Down in the Zero

'Do you want to…do something else?'

'What?'

'I told you…how Charm did it to me…put…things inside me…where a man goes,' she whispered.

'I remember.'

'She put it…other places too. With this,' she said, holding up the wand. 'Do you want…?'

I shook my head. Fancy climbed on top of me, pulled up her nightgown, fitted herself over my cock, lowered herself. She put both hands behind her. I saw the upstanding wand, felt her soft grunt, heard the insistent buzz of the vibrator as she got herself over the top, anchored at both ends.

She was sleeping when I got up in the dark. The greenhouse was cool, thick with humidity. I looked through the glass at the stars.

Fancy didn't know where she wanted to be. I thought about the Zero.

And for the first time, I knew I didn't want to be there. It didn't wash over me peacefully, it hit like a crowbar, making me dizzy.

I leaned against the shelf in the greenhouse. I wanted to be in a hillbilly bar someplace. Holding Blossom in my arms, slow–dancing so slow it was something else. Blossom. If somebody started a fight, she'd drag you away from it— but if you got pulled along, she'd be right there.

I went into that house to kill what they did to me. Told myself a lot of lies about it before it happened. None since.

People say you can't heal until you can forgive. Fucking liars. Cowards and collaborators. A beast steals your soul, you don't get it back by making peace with him. You make peace with yourself.

I went into that house to do that. With a gun in my hand. And I killed a baby.

Say it!

I killed a baby. I didn't mean to, but he's just as dead. Surrounded by the bodies of humans who tortured him.

Would he forgive me if he knew why I walked that walk?

I got it then. Really got it. The Zero isn't where you go when you die…it's where you go when you volunteer for the ride.

I could feel the dead child inside me— like Wendy's poem, talking across the barrier. The Zero was no good to me— I wouldn't find the kid there. But maybe he could hear me. I heard Wesley sometimes, maybe…

I will always hate them, I promised the child I'd killed. Always. I swear on my true family I will never forgive. And if I could find them, I would kill them.

Quick. Not like they did me.

Like they did you too, child.

I'm sorry, kid, I said inside me. But you're no place I can go to tell you— I can't make it right.

I sat down on the cold floor and dropped below the Zero. Cried myself to sleep like I did when I was a kid myself.

Before they taught me nobody was listening.

The sun woke me, burning through the greenhouse. I was naked, cold, sore.

I didn't want to go into the Zero anymore. Didn't want to be in this rich ghetto anymore either.

I wanted my family back. The family I helped make for myself. I would die for them, but I'd die trying.

I missed Pansy. I felt sick inside. Not sad anymore, sick with knowledge.

A hundred years ago, I was standing on the prison yard, listening to the Prof tell me I couldn't use a shank to settle some petty beef I had with another con. Telling me to chill, get icy, pick my shots. I didn't want to hear it— what I wanted to do was stab the miserable motherfucker who sold me the tickets. 'Do it like I say or get on your way,' the Prof said, then.

I stayed. I was going to stay now. Stay the distance.

Fancy was sprawled on her stomach, face buried in a pillow, sleeping drained. The tattoo I'd drawn was almost gone. Fading away like the shroud around the mystery of her life.

I slid in next to her, covered her body with mine. She muttered something, still under. I nuzzled at the back of her neck until she stirred. As soon as she was sure it was me, I held her until she went back to sleep.

I was chewing on a granola bar I'd found in her kitchen, washing it down with some ice water. So calm I could count my heartbeats. Fancy walked in. 'How's this?' she asked, posing.

She was wearing hot pink stretch pants with a thick black stripe down the side of each leg. The pants ended at mid–calf. Shiny black spike heels. A black cotton bra with wide straps that crossed behind her back. She was holding a black sweatshirt in one hand.

'You going to put that on?'

'Well, of course! I just wanted you to see what's underneath first.'

'I didn't see what's underneath those pants,' I told her.

'There isn't anything,' she said, sticking her tongue out at me. 'There wasn't room. Is this okay?'

'Dynamite.'