Easy. His mouth never moved.
"I said I never wanted to see you here again."
If you let your fingers slip, it'll all collapse. He licked his lips quietly - first his teeth, then, tentatively, the cracked outside. Then you'll have to start all over.
"... Like Jenga?" I felt my shoulder slump, I felt myself giving in. Just this last time, right?
Yes, but it's a little more complicated than that.
"Have I ever told you how much you look like my brother?"
A throttled grin, and a quick glance up - the long strands of wiry, black hair swaying in front of his thin face. You've said I look like a heroin addict a couple of times.
"That, too." I flinched, probably in my sleep, too, I had gotten used to doing that a lot. "You don't look like him so much, my brother I mean, when you look up. I guess that's why I probably haven't told you. Your face is different, very different."
He grinned, So you've got an itch, then?
"Bite it." I had no fucking idea what he was talking about.
He sat, his long legs stretched out around a pottery wheel - each of his spindly fingers digging gently in as it spun in consistent circles. I started laughing.
"I think you're in the wrong dream, kid. I could never make something like that."
His stern face looked up, It's not just what you know - it's what you want, what you aspire. You wish you could.
"It's not as easy as that."
It is on the good nights, the ones where I don't have to kill you.
A shiver went up my spine. So this was one of the good nights, then? The dark room, the only light, dim and gray and just above him, casting shadows that made his cheekbones and nose jut out like junkie and his eyes dark and faithless. How was this a good one?
I pouted, strangely enough, "No knives, no shadows following me in the darkness? You aren't going to come at me with filed teeth and, fucking, my own blood on your hands like last time? Like the last four fucking times you've seen me? Why do you keep coming back?" I had closed my eyes, it had gone dark, my head hung limp and terrified.
I opened them.
It's not that easy, you know. You've said it yourself. It's not all under my control, it has to do with you, too.
My eyes opened - before me was a hazy scene of a classroom - light with long, bright lights. It wasn't terrifying - it was, to what I interpret, the ceramics class. In the middle of the room, right in front of where I was standing, was a tall, skinny boy. I knew him well - the brown eyes that he felt were nothing special, the hair that he slapped against his hand to form, the lips, the skin that was smooth and dark and beautiful. He looked tired, and for some reason he stood with a large paintbrush in one hand and a bucket in the other.
You're so uncomfortable without him.
"Not uncomfortable, unhappy."
So you dream of your own death?
"I suppose that's for you to interpret."
I suppose. There he was again - the black-haired man that showed up so often in my dreams with a dark smile, a sharp tongue and, sometimes, if I was lucky, a coke whore. He walked right through me - but that's alright, I was asleep, anyway.
He touched the caramel-toned boys' chin - it looked so strange, that color against the pale, dead gray that belonged to the man. The boy didn't seem to move, only his eyes glanced at the mans' face, then back to me, and suddenly I felt sick and worried.
"You said this was going to be a good night." My voice trembled, I tried taking a step, I couldn't. My flinching must have gotten out of hand, or maybe I had tried running away in my sleep again - the boy standing there in my dream was holding me down in his bed. I could feel the heat on my skin, I became pale and uncomfortable.
I suppose that is, also, open for interpretation, yes?
The room began to fill with people - I recognized a few of them - a short blond girl attached to a larger boy who didn't seem to belong there, a dark-haired beauty, and the busty one that I hated. I choked.
It's not always my choice.
"But isn't it right now?"
"Then why would you?" They were all watching me - somehow I knew they couldn't see him, that the boy was staring at me worriedly because I seemed to be talking to myself, and to the others that I was screaming at him.
Because your weakness unnerves me.
He engulfed the boys' face with one hand, then quickly brought it away - taking with it all of the color in the others' eyes and cheeks and lips.
He fell to his knees.
He fell to the ground.
And it's not always that easy.
I threw myself out of sleep - the dark room, the heat trapped underneath the thick down comforter, the feeling of skin against mine. My heart pounded.
"Babe," he pulled me closer against his chest, "are you alright?"
I took a deep breath, held it in for a second, hoping to calm myself down.
His voice shook, and he nuzzled against my neck, "Baby?"
And as it always happened.
I opened my eyes to his outlined face - the only light from hallways flowing in through the crack under his door. I licked my teeth, swallowed, and quietly mumbled to him, "What? Mhmm, fine, why?"
"You were just flinching like crazy..."
"Mmmm, really?" my heart slowly faded back into my chest.
"Weird. Did I hit you?"
"No, I'm fine, are you okay though?"