Sight

I watch her.

She's everything I'll ever need, and everything I'm not allowed to have.

She's grown, changed, not a kid anymore. Her body, long, lithe and sleek, curved in all the right places, appears in my dreams. Dreams of her have replaced the nightmares that filled my sleep for so long. In a way, they're just as bad, because they'll never come true. When I wake, I can look, but never touch. And not because of her skin. I know a dozen ways around that. I'm creative; I'm experienced.

Her eyes are dark and shadowed. I'm no poet, but she makes me wish I were. Her eyes are full of pain -- old pain that no one should ever have to know -- but she carries it like a saint. A real saint of flesh and blood -- not some stupid plaster statue. I want to make the pain disappear. I want to know what her eyes look like in the frenzy of passion and the warmth of the afterglow. I want to see my love for her reflected back at me, the last thing I see at night and the first thing in the morning.

But she's too young and fragile, old before her time, and I see the way they shake their heads at me. So looking is all I'm allowed to do.

Sound

Her voice. I listen for the sound of her voice. It soothes me when nothing else can. Soft, her accent comes and goes now, with her emotions. The years have worn it away. It's stronger when she's excited or upset. It makes me wonder what she'd sound like beneath me. Would she scream my name or would she whisper, soft cries in that honeyed silk drawl that pours over me 'til I think I'm going to drown? A man could drown in that voice, and thank God while he's dying.

The wind carries it to me when she's out of my sight. I know every tone and nuance -- laughter, tears, terror. Too much of the last two. Too much pain in my girl's short life. I'd protect her from it all if I could, but I know that some of it is mine. I've caused her pain, and that hurts me more than anything -- more than not knowing who I am, more than the nightmares of what they did to me. And more than anything, I want to take that pain away.

I could, too. She would let me. I can hear her heartbeat as I approach; it always speeds up when I'm around. But they tell me it would be wrong. I know she's too young, the voice I love so much is that of a girl just growing into womanhood.

But it stays with me and I hear it in my dreams -- it drives away the nightmares.

Smell

I would know her scent anywhere. They could strip my mind again, make me a drooling imbecile, and I'd be able to find her, track her, bring her home.

It's sweet and young and sometimes fearful, but never of me. Not even when we met in that dingy bar in the back of beyond did she fear me. And I love her for that courage, for her belief that I would never hurt her, even though I have, over and over again, without meaning to.

Her smell comforts me. Just knowing she's been in my room, knowing she's in my life, gives me a peace I've never felt. When I go away, and I do, I always come back, because I carry her with me. Her scent lingers in the air around me, guiding me to her like the North Star guides sailors.

Taste

I've tasted her skin. I have, and it's sweet and salt and everything wonderful that taste can be. I wish I could taste it again, when it's not cold and dead under my lips, when I'm not praying to whatever gods exist that she be all right, that I should die instead. I wish I could taste her long and graceful neck, the crook of her elbow, the skin behind her knees and all the secret places women have that make men wild.

I know she would taste like heaven, like nothing on this earth has ever tasted before. And I would let her linger on my tongue, content with whatever she'd consent to give me -- I would taste her tears and her laughter and her sweat when we make love and food would never appeal to me again.

Touch

There's the problem. She's untouchable, encased in a prison of her own skin. I could get around it, easily. I could make her feel things she's never felt before, and I could do it without getting hurt. But it's not myself I worry about. We need to touch, people do, and I know I'm the only one not afraid to touch her, even through her clothes. And that should be enough, should show them that I wouldn't hurt her, would rather use these damned claws of mine and rip out my own heart before I did. But they tell me I'm wrong, I need to keep my distance. They hold me back with gentle touches, a delicate hand on my arm that I shake off, but I fear they may be right.

So I touch her in little ways, my hand in her hair, where it's safe. A squeeze of her shoulder to let her know I'm around. A hug on her birthday, when everyone gets to touch and no one can frown if I linger longer than the others.

But they frown when I wear my gloves all day, looking for opportunities to brush my hand down her cheek, making her smile. They shake their heads when I caress her back, massage her shoulders after a long day of training. And they mutter at me when I pick her up, cradling her against my chest, and carry her to her room after she's fallen asleep on the couch downstairs.

And I listen to them, and know that I'm the problem. Everything about me is tainted, and with one touch -- two -- I've tainted her. Now they're afraid I'll break her. Use her and leave her, like I've done with every other woman in my life. But I won't. I can't leave her. She's everything that's good in me -- my hope when I want to give up, give in to despair, and my peace when I rage against the hand this life has dealt us.

I've got these supersenses and they let me have her in ways other people, the ones who frown and shake their heads, can never understand. She's the empire I seek to conquer, the unexplored continent I wish to make my own.

And I will. Someday.

End