Fledglings 1

"I want you to fuck me like this." Ruth pulls a unicorn sleeping mask over her eyes. "So that I can't see who you are."

Rain drums against the bedroom window. The blinds are down, the light so shapeless that Vincent can't make out if it's morning or afternoon.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

Vincent kicks off the covers he's tangled in. He just woke up when Ruth climbed in bed. It must be the end of Ruth's shift, but her hours as a paramedic are all over the place, and she comes and goes at all hours. Vincent squints at his phone. Eleven forty. A lone crow caws outside.

Ruth draws up her knees, fingers fiddling with the strings of her pajama pants. "I want you to force yourself on me so that I can't see who you are," she says, biting her lower lip. It's chapped, Vincent notices, and quivers hesitatingly as Ruth continues, "Like you're just some stranger I've never met."

The sleeping mask is the color of a pastel rainbow, the once-plush fur now uneven and clumpy. Ruth has worn it every night since Vincent moved in two months ago, though it looks as if she's had it for much longer. The unicorn has a pair of embroidered eyes that seem to dream happy dreams, a stubby little horn made of shiny pink polyester, and silvery, perky ears. Under the elastic string, Ruth's hair is as matted and dull as the unicorn's fur: she clearly hasn't bothered to wash it. Vincent pictures her tired eyes under the pastel mask.

"Fuck, Ruth."

"It's not like I know who you are anyway. You never tell me anything about yourself. You could be anyone, for all I know," Ruth says petulantly. She rolls over, turning her back to Vincent and tugging the duvet between her bony knees.

Her whininess annoys Vincent. Wasn't she the one who insisted Vincent move in right after he was discharged from the hospital? Vincent only agreed because he had nowhere else to go after that stupid stunt his hacking group members had pulled—no doubt the shady hit-and-run accident that put Vincent in the hospital was linked, too. He hasn't promised a thing: no hand-holding, no confessions. The less Ruth knows about him, the better.

If she expects pillow talk from someone like Vincent, that's her own mistake.

Ruth lives in a two-room apartment located in a neighborhood within walking distance of the hospital. Her furniture is something you would see in a shared student flat where no one stays for long, with too much space in between. A black leather couch, a bookshelf with empty eyes that make Vincent anxious. Beyond the concrete balcony, dull evergreen pines stand tall against a gray sky.

Vincent keeps his things in a workout bag on the bedroom floor. The bag is torn and tarnished from the accident, but otherwise the arrangement isn't that much different from how he lived before it. His toothbrush and deodorant sit in the bathroom vanity and his boots stand by the door; he can leave anytime he wants to.

Even the sex isn't that good. It's unpredictable and strange, and Vincent never seems to figure out what Ruth wants.

He should have known from the first time when Ruth slipped into his hospital room in the lull between the doctors' round and lunch, climbed on the bed, and slid her hand under Vincent's hospital gown. His leg was still hurting, his head groggy from the painkillers. The kisses Ruths gasped into his mouth tasted of the banana she must have eaten in the break room earlier; the taste reminded Vincent of the liquid antibiotics he'd been given as a child, leaving him faintly queasy.

There's a peculiar hunger within Ruth—a kind desperation that shines through like her skin is just a little too translucent. It makes Vincent uneasy.

He stares at Ruth's sullen back. Her white t-shirt hangs loosely on her bony frame, the cotton threadbare and faded to gray. The pajama pants she's wearing sag at the hips, their glow-in-the-dark stars-and-planets print dulled from many washes.

Last night, Vincent stayed up late, waiting for her. He folded the laundry, watched an episode of a current affairs program where brightly dressed people talked about something important, had a smoke on the balcony. Down below, a lone crow pecked at something unmoving on the ground; Vincent couldn't make out what it was, but he couldn't look away either. The sky above the neighborhood hung heavy with clouds.

He fell asleep in an empty bed.

As he now presses closer to Ruth, he catches the faint scent of laundry detergent, sweat, and the hospital.

Ruth is fucking weird. Vincent doesn't get her. She and her ridiculous sleeping mask, unwashed hair, and ratty pajamas. And now this. Rape pretend play.

"How's that different from how we usually fuck?" Vincent asks sharply as he pushes his hand past the waistband of the stars-and-planets pajama pants to grope Ruth's flat ass.

Ruth doesn't answer, only whimpers, a small startled sound muffled by the pillow.

"A stranger? You want a stranger to rape you? Is that what turns you on? Is that why you took me home?" Vincent continues, pushing his hand between Ruth's legs to give her pussy a rough squeeze.

There's no answer, but Ruth shifts her hips, spreading her legs a bit as if to give Vincent access. Her mouth is hanging open; there's a crack in the lower lip where Vincent can see a faint trace of blood.

Is this what Ruth wants? Some days Vincent thinks she's not quite right in the head. A hollow feeling settles in the pit of his stomach, but he chooses to ignore it. If Ruth wants to get her freak on like this, Vincent is going to fucking give it to her.

Besides, Vincent is getting hard. He can feel his blood pumping, the heat gathering. Ruth's skin is a little damp between her thighs. Vincent thinks of all the soft, secret places she'll let him touch.

"You're an idiot. A naïve fucking idiot. Who invites a stranger in, just like that?" he whispers into Ruth's ear. The shell of it is dainty and fragile, framed by clumpy strands of dark hair and pink elastic of the sleeping mask. Vincent always wondered why Ruth trusted him, a complete stranger. Maybe, he thinks now, he's been framing the question wrong, and it's not about trust at all, but something more elusive. Something darker.

Ruth lets out a whine when Vincent's hand slides down the front of her pajama pants. Her pussy is not that wet at first, but slickness gathers quickly when Vincent starts rubbing her clit with two fingers.

He nuzzles along Ruth's neck, breathing in the faintly musky scent of her skin. He thinks of the emptiness of the long hospital corridors, the spaces between Ruth's things. Loneliness. "You don't know anything about me," he murmurs into the nape of Ruth's neck. "I could be anyone. A dealer, a thief, a murderer."

The pillow swallows Ruth's small, alarmed cry.

Vincent increases the pressure on her clit, massaging little circles over the swollen nub. Ruth is breathing into the pillow now, quick and shallow, like the restless sleep of a sick child. Her hips twitch, a tiny, jerky motion of fucking as she begins to thrust her hips onto Vincent's hand.

It's so ridiculously easy, all of it: fooling her, making her do whatever Vincent wants, taking advantage. Has been from day one.

Vincent hovers his mouth over Ruth's neck. "For all you know, I'm just using you," he says, tone soft, almost conversational. He presses his lips on the soft spot of skin where wispy baby hair grows at her neckline. "I don't have to pay rent. I have free food, free electricity-"

Ruth whines.

"A piece of ass every night."

Vincent feels a shudder travel through Ruth's whole body; a fluttery exhale escapes her at the end of it. The pillowcase must be damp with her gasps and sighs by now. Is she drooling on it? The pussy under Vincent's palm is swollen and wet now, and as he rubs it, a slick wetness spreads over his fingers, smearing across his hand and the inside of Ruth's pajama pants. She's so easy, dripping with it.

"What else would I want from you?" Vincent muses, keeping his tone colloquial. As though he's talking about the weather. The birds and the trees, the trickle of freezing rain outside.

He swears he can see Ruth's pulse drumming under her skin. He presses a finger on the pulse point, and there it is: the panicked beat of her baby bird heart.

Back when Vincent was a kid, he once found a baby crow on the ground. He must have been eleven or twelve at the time. The fledgling was small and round, and it had a funnily stumpy tail. Its heart was beating so fast when Vincent held it in its hand. Had its mother abandoned it? It made scared little sounds and fluttered its ruffled wings, but its eyes were blank, without any expression at all. Vincent still remembers the rush he felt when he realized the power he held over it. A defenseless little thing, his to play with.

He glances over at the nightstand. An idea forming, he slowly pulls Ruth's pajama pants and panties down mid-thigh. Ruth isn't helping, but she's not resisting either. There's a red mark etched across her skin where the waistband of her cotton panties has pressed too tightly; a faded old scar marks her lower back. Her pussy is swollen and reddened between her legs, the dark hair there glistening with her wetness. Vincent spits on her slit and smears the slick slowly across the flushed flesh.

Ruth trembles, the tight clasp of her hole giving in under Vincent's thumb. She's pink on the inside, and soft. Like satin, Vincent thinks, like the pink satin on the underside of the sleeping mask she's wearing.

In the drawer of her nightstand, there are two dildos of different sizes and a bottle of lube; Ruth still forgets to buy condoms although they've been fucking since Vincent moved in. Vincent briefly considers the violet rabbit vibrator—he's sometimes used it when he knows he's not going to be bothered with much warm-up—but eventually picks up the monster-sized item in marble pink and blue color. He likes watching the mix of anguish and pleasure on Ruth's face when she's taking it. The lube bottle he places on the nightstand.

Ruth lies on her belly, completely still apart from the erratic rise and fall of her back. Her shoulder blades look like wings, Vincent thinks, wings that helplessly twitch but won't lift her off the ground. Her skin is almost gray in the light of the rainy day. Her legs are splayed open, as wide as the elastic of the pajama pants allows, all that's in between exposed.

Vincent leans in, putting his mouth right next to Ruth's ear. "You have no self-respect. Look at yourself. You're like a walking corpse. When was the last time you brushed your hair? You couldn't even be bothered to take a fucking shower. You let me fuck you any way I want. Mouth, ass, cunt, anything goes. Those sleepwalker's eyes. I swear to God, sometimes I think you're blind. That goddamn sleeping mask-"

He taps Ruth's buttock with the dildo. Ruth flinches.

"You're a fucking doormat, that's what you are. I bet I could make you do anything. Would you look up confidential patient information for me? Would you steal drugs if I told you to? You would, wouldn't you-"

"No-"

"Shut the fuck up," Vincent hisses so violently that spit sprays onto Ruth's cheek. He doesn't give a shit about any of these things right now, not really. "You think I care what you think? You said you wanted me to fuck you. I'll fucking fuck you."

He grabs Ruth by the neck and pushes her face into the pillow. One hand still wrapped in her hair, he reaches out the other to grab the lube from the nightstand. He squirts it on the dildo, messily coating the toy with it.

The silicone feels smooth and velvety in his grasp. Heavy. The edges of the room seem to blur out of view; the only thing that's sharp and focussed is Ruth, her pale skin and dark strands of her hair. There's a mole on her buttock, only one, and so tiny Vincent has never noticed it before. Her slit glistens faintly with lube when Vincent rubs and pokes the slickened tip of the dildo against the tight furl of her hole.

The toy is lubed up, and he's fucked Ruth with it before, but now she's too tense, too wound up, to take it.

Ruth is breathing hard through her nose. "I can't-"

"I don't care if you can take it or not," Vincent grits out.

Ruth makes a keening noise, high and miserable.

"You're so fucking needy and whiny. Your sleep problems and depression and burnout and fucking existential crisis. Do you think I fucking care?"

Vincent pauses to draw in a breath.

"You're only good for fucking. And that's what I'm gonna do to you."

A shudder seems to wrack through Ruth's body. The tip of the toy slips inside her pussy, the pink and blue silicone glans slowly penetrating her body; Ruth whimpers. A red blotch spreads across her chest. It looks like a lipstick smear, Vincent thinks. Like a rash.

"Rapetoy," Vincent whispers.

A strangled sound escapes Ruth's mouth. Her hand fumbles blindly, grasping and searching, and for a second, Vincent thinks that she's pushing back, that she's trying to crawl away from him. A bright light bursts in his eyes, like the headlights of a car flashing.

Then Ruth grabs a pillow and stuffs it between her legs. She starts rubbing her pussy, Vincent can see her hand moving under the pillow.

"Yeah, just like that," he breathes into her ear. He can feel the searing hotness of his own breath. His grip on the toy is slipping, his hand sweaty and slick as he fucks the dildo into her. "There you go. Rapetoy. That's all you're good for."

Ruth starts working her clit in earnest. She gets close soon, her breath stuttering and hips grinding jerkily onto her own hand and the toy in turn.

What is she thinking when she finally shudders through her climax? A stranger, a whisper, the violence and the threat and the sickening thrill? Is she feeling small and helpless, held down by the neck like this? Does she feel wanted? Or is she sick to her stomach with shame?

A wretched fledgling, wings twitching, that's what she is. Vincent yanks out the toy. Even with the mask on, he knows that in her eyes, there's no expression at all.

"Open your mouth," he says. He rolls Ruth over and straddles her chest. She's slow to obey; Vincent slaps her across the cheek. "Open it. I told you to open your fucking mouth."

***

Later, when Ruth has drifted to sleep, Vincent gets up and wanders into the kitchen. His phone tells him it's twenty-five past one. The light in the apartment is too even, the angles of the furniture too sharp. He feels dazed and faintly sick, like he's on painkillers; when he closes his eyes, he can still see Ruth, the way she was lying underneath him, the long, black lashes of the unicorn dripping with come.

Hold me, Ruth had said. Please.

In the fridge, there's a wedge of cheese and a carton of milk, but the cheese is covered in white powdery layer, and the milk's best before date has passed ages ago. Vincent closes the door and picks up an apple from a bowl on the counter instead, its skin so bright and shiny it looks like plastic. The sweet-and-sour taste of the fruit's flesh reminds him of the rainbow sour belt candies he liked as a kid; the cool crispness makes his head feel a bit clearer.

Hold me, please.

Who's going to hold Vincent? Fucking nobody, that's who.

The bedroom blinds are still closed; Ruth hasn't stirred. I'm just going to lie down for a minute, Vincent thinks, but takes off his t-shirt and sweatpants anyway. Under the covers, Ruth's body is warm with sleep. She's still wearing the sleeping mask: the unicorn looks happy, as though it's smiling in its dreams. The stains on its fur have dried crusty. Something moves in Vincent, like pity. Ruth's lips are parted, her breathing rapid like with fever.

The first time Vincent saw her, she came out of the darkness like a vision. In the deafening silence after the ambulance sirens, she walked up to Vincent and said, "My name is Ruth and I'm a paramedic. I'm here to help you. I've got you now." Vincent could hardly believe she was real. A blinding light seemed to radiate out of her. The ambulance lights flickered, like strobe lights, and Vincent remembers how the dirty snow he was lying on looked as though someone had poured watercolors on it. Like it was painted with all the colors of the rainbow.

The way he remembers it, Ruth was wearing white—a doctor's coat, or was it a hospital gown?—though in reality, he knows she must have been wearing the standard red-and-yellow paramedic's uniform in its durable cotton-and-polyester blend. Her hair was tied in a messy bun, like a tired stay-at-home mom, but her eyes were brilliant and intense, as though they saw right into Vincent's soul. As sirens screamed through the city, she held his hand at the back of the ambulance, and Vincent felt as though he was floating on a soft, gentle cloud.

At that moment, it felt like Ruth could work miracles. It wasn't until later when Vincent understood that her miracles had worn her thin. That there were moments when she was a vision and a cloud and a blinding light, but much more numerous were the days when her skin was too translucent and her apartment felt like a hospital waiting room, a place of loneliness and pain, all the colors washed out.

At dusk, Vincent wakes up in an empty bed. The sleeping mask sits on the nightstand, the stars-and-planets pajama pants are tucked under Ruth's pillow. Another night shift? How the hell should Vincent know when Ruth never tells him anything.

It's still drizzling when Vincent later stands on the balcony, smoking. His bare feet are bluish with cold; he wonders idly if this is how they'll look when he's dead. The trees are ink wash drawings against the gray sky, dripping icy rain. Across the yard, a crow is perched on the railing of the opposite balcony. Vincent watches, another bird lands next to it. Their black-and-gray feathers are wet and ruffled, their eyes blank like lead shots. With a hoarse cry, they spread their wings. Towards the heavy clouds they fly.