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She can feel it.
She can feel the even weight of the rifle in her steady hands. She’s felt power before (all the lives of the animals she took carried their own special kind of surrender) but this is different. This is special. She’s never had power over a human being before, and although she knows Charlie will do anything for her, it is not the same. She has a choice in this moment, she can choose.
Life or death, she thinks, I’ve been playing this game since Uncle Charlie arrived.
And there he is.
Charlie is staring at her, his body still pressed up against her mother’s back, his belt still wrapped around her mother’s neck. He stops his screaming at her to look, and falls silent. He is waiting for her to decide. He knows one word from him and she will change; she will make the decision not out of honesty, but out of spite.
Her focus is on his wide eyes, his perfectly round bright eyes that are silently speaking to her. They are whispering support, but all she can hear is her own voice in her head, and it drowns him out. She is reveling, she realizes, in the feeling of power. Too long, she thinks, and places her finger gingerly on the trigger.
She has never been overly fond of her mother. They never gossiped in the morning, or stayed up late at night painting each other’s nails and reading magazines. They never did anything. Despite all of this, she feels no hatred towards her; in fact, she does not feel much at all.
With one pull on the trigger, her mother lies face down, the life draining out of her like leftover water leaking out of a hose.
India places the rifle down on the floor, carefully, meticulously, and then stands with her arms at her sides. She is shaking, she notices, her chest heaving up and down, her breathing ragged and coarse.
Charlie is up in a flash, a grin forming on his long face. India does not look at him, instead she keeps her gaze on the floor. She follows the trail of blood and swallows.
He hovers over her, his tall frame shadowing her completely. It feels warm, even if they are in her cold, quiet, house. She can feel his stare burning into her, and finally looks up at him. The grin is gone, replaced with controlled desperation. Her skin feels as if it is on fire, and there is adrenaline coursing through her veins.
Nothing is real, nothing feels real.
Although, she is sure nothing will ever feel very real again.
Charlie’s fingers act like ghosts as they glide up her hand, eventually landing on her wrist. He tugs gently and suddenly she is on the floor. Charlie has his back up against the hallway wall, his long legs spread wide so she can fit between them. Her back is against his chest, her head leaning on his right shoulder.
He spreads her legs so they match his, outward and straight, forming a perfect V on the wood floor. He listens closely to her shaky breaths and then runs his hand along her leg, just fingertips and a feather-light touch. His breath is right at her ear and India has imagined this hundreds of times. She’s thought of his arms wrapped around her, not in a grip but in a circle, his arms just phantom limbs around her torso, the impression there but not too close.
In spite of what he wants, he always keeps India a little bit at bay.
Though, she supposes, she does the same.
She can feel his heart beating rapidly against her back, and the thump, thump, thump matches her own rhythm. He follows her shin to her thigh to her hipbone and back again. With his other hand, he tenderly pushes her hair to one side, giving him a clear view of her pale, smooth neck. She gasps when his hand pauses at her hipbone, and when his mouth lingers over the left side of her neck.
That familiar feeling is back, the feeling that makes her breath hitch and chest heave up and down. The feeling that lights her body on fire in a way that she can’t escape.
It always was his touch that she wanted. Always.
She can’t think, can’t stop her senses from going into overdrive. She always hears and sees and feels, but this is so much, this is too much.
Charlie knows it.
He pulls her long skirt up to her waist and traces the top of her underwear. She still has a clear view of her mother’s body, and every time she looks at her, India fears that her mother will be looking back. She wonders if Charlie ever sees the ghosts of those he killed, of Mrs. McGarrick, of Auntie Gin, of her father.
Somehow, she doesn’t believe he does.
They aren’t people in his eyes, not really, and India finally understands that her view is the same.
Charlie can sense her fear though, as he has always been able to, and blows lightly on her neck. His fingertips glide back and forth over the top of the thin fabric resting on her hips, and the movement brings India back to the present. She can feel him hesitate, and turns to look at him. Their faces are so close, his eyes so big. It feels like a lighted match hovering over a puddle of gasoline.
One flick and it all explodes.
She takes in a deep, shuddering, breath. She can see right through him and him through her.
She wonders if this is what it is like to love.
In one swift movement, Charlie’s hand dips underneath the undergarment and rubs against her clit while his lips kiss the side of her neck. India closes her eyes tightly and drops her head back on his shoulder. Her senses are in overload: the feel of his hand slowly massaging the spot that until now only she has touched, the tickle of breath that is so close to her ear. She arches her back and Charlie moves his other hand to the top of her thigh, holding her down. She grips the arm working her over, pulling the fabric up so she can feel his skin. He applies more pressure to her clit and she digs her fingernails his arm, drawing blood.
Charlie doesn’t flinch.
The heartbeat she felt against her back only moments ago has changed completely. It is beating wildly--thump, thump, thump, thump--one right after another. His chest is vibrating and her legs are shaking and their bodies are close, so close. She opens her eyes for a moment and sees her mother’s once lifeless face now up, with icy eyes staring back at her.
India screams and pushes her back against Charlie. She blinks and her mother is no longer staring at her, but at the ground once more. She bends her knees and brings them closer to her chest, her hips now moving at their own rhythm. Her back and hips brush against Charlie’s lap, creating a light, delicious friction. She feels Charlie’s desire, can feel it as if it is in her blood. He is straining against himself, keeping his own imaginary belt wrapped tightly around his arms and legs.
“India,” he whispers and it is enough to send her over.
She imagines Charlie unbuckling his belt, the look of death in his eyes. One loop, then another, then the next. Her body rocks to rhythm of the loops popping and she exclaims once the belt is completely free.
“India,” he says again, this time soft and ragged, his control no longer tight.
She reaches a hand up and grips his sweater, bunching it so he struggles to breathe. He inhales sharply, and the sound is almost as loud as her own jagged breath. She can feel his body twitching, wanting to move but unable to allow himself the pleasure.
“India, please,” he says, and it is so close to a beg that India smiles.
She pushes against him, her back in an over-extended arch. And then for a brief moment, her senses are dulled. She can’t hear anything, can’t see anything, all she can do is feel. The warmth spreads through her like melting gold and she slumps against his body.
Charlie waits until her breathing is even again and stands. He adjusts his sweater, pulling down the sleeve and straightening the collar. He takes three even steps and turns around to face her.
And just like that, he is Uncle Charlie again.
He extends his hand. “Come, India. It’s time to clean up.”
She stares at his hand for a moment. This is who she is, this is who she has to be. She has no choice in this matter, and she never has. The words New York float in the back of her mind and in one clear moment, she realizes that all she has left is him.
She takes his hand and stands.
Her expression returns to normal, her senses once again falling into place. She walks past him, her heels clashing against the hard floor. She doesn’t wait for him to follow.
She learned long ago that there is no use in looking back.
Still, he follows like a starving wolf.