These Hands
 

She says: Please.

I have hands like knives. Sharp hands moving over the curved, pale surfaces of her body; sharp hands driving, splitting her as she arcs cleanly from the surf of the sheets.

She says: Kathryn.

And she means it as an invocation.

I cannot sanctify her. My hands are warm, wet. There is blood on my hands the color of her voice; blood the black of my uniform, crimson of my command, so fresh I can still taste it: iron and oxygen and sunlight because I killed him in the open air. Killed him with a knife, closed in my hand.

Her body bends back on itself, carving the air. Her eyes are closed and I make no move to call her back to me, just keep pushing, driving. The muscles of her belly tremble like a struck note.

I drove it into him, up and in between the heavy ribs of his barrel chest. His arms around me were dead weight as his fingers fought for purchase in my hair, wrenching my head back to pull me away. All that happened was that I watched his eyes die and could not see my own hands. His blood was warm and thick and I thought blood flowed but learned that it spills, cascades, rushes out once the dike is broken.

Then: rolling him off me, rolling nothing but a tangle of limbs off my body and running. Running, because seven days in a dark cell moving and being moved against their bodies is punishment enough for all transgressions. The debt had already been paid. Running, my heart stabbing against my ribs and rounding a corner into the solid bulk of Chakotay. Too late.

In sickbay, they had to take the knife from me finger by finger.

She was there, later. Somewhere in the space of time which has shrunk down to death and resurrection by the light of the transporter and waking again, clean and warm but with my teeth chattering. Her eyes were lighter as she placed her hand on my shoulder and said: I'm sorry.

For leaving you. For not being able to keep you from it.

And I could say nothing in response. Beneath the thermal blanket I made my hands into knots.

Not your fault, I said, meaning it.

Meaning, stay away.

Because even two days later on my lips you will taste like rust and blood. I will move over you, fully clothed, slicing into you and holding you together as you come apart. But kissing you will be swallowing the night whole and even the quick light of your hair will not escape the gravity of this.

She says: I'm sorry. For leaving you.

You should have.

Her eyes are open, her body coming back to her, or she to it. She splays her fingers on my side and through the thick of the fabric I can feel them laying between the ribs. I do not look in the mirror anymore; but the pressure of her fingers tells me that I've lost weight, that my cheekbones flare out from a gaunt face. The drape of my uniform has changed.

I am sharpening myself. In case. Because they took the knife from me when I returned and I am no longer supposed to need it. Because I am safe. Alone at night, I cannot quite remember the reasons.

She says--

I know what she wants this to mean. I place my hand over her mouth lightly. Even after confession, I cannot absolve her. Her lips are blood-warm beneath my thin skin, so I will be gone before her breathing smoothes fully into sleep. I am still wearing my boots.

I can give her nothing but the warm inside of herself. Refracting back the smooth, pale surface I can give her fire but not teach her how to hold it.

I could forgive her for leaving. But not for coming back.

Fin