I Look At The Woman In Front Of Me.

I look at the woman in front of me.

She is dressed smartly, dress and coat and boots and hat conspiring to protect her from the howling winds as she stands in the doorway.

She looks at me, the pity in her eyes obviously disguising some kind of malice.

That’s the way things are, after all.

She invites me in, all politeness and platitudes and pleasing words. She bids me to sit by the fire, warm myself. She brings blankets to help with this. She offers me food, I refuse. She offers me a drink, I refuse. She asks me my name, I pretend not to hear.

She takes no note of my sword, seeing it as no threat to herself.

I do not speak. I do not move.

I wait.

She talks a lot. She tells me about the things she’s made for a meal, one she’d happily share with me. She tells me about the plants in the forest, and the ones that I might find useful. She tells me how beautiful I am, and how happy she would be to have me.

I feel tempted to give in, and stay here for the rest of my life.

She smiles softly at me, as if she knows this.

Her fingers trace up the flesh of my arm, suddenly revealed from under layers of blankets.

She tells me she could help me. She tells me I wouldn’t have to worry any more. She tells me I would be hers, perfect and eternal.

My arm goes cold, as though it were turning to ice. My joints feel stiff. A sudden stillness begins to overtake me.

This is a game to her, surely, and it seems she is winning.

She tells me I will have purpose, and the spell breaks.

I move my hand. I clench my fist around something.

My arm swings forwards.

She looks down.

Blood blooms from her torso, centred around the ugly iron implement that protrudes from her body.

Her eyes flick upwards, and I look away.

She goes still in my arms, much as I had gone still at the touch of hers.

I have won.

I cannot leave quickly enough.

Her house burns, all her food and plants and promises going up in flame.

Her offers nag at the back of my mind. She offered purpose, perfection, happiness, and most of all, stillness.

I have won this game.

So why do I so dearly wish that I had lost?