“You’d better be careful too,” Christine ground out through gritted teeth. It sounded utterly sincere. I backed away quickly—truth be told, I didn’t stand a chance in a fight with Christine.About a week passed, and I began to feel oddly relieved. I even regretted not having been so brazen from the start. Meanwhile, Christine’s anger only grew more intense. When I realized I might actually get my nose broken, I didn’t visit for two days. Having let her guard down a bit, Christine was truly furious when I reappeared. Without hearing a word, she yelled:“I absolutely, positively refuse to help you. If you come back one more time, I’ll assume words won’t reach you and…”“Oh, Christine, I’m not here on that errand today.”“Then what is it?”“I was looking through my wallet last night and realized my driver’s license was missing. I think I left it at your place. Could you return it?”Christine glowered at me, then unexpectedly swung a punch. I couldn’t dodge in time; it caught my lip and cut it open. It hurt like hell. Bent over, I touched the blood dripping from my lip and looked up to see Christine gazing down at me with a look of utter satisfaction.“Feels good, doesn’t it?”Fay treated my lip injury with merciless efficiency, dabbing medicine on it and asking how I’d managed to get hurt.“You told me to go as far as I could,” I muttered.After a moment’s thought, Fay’s face lit up as she recalled that conversation.“That’s constructive, Raymond. From now on, feel free to get yourself beaten—come back any time.”“I’d rather not. His fist is bigger than your face.”Half a month later, Christine finally surrendered. In the meantime, I’d taken Fay’s advice and stalked her more persistently than ever: strolling past her house at her commute times, delivering Allen’s sandwiches every evening, even helping her neighbor with gardening chores—Christine shot me disgusted looks whenever she saw me chatting with her friendly next-door neighbor over the fence.Winter came at last. Running in the rain was foolish—I risked pneumonia—so I quit. One day, after coming back with Allen from an addicts’ support meeting, I bought myself a coat and opened a bank account. I deposited the money Allen had kept for me plus the weekly wages from Ellefan, and on that night the three of us celebrated opening my savings account with a small party.One late evening, Fay and I sat side by side, sampling and rating Allen’s new sandwich creation, when the restaurant door swung open and Christine entered wearing a long coat. I tensed, expecting a blow, but she greeted Fay and Allen with a slight nod and calmly said,“Hey. Let’s have a drink.”I was too stunned to reply. Without waiting for an answer, she sighed lightly and continued,“When you’re done here, come to my place.”I glanced at the hem of her coat as she left the restaurant, then quickly looked at Allen and Fay. Fay gave a gentle nod. I shrugged into my coat and followed Christine outside, my heart pounding. I had a strange certainty that whatever she wanted to say, by tomorrow morning I would be leaving this quiet villa district behind.True to my thought, Christine was already waiting in the car. I jumped into the passenger seat, and without a word she drove off. She remained silent until we reached her house, where she stood by the open front door so I could enter.While I waited on the living-room sofa, Christine hung up her coat and lit the fireplace. The electric heater crackled to life. She stood by the hearth tying up her blonde hair—which reminded me abruptly of the day I’d nearly touched it to see if it was real, and my face flushed. She turned, and I cleared my throat awkwardly, averting my gaze. She said nothing and moved to the wine rack.“Have you been drinking more?” she asked as she selected a bottle.“You used to drown yourself in alcohol,” I said.“Hmm—maybe.”I stared blankly at the fireplace. Even though it had been years, the burning hearth always brought back memories of Bluebell Dormitory: the flames that incinerated my clothes, the horrible heat, the boys’ slick, sweaty hands…In the end, Christine brought scotch instead of wine, adding a splash of water in place of ice. She tapped glasses without a word, and I drank in silence. The alcohol’s warmth spread through me. She watched me drink slowly, and my old anxiety returned—so I kept sipping.“It was hard getting here,” she said softly in a higher tone, as if using falsetto, but quietly.“I know it was hard for you, too. But I’ve worked too long to let everything I’ve done go to waste.”I looked at her, but this time Christine avoided my gaze. Her continuing words were gentle.“One day, you’ll understand what I mean. So I’m asking—please stop now.”Her pale blue eyes flickered in the firelight. She had no intention of answering my questions; she’d simply summoned me to persuade me. After a long silence, she met my eyes and tapped glasses again. I emptied °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° my glass in one gulp. Staring at the scotch filling halfway back up the glass, I blurted out:“I thought… I wanted to live like you.”“Like me?” she repeated.“I don’t know how you’ve lived… but when I’ve seen you, you seem like someone who’s forgotten everything. A nice pool, a beautiful home, friends like Harry. Now I know you’ve got your own schemes.”“…”“I thought it’d be nice to forget and live like that. But I can’t. I simply can’t. That’s why I came back to you. I’ll keep coming back. Even though I know I’m torturing you…”Christine’s eyes gleamed strangely as she listened. She spoke quietly:“You’re right. It tortures me.”She added a little more water to my glass.“I’ve been trying to live well, struggling to live well, and you wreck it all. You make me suffer.”“…”“You bring back nightmares, dredge up tiny, insignificant memories I’d carelessly forgotten. You—you make me do that.”“What memories?”The liquor began to warm my head. Just as I always recalled the same dread at the fireplace, perhaps Christine recalled it when she looked at me.“What memories did I dredge up?” I asked.Where once Christine would have refused to answer, now—perhaps drunk as quickly as I—she let slip through firm lips:“The memory of masturbating while recalling the day I was raped.”My hand holding the glass trembled. Summoning courage, I met her gaze. In her face—so unlike mine—I saw my own expression and my hidden agony and pleasure reflected there. Gooseflesh prickled the nape of my neck. I knew instinctively: she and I shared the same darkness. Christine watched me drink slowly, licked her pink lips with her tongue, and continued in a quiet whisper:“The memory of being unsatisfied by ordinary sex.”I wanted to look away, yet I was drawn to her eyes.“The moment I realized I’d become a monster.”Christine leaned back on the sofa, her long hair—no matter if real or wig—cascading over her shoulders. She licked her scotch-wet lips and gave a playful smile.“Is this what you wanted to hear?”Embarrassment overwhelmed me, and I lowered my head. I set down my glass, trembling uncontrollably, then refilled it almost to the brim. Drunk already and dizzy, I clenched the glass. Looking up, I saw only mischief on Christine’s face. I could not smile lightly, not like her. My heart felt like lead, but I forced myself to meet her eyes. She asked casually:“How old were you when that happened?”“…Twenty.”My stomach burned from drink. Christine’s curiosity was blatant as she asked:“Had you ever been with a woman before then?”“No.”“And after? Never?”I blinked as my vision flickered.“No.”I’d been sober for a while, and the warm air from the fireplace made the drunk come on faster. My body sank into the sofa.Christine crossed to the table and sat beside me, our legs touching. She whispered:“Can you get it up?”Her bright blue eyes fixed on me.“Do you mean penetration?”“Get hard.”I shifted toward her, rested my face against the sofa back, and looked at Christine.“…I can’t penetrate.”“Never?”Her face moved closer, so close I felt her breath.“Never tried?”“No… never could.”I gulped more scotch. The burn seared my stomach. Christine smiled, and in a low voice so chilling it felt like a bite at my nape, she whispered:“You monster.”I stared at her. Fingertips brushing her lipstick-smudged mouth, I slipped my finger into my own mouth. Christine took my finger between her lips and smiled softly.With that smile, she sucked my finger sweetly, licked between my fingers, grazed my palm and wrist with her lips, then pressed her nose against my sleeve. She pushed me down onto the sofa and slipped her hand under my sweater, groping me roughly as she lifted my shirt. I raised my arms obediently and let her pull off my clothes. Through blurred vision, I saw Christine’s face. She took my hand and guided it under her skirt to caress her inner thigh.“Try it,” she murmured so quietly I barely heard.“How…?”“You don’t even know how?”She rubbed her erection against the back of my hand and whispered:“Do what they taught you.”I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything. Christine pulled my foot toward her and ground her erection against it. It wasn’t foreplay—it was like self-harm under foot. I began to cry. Christine held my foot tight, unmoving.When I tore my foot free, she collapsed into my arms. Christine’s strong arms drew me close, and we pressed our lips together weakly. We knew each other too well. We would never be ordinary. Some days we’d have normal sex; other days we’d relive the rape memory, treated not as human but as something less, something different—and only then reach our climax. No one understood us. Not even we understood ourselves. So we could only call ourselves:Monsters.

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