work so hard to do what is right
So much has happened so quickly, it's like my head's still spinning. Up and down and back and forth and the next thing I know I feel like the whole world's turned inside out.
When Aiden and I were out together the other night, I almost told him. We were talking about what he'd come here to study -- he brought up the subject, not me; I think he was trying to get me to say something else, because he saw the way my face changed when he'd mentioned the loup-garou the first time we met -- and -- I almost said it. Almost.
He was so passionate. So involved, so animated. He told me a bunch of the stories, the good ones, the ones of the days when loup-garou and humans still lived together side by side -- they remember those, here. "They're not cursed," he said. "They're blessed."
Meaning me. Us. You know.
And I almost said something. But he kept going. He's been collecting all the old signs, all the telltales -- the ways you're supposed to be able to spot a loup-garou in human form. And most of them are myth or nonsense, but he happened to hit on the one that isn't.
If you hurt us, if we bleed, you can see it in our eyes. Just for a minute, just a flash -- but it's there.
If I keep seeing him -- and I do want to keep seeing him; you're all right about that -- sooner or later I'm going to give myself away. All it would take would be one nick or cut or scratch, and bam, my secret's toast.
I don't know. He's a smart man. If he really believes the loup-garou are real, I've given him a hundred small cues already. Maybe that's smarter? Maybe if I let him have clue after clue, he'll figure it out, and he'll ask me if he thinks he can handle the answer. (But humans think they can handle more than they really can, don't they? I've noticed that.) Maybe that would be the best way out of this. And if he's interested enough, he'll come to me.
I think he could handle it. But I'm not sure. And until I'm sure, I'm going to be sitting here and changing my mind a hundred times a minute. To be or not to be? I can't make up my mind.
He left me a postcard at work today, with a sketch of me on the back of it. Down in the corner, in the tiniest print you could imagine, was an address. A time. Tomorrow, dinnertime. After I'm off work.
I shouldn't go, but I'm going to. He said to me the other night: you only get one life. It's what a lot of you have said. I'm starting to think you're all right.
When Aiden and I were out together the other night, I almost told him. We were talking about what he'd come here to study -- he brought up the subject, not me; I think he was trying to get me to say something else, because he saw the way my face changed when he'd mentioned the loup-garou the first time we met -- and -- I almost said it. Almost.
He was so passionate. So involved, so animated. He told me a bunch of the stories, the good ones, the ones of the days when loup-garou and humans still lived together side by side -- they remember those, here. "They're not cursed," he said. "They're blessed."
Meaning me. Us. You know.
And I almost said something. But he kept going. He's been collecting all the old signs, all the telltales -- the ways you're supposed to be able to spot a loup-garou in human form. And most of them are myth or nonsense, but he happened to hit on the one that isn't.
If you hurt us, if we bleed, you can see it in our eyes. Just for a minute, just a flash -- but it's there.
If I keep seeing him -- and I do want to keep seeing him; you're all right about that -- sooner or later I'm going to give myself away. All it would take would be one nick or cut or scratch, and bam, my secret's toast.
I don't know. He's a smart man. If he really believes the loup-garou are real, I've given him a hundred small cues already. Maybe that's smarter? Maybe if I let him have clue after clue, he'll figure it out, and he'll ask me if he thinks he can handle the answer. (But humans think they can handle more than they really can, don't they? I've noticed that.) Maybe that would be the best way out of this. And if he's interested enough, he'll come to me.
I think he could handle it. But I'm not sure. And until I'm sure, I'm going to be sitting here and changing my mind a hundred times a minute. To be or not to be? I can't make up my mind.
He left me a postcard at work today, with a sketch of me on the back of it. Down in the corner, in the tiniest print you could imagine, was an address. A time. Tomorrow, dinnertime. After I'm off work.
I shouldn't go, but I'm going to. He said to me the other night: you only get one life. It's what a lot of you have said. I'm starting to think you're all right.