how much I hated her as she died, wanted her to know what her betrayal had cost her--

     But I couldn't.  Because at that instant I knew that all of my anger, all of my fury at what she'd done to me--wouldn't matter at all to her.  She wouldn't care if I hated her enough to kill her; she didn't love me, and if I attacked her she would defend herself from a criminal, an FBI mark--nothing more.  Because I mean nothing to her, and for her, knowing that I enjoyed killing her wouldn't have any effect unless she loved me as much as I--loved her.

     God damn it, I did love her, that was the thing.  I loved her so much that I couldn't see anything beyond that; I believed all of the excuses she fed me when her actions didn't add up.  I trusted her.  At least when I tell her she'll know she was good at her job; she'll know I believed her for a while, at least.

     So I didn't kill her when I had the chance; instead I pulled my hands away, rolled over, and went downstairs.  I couldn't sleep in that bed with her; it's too much having to lie when she's awake, I don't want to have to keep it up while she's sleeping, too.

     Whenever Jason asks how I'm doing with this whole brilliant plan of mine, I tell him I'm handling it exactly the way I want to.  I don't tell him how hard it is to be so close to her every day, every night, and not go off; I don't tell him how much I hate having to touch her, having to fuck her, knowing that there's no love on either side anymore.  There's another area they trained her well in; I could've sworn that every other time we had actually made love, there had actually been some mutual feeling in it.  Now, it's just sex.  She still pretends, but I can't; that's the one time when I'm with her that I can't hide anything.  I used to go slowly, gently--lovingly--but I can't do that anymore.  Now I'm
rough; I'll tear into her with as much force as I can, use her up quickly so it'll be over, then leave as soon as she falls asleep.  She's noticed the change; I only hope that's all she's noticed.

     I can't do this for much longer; no matter what I tell Jason, it's starting to wear on me, and I can't afford to come undone.  It's just--I want to use her like this.  I don't care if it won't mean anything to her when I tell her, I don't care that the day I tell her will end up like two professionals breaking up a business partnership--I want to know that I used her just as bad as she used me.  I *need* to know it.  Otherwise I'll never be able to live with myself...

     It's just--sometimes I feel like if I have to keep everything hidden for one more *second*, I'll blow up.  Drink.  Wreck the place.  Do all those things I always do when I'm pissed off and looking to share, and God help Hannah Scott if she's in the room with me when that happens, because she'll be lucky to get out alive.  I've had to stop myself from pulling a gun on her twice already; the third time I'm not so sure I'll be able to
control myself.

     You don't betray Sonny Corinthos and get away with it.  She has to learn that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sensations

     I haven't had this nightmare in months.

     Really, it's been ages.  A long, long time since I woke up with that pit in my stomach, with tears in my eyes and that same feeling of being outside my own head that I had that night.  I thought I'd got past it, that I wouldn't have to go through that again, that I'd finally moved on.

     But here I am, sitting in bed, hugging my knees and shaking just like I was that night.  Crying, again, over everything that happened, everything I relived while I was sleeping.  God, I feel like hell.  I'm physically aching; my head hurts, my gut hurts--exactly the same as that godforsaken night.  Everything, exactly the same...

     No.  No, not exactly.  It was different this time; there was more to it, more pain and fear and loneliness and desperation.  That's only to be expected, right?  I mean, I've lived more since then, done more, seen more sides to him than I ever thought he had.  No wonder there was more to it tonight.

     Tonight...I could still feel the glass under my feet, under the super-thin soles of those ridiculous shoes I was going to wear to the wedding.  And I could still smell the booze, the sweat--I could still see him, sitting there on the couch, that big, sharp shard of glass in his hand, staring down at the picture but not really seeing it.  Exactly as real as if I'd been there again, as if I'd never left.  I heard his voice, shaking, as he talked nonsense at me, I saw his hands tremble and the nervous way he rubbed his face.  I could hear the soft scratch of his fingers across his stubble--

     God, I can still hear it, I can still hear everything he said to me, every little noise, because it was so damn *quiet* in that room when neither of us was talking.  You could hear everything, every little movement, every gasp of breath.  And when he shattered the bottle, when he slammed it down onto the desk and shards of glass went everywhere--it
was so *loud*--and then everything was silent again so quickly.  And I was so scared...

     I haven't dreamt that in a long time.  God, I wish I hadn't dreamt it again; so much has happened, so much--I hate this dream.  I wish--

     Well, I wish a lot of things.  But this dream--nightmare--

     It's no wonder I dreamt it again.  And really, it's no wonder that it was different this time, although the new version is hardly what I'd call improved.  It's actually much, much worse...

     I always remember that night much more clearly after the nightmare; I hardly have to remember anything this time, though, because it was so vivid.  Every sound, every smell, every touch--the touches.  That's what was different this time, that's what changed.  That night, that night I stroked his arm, held his face in my hands, played my fingers through
his hair, trying to calm him down.  Soothing touches, you know?  Soft, gentle, careful.  And him, he smoothed my hair, brushed his knuckles across my face--trembling hands, but as careful as I was.  Nothing intrusive, nothing over the line--just soft, comforting touches.

     Tonight, it was different.  Tonight it was like the last time he touched me, the last time we got in each others' space and wouldn't back down.  In the dream it was still the movements of that night, but the feeling, the sensation of them was all wrong--too strong, too rough.  In the dream he reached out and ran his hand over my bangs, but what I felt
was his hand clenched tight on my head, tangled in my hair.  When I touched his arm in the dream, I felt his muscles tight under my fingers, straining above me.  When he reached over me to pull the blinds shut, I felt his weight pressing me up against a wall.  And when I cupped his face in my hands, I felt all the violent force behind his body as he drove me down against the sheets of his bed.

     It was like...both nights, both circumstances mixed together and experienced again, only this time all at once.  When I saw him smile at me, those quick, manic flashes of that night, I felt his mouth crushed on mine--and my mouth crushed back.  I saw his arms thrown out to the side as he screamed, as he told me about his wife, and I felt his hands roaming my body, rough and forceful.  God, everything's so mixed up--every image from
that night has the memory of the other, rawer night, when I wasn't thinking and he wasn't caring.

     That never should have happened.  Then again, who's to say that it wouldn't have happened anyway?  Maybe sometime down the road, when things weren't going exactly my way *again*, when we both needed a good, emotionless fuck, who's to say that we wouldn't have ended up doing exactly what we did?

     He'd been burning down for a while, I know that.  Ever since he found out the truth about his little FBI girlfriend he'd been simmering, waiting for the right time to explode.  I saw, that night, when I poured myself a drink and was halfway to going off myself, I saw that he was edgier, closer to losing it than he'd been in a while, and I liked that.  I was at almost the same place; the strain of the Quartermaines, of seeing Jason and that little Webber girl wrapped around each other--I wanted to let off some steam.  I just didn't know how until I was standing there, in front of him, looking at that hard glint in his eyes and realizing that I hadn't had a good night in bed for months.  I guess he hadn't either, now that I think about it--Hannah couldn't have been very satisfying, especially
since he found out her dirty little secret.  All I know is, as soon as we touched each other, we couldn't stop until we'd finished.

     It happened so abruptly.  And it was so very ugly; the instant we were done, he rolled off of me and we lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to pretend that we were both alone.  Completely shut off.  He was right, though--I never did feel clean again, not even after the shower.  Not even after a week of showers; as long as I can remember how he
felt, I can't get rid of it.

     Now look at me.  Huddled in bed, trying to get my breathing back to normal, trying to forget the nightmare that was both our nights together.  Pregnant with his baby, something I can't get rid of no matter how much I want to.  I can't tell him; he hates me so much already, I can't involve an innocent child in that again.  I won't go to him, I won't tell him, I won't let this get out of hand.  All I can do is come up with some way of
dealing with this, some way of making it not so horrible.

     All I can do is keep having this damn dream, and hope it won't make me go crazy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stains

    My child is dead.

    My child never even got a chance to live; never even got a chance to be held in her mother's arms, to be kissed or touched or cared for.  Dead before she even entered this world...because of me, because of what I did.

    *Don't walk away from this.  You hear me?  Don't!*

    It's my fault that my daughter will be buried tomorrow, in a tiny casket, in a tiny grave.  She won't have a big stone; she never even had a name, how can you have a tombstone when the person buried under it had no name?  No name, no dates...just an inscription that I will not choose.  I won't do that; I have no right to anything to do with her burial.

    I killed her.  I killed my daughter, God damn me, I killed my own child because I couldn't--stop.

    *Why?  Why shouldn't I?  Why can't I cut my losses and just leave?*

    I didn't mean to.  As if that's an excuse; I never mean for anything to happen, it just always does, so I might as well move on, right?  I won't.  That would betray more memories than I even want to admit, more love than I've ever given.  I will not move on, especially not from this.  I don't deserve to move on.

    Another scotch; when did it get so dark out?  Like it matters...it doesn't.  Nothing does, not anymore.  Not since...

    *You can't take her away from me.  I'll die before I let you leave.*

    Sunday night.  I'd been to church that morning, for God's sake, praying for my immortal soul, for the souls of everyone I've hurt, everyone who's gone.  And then, just a few hours later...

    I loved them both.  I loved my daughter because she was going to be mine, and I loved her mother because--there is no because.  I just...loved her.  Always have, and if things were different--

    Different.  Things aren't different, they're the way they are.

    *Wake up!  Nothing's working, and I don't have the strength to try to fix it anymore.*

    She was right.  That night, when we first...she was right.  I wanted her; I'd wanted her for years, since I first laid eyes on her.  I'd just kept it hidden, refused to even think about it, because at the same time I knew I wanted her, I hated her.  I'd seen what she could do; she was pure destruction in a pretty package, and I couldn't let myself get too close.  She would've wrecked me in a heartbeat, and not looked back.

    Hell, she did that.  Too many times to count, and I gave as good as I got.  She hurt me, I hurt her, and every time we talked I felt that burn, felt it so many times that I couldn't tell what it meant anymore.  God, I hated her.

    *So you just run?  I won't let you.*

    That night...I couldn't stop.  I knew that she made me like that; how could I have let her do that to me?

    *I'm not giving you a choice.*

    She was always showing up, just whenever the hell she felt like it.  That night...I swore that I would never do that.  I swore that he would never turn me into himself.  God damn it, I--

    *Like hell.  Get back here.  I said stop!*

    She was leaving.  I woke up, and she'd packed her bag and was trying to sneak out.  We'd had one of our better nights...she'd sat by the fire, I'd made dinner, we'd kissed goodnight and then found that kisses weren't enough.  I hadn't let myself fall asleep until I thought she had drifted off; she must've been pretending, damn her.  She wasn't even going to say
goodbye--

    *Goodbye.*

    I wasn't going to let her just leave.  She was pregnant with my daughter, I wasn't going to let her take my child away from me.  But she wouldn't stop...

    *Stop!  Damn you--*

    More blood on my hands.  Innocent blood; not hers, she's gone too far from innocence to count.  No...my daughter's blood.  And the stains never come out.

    *Let go of me!  Damn it, Sonny--*

    Not out of the carpet.  It's all dried now; as if I'm gonna clean it up.  There was so much blood, on her, on me...her foot was on the step when I grabbed her.

    *Listen to me little girl, I'm not playing around here!  I won't lose--*

    She fought back, at least.  More than I ever saw with him.

    *What?  Won't lose what?  My baby is not a prize!  And just because we sleep together doesn't mean you have any rights to her!*

    I loved her; I don't think she ever really knew that, or she wouldn't have said what she did.  Or maybe she did know; those eyes of hers were burning, I remember that now.

    She was going to take my daughter; I could see it in her eyes.  She could always make me so angry--I swore I would never turn into Deke.  I swore to myself...that I would be a good father.  But what's a father without a child?

    *Damn it, Carly--!*

    My ring sliced through her cheek.  I could feel her skin tearing under the backhand; I'd never hit anyone so hard in my life.  Except Deke...and I'd nearly killed him.

    She wasn't standing level, her foot on that first step.  She spun around, her other foot flew out as she staggered for balance--but nothing was there.  The sound she made at the bottom of the stairs, that hard, loud impact followed by silence...I can still hear it.

    By the time I reached her she was already bleeding.  The hospital couldn't do anything; she miscarried within the hour.  And she'll have a scar on her face from the ring.

    I killed my daughter, and I hit her mother.  It is my fault, and I'm not going to deal with what happened.  I'm not going to say sorry as best I can and move on, I'm not going to risk this again.  I've turned into Deke, and I won't let myself do this again.

    Bloodstains never come out.  They keep you from forgetting...and I've been stained all my life.

    One bullet, one shot--and I'll never stain anyone again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wanting

    It hurts so much.

    Not just physical pain, although that's a big part of it.  No, there's emotional pain there, and mental anguish.

    Mental anguish...I read that somewhere.  I forget the book, but the line stands out.  Fitting.

    They've got me on painkillers, but I think they're wearing off.  God, my head hurts, and my gut feels like someone stabbed me with a dull knife.  I guess that's how you're supposed to feel when you lose a child...

    I can't believe it actually happened.  My baby girl is dead, buried.  And her father...

    God, am I crying again?  It's like I can't turn them off, can't do anything but hide in Bobbie's guest room and soak tissues.  I can't even deal with Michael, because every time I look at him I think of Jason, and every time I think of Jason I think of--

    I was scared.  Hell, I was terrified, and like I always do when I'm terrified, I make some goddamn stupid decision that always backfires on me.  Although I did get what I wanted this time; I wanted him away from us, and now--

    No.  No, I never wanted this, I didn't.  I wanted...I don't know what I wanted.  But I know that I don't want what I have right now.

    I was starting to calm down, God damn him, I was almost convinced that I could see him again without breaking down, and he had to go and--

    He wasn't at the funeral.  That should've been my first clue; he might have been beating himself up over it, but he would've been there.  He would've been...hanging back, trying not to intrude, trying not to let me know he was there, because he would've known that I would've killed him if I'd seen him.  We would've been the last two there, me at the grave, him back behind a tree, watching them cover our baby, watching them put her in
the ground...

    He would've been there.  He wouldn't let me go through that alone.

    God, listen to me.  What the hell am I thinking?  He did exactly what he should've done, even if it's not what I...wanted...

    What I wanted.  I can't get away from that, can I?  What did I want?

    I wanted my little boy to get to know his baby sister.  I wanted to hold my daughter in my arms and feel her breathe, hear her sigh in her sleep and see her squeeze her tiny fingers into a fist.  I wanted to have all those moments I never had with Michael, I wanted to be a good mother from the start.  I wanted my baby girl to look up at her parents--

    Her parents.  I wanted her to have two parents who loved each other.  And she would've had them, too; I know he loved me.  And I...loved him, even after everything we'd done to each other.

    God damn him!  I loved him, with everything I had...I loved the way he would put on blues and cook me dinner, I loved the way we could sit and eat without always fighting anymore.  And that night...that night I loved the way he kissed me goodnight, soft and warm and gentle.  I loved the way we both realized that we wanted more from each other than just that kiss.  And I loved the way he made me feel when we made love, when I lay in his arms and felt him breathe against me.  God, I loved him so much it hurt...

    Almost as much as it hurt falling down the stairs.

    I loved him so much it scared me.  As I was lying there, wrapped up in it all, I suddenly couldn't breathe, and I knew I had to get away from him.  God, I don't know why, it made sense then...I'd let him get too close.  He'd seen so much of me, I felt so...exposed.  A few months ago we'd hated each other, and suddenly having a child together made us--what?  I couldn't figure it out, and I just *knew* that if I asked him, he wouldn't know either.  All I knew for sure was that I loved him, and it was too sudden.  And I had to get away.

    I'm so stupid.  If I'd let myself be happy for once in my life...

    I thought he'd fallen asleep.  I didn't want to say goodbye; I didn't know if I would be strong enough to actually leave if I had to look into his eyes and tell him why I was going.  I waited until his breathing evened out, and I got up and packed my bag.  I was almost out the door...

    One moment of true fear.  He'd scared me before, but never like that; not even that night when he'd lost it and I'd tried to keep him from--

    Yeah, he scared me.  I never let on, though, never thought that he would actually be able to do anything to me...I should've known better, even then.  I should've known enough to stay the hell away from him.

    He got this look in his eyes that I'd never seen before.  Standing there at the top of the stairs, doing everything but begging me to stay with him--

    Oh my God.  It was there, in his eyes...he did love me, and he loved our daughter.  I just didn't want to see it, I wanted to get away while I was still scared enough to follow through...I never thought he would grab me, though.  I never thought...

    The cut on my cheek is healing, slowly.  It stings like hell, though; it needed four stitches, and I'll always have a scar.  And as for the baby...that scar will be a little harder to see, but it's there.

    I swear, the shock was almost worse than the actual hit, you know?  I saw the desperation in his eyes, I felt his hand connect with my face--I remember losing my footing, but I don't remember landing.  It must've been a hell of an impact, though; I hurt all over.

    He didn't stick around at the hospital.  He called an ambulance, he made sure I was okay, he heard about the baby, and he locked himself up in the penthouse.  That was fine with me; I didn't want to see him, not after what he'd done.  I wanted him punished, I wanted him to know that I hated him for making me lose my daughter...

    He wanted that too, I guess.

    Johnny was the one who found him.  Those damn bodyguards, standing outside the door for a day and a half before finding the courage to look in on him, make sure he was okay.

    He wasn't okay.  He was dead.

    The coroner's report said that he'd stuck a gun in his mouth and blown his brains out.  One bullet, one quick way out.  One more person I loved, who I have to bury.

    Who the hell did he think he was?  Just deciding that he'd done all the damage he could, that he had to take care of what he had become on his own?  What gave him the right to decide that he couldn't go on living with what he'd done, huh?  I wanted him to live, I wanted him to live forever, knowing what he'd done to me and my baby, and he took that away from me, and I hate him for it.  I hate him!

    But if I hadn't tried to leave...

    Oh, God.  Everything's so messed up, I can't even think.  I feel so--guilty.  I did love him, I know I did...but he died thinking I was scared of him.  That I didn't want to be with him.  And he was right...

    I loved Sonny, and now he's gone.  And because of him, my daughter is gone.  I should hate him forever...

    But I don't want to.

End.

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