"The word of the day is, 'change.'"
    William paused and tapped his fingers idly against the keyboard, not pressing anything, leaving that single sentence to overtake the Power of the White. A blank screen could, after all, be terribly infuriating when nothing else bubbled from the back of one's mind to fill it with words. Wasn't Amy Lowell the poet who had compared a smooth sheet of clean white paper to virginity? Yet the White must be marred, else it remains bland and flavorless. Purity had no value in his vision.
    After a few moments, he began to type again, "words words words," nothing meaningful or true, in order to spur his thoughts to reach new depths. He ignored the pointed faked cough that sounded behind him, and left his guest to suffer the awkward silence by herself. After a few minutes, she'd apparently had enough of it.
    "Well," Shelle said, taking no pains to keep her words soft, "at least I'm not stuck in a dorm. But this is just about as boring. Don't you ever get off that thing?"
    "I've got an editorial due by midnight, and it's already five o'clock. It's Monday, anyway. You shouldn't even be here." He swiveled the gray office chair around and looked at her. His friend really was quite pretty, basking in the cool fall afternoon. She was twirling a lock of straight brown hair idly through her fingers and wore black jeans, a green-and-blue flannel men's shirt, and no makeup. The last of the day's sunlight came through a tree in front of his apartment complex before sneaking through his windows to coat her legs with dappled shadow.
    "I told you when I showed up, I came over because class was canceled. And you're being mean. Just for that I should... I should..." Shelle trailed off and huffed, looking miffed and childlike. Her pale lips were pursed, but her expression had not yet transformed into a woman's death glare. "Okay, I can't think of a good enough torture method. But you deserve some sort of punishment, at any rate."
    He smirked. "Is that a threat or a promise, my little Sea-Shelle?"
    "A promise," she said, and tried to look haughty, as if she'd won. "Haughty," however, did not fit her. Shelle simply ended up with a wrinkled nose, squinty eyes, and a chin that was waffled from pushing her lower lip up. "I'll get you in the end, my pretty. And your little Mac too."
    "How? Will you lecture me to death?"
    "You are impossible."
    "Thanks once again, love," said William.
    "I don't love you. I never have," said Shelle.
    "No. But at least you like me." He smiled, and patted the air near her arm.
    She sighed again, a half-growl, and stretched out on the sofa. She couldn't dispute those words, and that was annoying. "We're terrible for each other. Go away."
    "It's my apartment," he said.
    "Damn. You caught me." She paused, and he turned back to his typing.
    "Society today is obsessed with change. It's all anyone cares about anymore. We change our clothes, we change our hair, we change our faces and bodies and we're never satisfied."
    "I hate you sometimes," she said.
    "I'm glad. Otherwise we'd never get along," William murmured, distracted by his own words as they appeared letter by letter on the screen, coming faster and faster as he got sucked into the motion. It was like a whirlpool, drawing him down to the deadly depths he daily required himself to head for. He was utterly absorbed, even though the spacebar squeaked every second or two, and the shift bar tended to stick. Small and large annoyances alike could be overlooked, now that he had a goal in mind.
    Normally soft and slightly deep, Shelle now spoke quickly and crisply, enunciating every word efficiently without drawing out a single syllable, as if he wasn't even worth the time she spent on speaking. William knew this tone well. She was so predictable. "I drive an hour and a half both ways every weekend just to see you. Do I complain that you've never come to see me? No. Do I complain that you never even hug me or hold my hand, even though I seem to be the only person in your life? Of course not. But the one day I have a chance to see you during the week, you ignore me. So, well, I'm pissed. Christ, I even called to ask if I could come! You said it was fine! But I guess that was lip service, hm?"
    A few minutes passed, in which William continued to write and ignore her.
    "When we watch television or read a book, we're equally obsessed with change. It's a natural part of our thinking process."
    "William, I'm talking to you."
    "We enjoy it, we're fascinated when representations of real people change from bad to good, depressed to lighthearted, uncaring to loving, and we generally need to know why they do it."
    "Hello?" She huffed again, and stood up, folding her arms and burning a glare into his back. "Are you alive in there?"
    "We even watch with widened eyes as these same representations go from good to bad, loving to apathetic, alive to dead. As long as it's new and different, we can accept it. We've come to the point at which we equally enjoy seeing others' pain as much as pleasure. As long as something is happening. As long as the bad things aren't happening to us."
    "Goddamn it, William! Don't just ignore me!" She raised her voice, that time, and bared her teeth in a ridiculous-looking attempt at looking feral.
    "...would you shut up. I told you, I have a deadline. If you can't understand that, fuck off." He sneered over his shoulder at her, made sure she caught the expression, and turned back to his typing. She wasn't annoying him, really, but if she continued to speak, she'd really break his concentration. Then where would he be?
    "Asshole. I really do owe you one for this. I try to do something nice by going out of my way to see you, and you either act like I don't exist or say things specifically to piss me off. God, I have half a mind to go turn the light on in your darkroom. Then how would you handle your deadline? You'd have to use someone else's pictures or none at all." She smirked. "Yes, I think that's a lovely idea. And I'd feel perfectly justified."
    His typing finally paused, at that. When he finally turned around to meet her green-eyed gaze, he held his ground. "I told you the minute you stepped into this apartment that my darkroom is off-limits. No questions asked, or you're out. It's my one sanctuary, and you've no right to go in."
    "Yes, well, seeing as though you're being a dick--"
    "My, my, Shelle. Such foul language from such a little girl. You would be childish enough to ruin my hard work? Tsk. Tsk. I'm afraid I can't allow that.."
    While he was talking, he'd managed to rise to standing as his voice rose and was now standing nearly chest-to-chest, soft cotton hanging loosely enough to belie the thin frame beneath. She noticed this; her eyes were no longer on his, but on his collarbone. He had won, of course. He had gotten up and challenged with the impact of emotion behind it. The fact that she was the recipient of this anger, furthermore...
    She had to admit it was just a hint exciting. The only problem was, he wasn't finished, and excitement grew into fear. His voice lowered again. He was bent near enough to her ears that she could feel each puff of breath coming warm against her skin as the word it belonged to did, and it made her visibly shiver.
    "I'll stop you, my dear friend. No matter what I have to do."
    "What can you do? You can't hurt me." Shelle gave a nervous laugh, then swallowed it.
    "No matter what I have to do." At that moment, he blinked, straightened, and walked out. No coat, no backward glance, he simply stormed out into the chill of the autumn evening, leaving her confused and trembling in his wake.
    After a long pause during which Shelle considered whether it would be prudent to think or not, she decided against it, grabbed her coat, and followed.
    Clouds had swollen and bulged dangerously in the sky as day shifted to night, and rain began to cut through the autumn breeze to prick her face with shards of cold. The sky seemed full, too full to be real, on the verge of tears but refusing to let its one great cloudy eye do more than water. The faint sound of leaves too moist to crunch healthily came without pattern to her ears. His strides were longer than hers, a slow somber march to her verging-on-frantic staccato. She didn't know what was going on, but her mind was racing. She hadn't realized his darkroom was as big a deal as all that, but she couldn't bring herself to say that to him.
    They walked for a long time in silence, set upon by a fine mist of rain that never came in full force. A quarter of an hour passed while the two of them walked in uncomfortable silence; it was evening now, and she was getting hungry. More than that, she had homework to do. Oh, it could be done in the morning. Anything could be put off, but Shelle had the uncommon tendency to dislike procrastination. She could see William shivering in his long-sleeved shirt too loose to block out the biting chill.
    She quickly threw out an arm and wrapped it around his waist, jerking him off-balance to fall against her. They almost tumbled, but Shelle managed to hold her ground, and after a few moments William caught his breath, she caught hers, and they were standing still. Her fingers touched the softness at his waist through the cloth of the shirt, and her eyes widened just a bit. Apart from the initial shaking of hands, she realized, they had not only never hugged, but they had, in fact, never touched. Her eyes locked onto his shoulder.
    "Well?" he prompted, breath coming invisible because of the moisture in the air. He was stiff, and his hands shook just a little. He tried to speak, but it came out wrong, a beginning sound that had no meaning attached to it. And then, he sighed. "You want to go back?"
    She nodded, and matched his sigh for a softer one of her own — and stiffened, as she felt an arm curl around her shoulders. It took a while to relax into it, to conform to the idea of touching as well as being touched. Yet the problem wasn't exactly a discomfort with the idea. The problem was that she wanted more. That idea in itself disquieted her, and her gaze remained locked on her own footsteps as they walked.
    Once they had gotten back to the apartment, he released her, and walked over to the couch to sit, grabbing a blanket to drape over his legs. "No one had to go through this type of thing long ago," he murmured, staring at the floor. "Men and women probably didn't have this sort of relationship in the distant past. Marriages were arranged, and for the most part I suppose they were loveless. Like a business contract. I don't know. I never studied history very much beyond folklore, and folklore tends to twist reality in its romanticism."
    Shelle paused, then realized that the day had been full of pauses, and got rid of one by crossing to sit next to him. "We need to talk. I don't know what to do. Where we fall." She wanted to blame him for the fight in the first place, but kept herself from the subject. Casting blame would help nothing. "Lots of questions need to be answered."
    "Yes."
    She waited for him to expound, but he let the silence stretch a wall between them, quietly refusing to either declare fault or move on. After a few more moments, she leaned back, arms folded, and rolled her eyes. "William, goddamnit! Say something! Just because I said that you can't hurt me--"
    He spoke with a soft voice. "I'm not exactly a gentleman, Shelle. I'm not proud of the fact, but it's true. You've known that for years."
    Here she laughed, through there was again fear in her voice. A subject change would be appropriate. "Years? Where are you getting that from? We met a few months ago at the bookstore. Because I was looking for something on Thucydides for a paper, and you worked there, so you showed me and started talking at great length about Greek historians. Your boss came up and told you it had been an hour, and you were 'about to get fucking fired' on my account. You told him to piss off and we went to lunch. Don't you remember? Hell, it's why you're working at the Times-Picayune now."
    He sighed, grinding his teeth a little, fresh thoughts pounding against his forehead from the inside, making tiny mental lacerations against the skin. They had long since worn away the bone of his skull. He wanted to tell her. Some part of him wanted to tell her. The rest of him wouldn't allow it. "...I'm sorry. I don't know, my brain's not functioning right now. But I'm territorial, and I've got a short temper. I had to leave before I did something you'd regret."
    "You're right, I suppose. William, if it means that much to you, I'll never even step within a five-foot radius of the door. I apologize." She turned to him, and studied his face. The high cheekbones and pointed nose. The thick, dark blonde brows. The thin lips. The delicate structure of his jaw line, sharp in its angle, pronounced and curving steeply towards his... neck. Adam's apple that gave just a hint of movement as he swallowed. He faced her. The eyes... bright green. Spring green. Even in fall. Her breath caught--
    Suddenly, he seemed so close. Too close. She wanted to run, to escape that desperate look in his eyes even as they trapped her.
    "Apology is not enough."

Flashback: one year earlier.
    It hadn't exactly been a good day for either of them. William was pounding away at his keyboard, frantically, the sound of Oingo Boingo blaring caustically through his headphones to drown out some wretchedly mind-numbing television show that his current roommate Canon had his mind set on watching. His music was so loud that when the television was turned off a half hour later, William didn't notice until the hands began working on his shoulders, kneading the muscles of his back, neck, going expertly from one knot to another. Or at least they tried. He simply shrugged them away before they had a chance. Abhorrence shuddered through him, all the way down his spine.
    "Get off. Now. I told you I don't want you touching me," William snarled. He could almost feel brown eyes burning their tremendous pain into the back of his skull, but it only made him smile. The creature was nervous again, was it? Just like the night before, and the night before that. Nothing ever changed around here. "And don't give me that look, either," he continued. "It does no good. You want the speech, I'll give you the speech, same as I've given every night for the past two weeks: You want me to stay here, fine. I can use the lodging. But don't think I'll fuck you for it sober." Other than William's words, silence rang through the dimly lit apartment. He had turned the music down to a faint buzz and ceased typing, and he was now leaning back in the creaking office chair, looking at Canon through a haze of smoke, or rather, past him at a torn movie poster for Bedazzled. Canon was a thirty-something shift manager at the Palace Theater and had gotten it from work. Some imbecilic kid had drawn a sprinkling of black mustache hair on Liz Hurley with a Sharpie. It was just one of many, of course. The walls of the living room were covered in movie posters, most torn, very few in mint condition. The only light kept on was in the form of two lava lamps, one orange with a blue base, one red with a black base, at opposite ends of the room. It smelled of tobacco pipes and incense that had lost its true fragrance long ago.
    "Fine… fine," Canon murmured. It was just like him to back down, too. Even when William rushed into an argument for the sheer penetrating violence of it, Canon had this annoying habit of always backing down. Ha. Lamb to the slaughter, that one.
    But then, Canon had begun talking again. That nasal, lilting voice was sure to drive William insane one day. No, wait… "You know, it worries me when you type her name every other word and the words 'razor' or 'fervent' or 'craving' in every sentence. I should warn you, now and then I really consider sending you in to the police." Canon hung his thumbs from his belt loops and looked pathetic.
    "Sending me to the police. For liking a girl, being a writer, and using her name as a generic name in the introduction of an editorial on serial rape. Right, Canon." William let out a laugh that was hard, barking, singularly humorless. "They'd look at you and sneer. Because they'd see you just like I do. They'd see that you're nothing but a jealous prick who wants your life to be an Anne Rice homoerotica, full of paddles and leather and beautiful men with long black hair. I hate to break it to you, my dear flamer, but guess what? You're a nothing to me. So please, go kill yourself, hm? I've got vodka in the fridge – just get yourself royally drunk and jump off the balcony. It'll be fun!"
    William smiled, showing his teeth, pleased with the image. Vicious. Beautiful. Perhaps for those last few seconds of the other man's life, William would find a certain form of love for him. Perhaps he'd even weep in mourning.
    Canon backed up a pace, shivering a little. He had known for a long while that William wasn't entirely stable, but it had gotten worse since he'd seen that girl. Shelle, that was her name. The day before, he'd found the blank wall of his bathroom, his bathroom, in his apartment, covered in pictures of her. She was a senior in high school, and William was twenty-five. Frankly, Canon was frightened for her. "I want you out of here. Pull double hours at the paper, get a place, do something. But if this is how you're going to be, even when I'm doing a favor for you, I want you out."
    William sneered, and stood in a flash, rushing the older man. His hands curled around Canon's throat, threatening to choke the life out of him, but not tightening, not yet. His voice came out partly hiss and partly murmur, a snake seducing prey.
    "You want me out? Do you really want me out? Oh, Canon, have you no pride? Don't you think you'll win me over eventually? I've got news for you, my boy."
    His mouth hung open for a few moments, then he shook his head and let Canon go to walk over to the window, staring out of it. Looking down at the traffic three floors below, he stared with no expression on his face and nothing but green glass for eyes. There was nothing precious there, nothing beyond faux sparkle.
    After a few moments, he shook his head once more. "No, I don't. I've actually got nothing of consequence to say. I suppose, for whatever good it would do, I could apologize. And I would, if it were in my nature, but I'm afraid I really don't care. No, I don't have a desire to either be put out. I'll… I'll quiet down from now on. Whatever my word means to you, you've got it."
    Canon stayed where he was, staring at the floor, hands in the pockets of his work pants. "You staying here isn't going to make my life any easier," he mumbled.
    "Give me a month, maybe even less, and you'll never see me again."
    "Done." A sigh. The hands-around-the-throat thing, well, he'd only felt them close, but the fingers hadn't dug in, not really. So one month wasn't so bad, right? Right. One month couldn't be too bad.

One month later.
    Shelle sighed, picking up the paper. Things were so disgustingly boring around these parts, sometimes. Day after day, the same dull thing. She scanned over the headlines… nothing in particular of interest. Another presidential speech, another sports victory for the old home team, another murder in a fourth-floor apartment in the suburbs. The lattermost was a bit strange… apparently when the man was drunk (due to the high level of intoxicants found in his system), he'd been stripped, taped to the floor, and emasculated. In fact, all extremities had been cut off with a hacksaw, left bloodied but without fingerprints at the scene of the crime, and thrown into the oven. The heart, too, had been cut out, wrapped in foil, and stuck in the freezer.
    Neighbors and friends claimed that he was a good person, and that the hideous murder had probably been committed as a hate crime due to his obvious homosexuality. A serial killer was not suspected, but police were on alert. The man had been disowned, and his family refused to comment.
    With a sneer of disgust she tossed the paper away, wondering at how a reporter could possibly be allowed to write in such graphic detail. It renewed her loathing for humanity. People were sick, and that was that. Still nothing new though, in the world or in her life, and there probably never would be. Hell, she didn't even have a boyfriend, hadn't since Freshman year and that was a bland blonde who kissed like a codfish. She'd considered joining the other side for a while, but after giving it a good long think, she'd decided against it – just wasn't for her. Hell. Even if she had a guy who treated her like dirt, it would at least be a change…

End flashback.
    "Apology is not enough."
    Her heart was pounding fast, faster, she could feel its rhythm rising in tempo until it seemed it would jump out of her chest, break her sternum to get at him. He hadn't let up on the light burning in his eyes, burning into hers. She held herself still. The room behind him had melted and faded into black, studded by the flickering of luminescent pixie dust. Her heart and his breath were the only sounds. Quickening was obvious in each, and she could feel her pulse cropping up in the wrong places.
    He began to murmur, slow and low, voice grating just a little in a way she had never heard it before. She shivered. "I want more than an apology. I want more than a name to connect to a face." His breath was still calm… how could he be so calm? How could he wall in all the green fire she could see flickering as he kept gaze locked on gaze? She wanted to yell out, to ask him what he was waiting for.
    "I don't know what you mean, William." She lowered her eyes then, from his gaze to his neck, refraining from the mention that a name could also be used at appropriate times to indicate passion, awareness, ecstasy locked within another human being, poured out…
    Slowly, hesitatingly, she raised a hand to touch his neck, to slide over the side and back towards the nape, thumb trailing along the line of his jaw. It was delicate but angular, with just a hint of hollow on either side of his throat, just beyond her touch. She was utterly mesmerized. Her eyes, a dark foggy green that he now noticed was more hazel than anything else, were just a hint glassier than normal, focused on her own movement, watching the texture of his skin change over the course of the movement in small increments, now scarred, now flawless… from the faint prickle of whiskers to the baby-soft skin on the back of his neck.
    As she moved, he lowered and pressed forward, pushing her slowly down into the sofa. He could feel the beat of her heart through her thumb pressed against the back of his neck, which made him wonder if he had any pulse of his own. But whether he had a pulse or not… well, it didn't matter. He had his desires, his excesses, his terrible thirst, and he would soon be quenched. He thought, fleetingly, as to whether she would reject him once he attempted certain things. It'd be lovely it if she forced him to force, since she probably wouldn't be willing. It'd be messy, considering both the nature of the beast and her virginity by itself, but unfortunately, there were no plastic gloves on hand.
    Shelle's mind was in a far different location than his. She wasn't even thinking about sex, not yet, not really. She was more interested in the moment, body pressing firm and heavier than she'd imagined down on hers. She was more interested in the saliva-slick lips on hers, the tongue, the arm wrapping around her waist. She was very interested in the hand sliding from the other side of her waist, under her shirt, to cup around her breast, squeezing, pinching, and kneading the flesh beneath the fabric. It was a new sensation, though not much different than her own touch, and she wasn't sure she liked it nearly as much as the tongue still working her own. Then William leaned back, sitting up on her thighs as he kneeled around her legs, and the mouth was gone to leave her lips feeling cold and slightly sticky. When both of his hands slid under her shirt at the waist, Shelle knew what was coming and almost panicked. She sat up and pressed her chest to his, head turned toward the wall.
    His eyes narrowed, and he paused for only a moment before lifting her shirt anyway. Surprisingly, however, she raised her arms to help and discarded the bra as well, but still she pressed herself to him before anything happened, letting him neither touch nor see her.
    Oh, so that was it… little virgin, still so shy. He smiled and was almost glad, if there was such a thing, that she couldn't see the malice behind it. His hands moved across her back, flitted and felt, and he bent over to engage her in another kiss in order to press her a little from him, to allow access to grope.
    The kiss lasted, lasted… grew in heat and intensity until she didn't know where she was. She felt hands going everywhere, felt them pull at what clothes remained between them, saw the pixie-dust flicker again, felt her own hands tugging at his shirt to help him off with it. She opened her eyes and saw his face contorted with green-fire eyes closed, brow tensed as if in anger, teeth scraping against her lips, that flesh now tense with wanting as yet barely palpable against her still-clothed stomach. Short half-moans came unbidden and she realized that, no, she wouldn't stop, wouldn't want to stop.
    So it wouldn't be rape after all. Again, his obsession had surprised him, and he snarled. One less satisfaction. A moment's decision brought him to standing, letting her lay there with her eyes glazed and watching him, her chest exposed and already pricking with sweat, her modesty forgotten.
    Clothing had become a hassle – he made short work of ridding both himself and her of the confining stuff. When she mentioned condoms, her words were slightly slurred, as if she'd been drinking. They were was a quick find in the drawer of the end table nearby; it wasn't strange to have them handy, of course not. William rolled one on before lying once more on the couch, skin to skin. He considered driving straight in, leaving some aspect of violence in the act… but no. She trusted him for now. She wanted him, not as much as he wanted her, but it was more than he'd expected from the start. And soon enough, he'd own her completely. Soon enough.
    Her eyes slid closed as he covered her. The feeling of skin on warm skin was almost enough to sate her, though her body spoke otherwise. Her body was in control here, mind spinning, spinning, getting nowhere. At this point, it was too hard to think, and she didn't really feel any importance associated with the effort of thought. Not with the warm skin pressing against hers, not with the clean, soft slide of his legs against her thighs. She was shaking now, arms around his back, hands pressing into the dip of the waist as if to keep them from shaking too hard.
    He shifted, shifted, found her opening and prepared to drive in. Just before, however, he looked at her. He really looked at her, examining her face, the swollen lips, the shadows her lashes made on her cheeks, and he wondered if she would see through his eyes into him in this final consummation. He wondered if she had always known what he was: the monstrosity, the deformity of a human soul trapped inside of him, the defect that had gone unnoticed no matter what he seemed to do under the category of societal evil. But as she matched his gaze, her own glazed and burning into his, he knew she'd never known and still didn't. His own eyes closed. She thought she loved him. Shit.
    He pressed into her, and she squeezed her eyes shut, expecting pain… then blinked them open again as he began the press, to move within her. Nothing. She felt… nothing. There was simply no sensation beyond awareness of his presence and a slight ache. No real pleasure. No real pain. Not even a feeling of emotional closeness. Nothing. The shock of it kept her from moving up against him, meeting him at all. Not even the carnal was satisfied. This couldn't be what lovemaking was, it couldn't be. It was nothing. Everything before had been passion, a build up that led to nothing. Even as he pounded into her, hips clashing against hips, his size widening her out on the inside, she still felt nothing but skin and apathy quickly set in. At least he was enjoying himself. It was almost pleasurable to watch his face contort in pleasure and to listen to his short half-moan half-grunts, and it was almost nice keep her hands on his heated flesh. But suddenly she just wanted it to be over with and hoped his stamina wasn't what most women considered good.
    He spilled. Then he disposed of the protection, got another, kissed her once, and repeated the whole ordeal. Finally, they separated. He disposed of the second and headed, still nude, to his bedroom. "You want to sleep, or what?"
    Shelle blinked, and sat up. "Sure." She followed him. They crawled into bed, he on his self-designated side, and her on the other. She should've had a reaction. She should've been emotional. But there was nothing but a dull ache. There was void where feeling should have been.
    They closed their eyes, facing opposite directions.

    William did not sleep. Not yet. He simply stared at the wall through blood-washed eyes. He had what he wanted. He no longer needed her, but there was still time to the night, and she could die in her sleep. Perhaps he'd bury her alive, deep within the ground, like a vestal virgin.
    Something wasn't right. He sat up, and walked to the bedroom window, letting the cool breeze hit his bare skin, letting the night chill the sweat still on his skin. An old man walking through the courtyard looked up at him, and gasped at the fact that he would just stand naked in a window. In what seemed like seconds, he'd opened he dresser drawer, pulled out a plastic glove, put it on, grabbed a clean knife, and hurled it at the man. Thunk. Oh, damn, he missed. He'd been aiming at the heart, and here he'd gone and put it into the left eye socket. The old man fell into the pool, and William smiled.
    It was more satisfying than the consensual sex, but the kill had been foolish, and there were likely witnesses. A shame. He dressed, picked Shelle up, and handled her gently enough that she didn't wake. The police would be investigating, and Shelle would be more a nuisance than an alibi. For the first time in his life, he'd be caught. Even if he got rid of all the witnesses, well. There would still be suspicion when he was the only person left in the complex alive.
    Oh, well. At least it'd be fun.

The next morning.
    Shelle woke in her own bed, feeling almost queasy. She could barely recall what had happened the night before. Had she bled? As she stood and stumbled from her single bedroom to the bathroom, Shelle continued to question her memory, forcing it back up to her consciousness as if it were bile and she bulimic. She assumed that he'd brought her home but didn't want to know how he'd accomplished it.
    After she took a long shower, she fell asleep once more and slept through her first class, though she managed to get herself to the others on time. She moved as if she were in a haze. Back to the room. Stare. Check the time. She felt as if she were looking at life through a scratched Plexiglas bus window. Class. Class. Eat, shoveling food into her mouth without tasting whether the green vegetables in her soup were bits of bell pepper or peas.
    As the day wore on, she slowly became something like herself again. That night she didn't think of William, and spent that evening watching a video with her dorm mates, who continually asked whether or not she was all right. At first, she passed their questions off, but they were persistent and concerned. She broke down, then, and tearfully confessed her loss. After a pity party and lots of Ben & Jerry's, they agreed simply that men were pigs, and that she'd do well not to see or think about him ever again.
    The week passed, Shelle did not think of William at all. Every morning that week, she took a walk and reveled in the weather's change to warmth. On Wednesday, she won two out of three bouts in fencing class. On Thursday, she spent a few extra hours working on a drawing for Art, and finally felt proud of her skill. On Friday, she spent some time working in the garden of a nearby church as a campus-wide service project and met a goofy redhead who she always saw in the mailroom or in the coffee shop down the street.
    It's hard to move on without saying good-bye, and Shelle knew that she'd eventually make her Saturday evening commute. She knew that she'd park in the same spot she always had. She knew that she'd numbly walk towards his building on the way to see him after just under a week of not speaking.
    She did not, however, know about the police. In fact, their appearance very nearly surprised her.
    As she attempted to near William's door, a large black gentleman put his hand out to block her. His gaze flitted about nervously, and he held back as if he were afraid to come any closer for fear of... something, though she had no idea what it could be. For a moment, while neither of them spoke, the man pulled out a picture and held it up before her eyes. It seemed to be her, but it looked to have been taken just after her senior prom. She looked up at him, more than a little confused.
    He cleared his throat. "Er, Ma'am, is your name Shelle Kireneg?"
    "Yes." Her voice was steady as she looked around at the men and women in uniform. Some of them were looking through cloth bags, a few were sitting in their cars with the doors open while rifling through papers, and the rest seemed to be acting as temporary moving men, pulling things from William's house. Other than the officer before her, there were only two people active on the site of the inspection, and their job appeared to be most unpleasant. The black body bag they carried landed with a dull "whumph" into a truck, which was closed and sped off as Shelle watched, all color drained from her face.
    At the look on her face, the officer put a hand on her shoulder, as if he could dull the shock. "Miss Kireneg, I'm afraid we're going to have to take you downtown for questioning. We came here to investigate a number of murders committed in the area. The evidence has been found... as has the body of the murderer. We have reason to believe he killed himself in order to avoid his sentence. Miss Kireneg, you can ride with me... we don't need to be here. Miss Kireneg? Miss Kireneg, are you all right?" The hand on her shoulder moved away, leaving the skin there to cool. She shivered, wrapped her arms around herself, and nodded. "I wouldn't ask you to do this if I could help it, Ma'am. The problem is that we have reason to suspect that you were his next victim. The darkroom in which he committed suicide was covered in pictures of you."
    "I should care, shouldn't I?" She stared in the direction in which the truck had taken off, then looked down at her hands, swallowing.
    He blinked. "Ma'am?"
    "Nothing. Let's go."