Two Tales of Inadequacy
Part 1 - Sam's Eye View
by Tha Wrecka

She is changed, hips rolling, arms swinging, eyes that see through you. She strolls in like she owns the place, and she might as well for all he cares. She smells like sex now, which is a shame really, all Summery and hot. The heat rises in nearly visible waves from her skin and he wants to stop looking, smelling, hearing, knowing. But he can't, transfixed by Jane and her blatant red heat.

She used to be different. So different. He is almost nostalgic for it, but he couldn't be. That would be admitting something -- like that he could've felt something for her, could've wanted something from her and he didn't, couldn't.

Before this she was. Cold. Exuded winter. She smelt like vanilla ice cream and the smell of oncoming rain and moved like Death was on her tail. Her hands were jittery, always shaking, and sometimes the tips of her fingers and the widths of her palms would thread with blue. Even the subtle air-conditioning would be enough to turn her lips a shade of purple as she sat across from him.

She wouldn't speak to him, then, afraid of ... something. And when she had to her voice would wobble, little girly and frightened. He can only remember one time when she spoke to him and her voice didn't sound like that but, no, he won't let himself think about that.

Now of course, her voice is strong, unwavering, secure in it's knowledge the person it saunters out from is hot shit. Her tongue curls over her hello's, her mouth opens slow, deliberate, and she purrs her words, knowing the effect. She is self-confident and she _wasn't_ that before. She. Wasn't. That before.

And he despises her for it, the way she looks happy as she and best friend Betty blow air-kisses, gossip, giggle. He hates it, that she's actually something now and feeling good about it. Because she was supposed to stay the frightened little creature that was easy to crush underfoot. Was supposed to stay staring at him covetingly while he pretended he didn't notice. Wasn't supposed to thrive.

And, yeah, of course he knew she wanted him. Of course he knew she had a stupid, little crush. In a way that made it easier to ignore her. To look down on her. She had so many weaknesses and one of them was him. And like the sick fuck he was it made him feel powerful that he was breaking her pathetic little heart. But now...

But now he doesn't think anything would break her.

She looked so breakable before. She seemed frail and vulnerable, sunken eyes, bruised upper thighs, skin stretched so thin over sharp collarbones he felt sure it would break. Any moment he was so sure he could just reach over and snap her in two. Or more little bits. A thousand little pieces that would litter across the floor and embed themselves in your skin.

He saw her crying one time during drama class. In the break all the students scattered across the school, smoking, screwing, injecting. They chose that little window of time to continue their filthy lives in the filthy building and he avoided them all because he was so above them all. And as he was walking back to class to get there just before the end of break he saw her. Hunched up on the gravel, her back leant against the barbwire fence, her flimsy body shook with sobs, so violent he thought they would rip her open. He watched her, looking down on her tiny figure, trying not to make any noise. But he knows she heard him because suddenly she stopped, looked up, then rushed back into the class and dried her face. By the time he got in there you wouldn't have been able to tell she'd been crying. He didn't say anything and she didn't look him in the eye. But still, always, watching.

He wanted it, then. To make her cry. And not just quietly crying when no-one was looking. He wanted to make her fall to pieces and he wanted everyone to see. He wanted to break her.

He's aware irony's a bitch, right now. She and friend Betty move into the cafe. Her perfectly toned legs in those fuck-me-now high heels move across the floor and the knee-length skirt plays tease. She laughs delightedly, that noise that emerges from deep within her chest (and yes he notices the way it rises), that he once told her was exquisite when he thought she wasn't listening.

And he heard it the last time he considered her breakable.

She used to wear really short skirts way back when. The trashiest black micro(scopic)-minis you could imagine this side of a teenage hooker, showing off her skinny, deathlypale, battered legs. The purple and green bruises she wore on her thighs peaked out from under the edges, almost like she wanted you to see them. Only once did a bruise appear in the shape of a hand. Mostly they were just splotches. He wonders if the knee-length, curve-hugging numbers she wears know are because she's learnt to hide the bruises or just because she knows they draw the eyes of every person in the room.

And it was the first time he saw her wear the knee-length that really fucked him over. He doesn't even want to remember it.

That voice comes in his head. Why not remember, Sam? Why not remember your undoing?

And it all seemed so innocent, the way she seemed so innocent. Again they were in the drama class, this time for a performance. These self-devised solo performances were worth a considerable portion of their grade. He was determined to do it right, do it well, do it like the god he thought it was. He'd spent hours pouring over his material, practised 'til it nearly drove him insane, picked out the perfect costume. Only problem was, he couldn't remember all his lines. He'd always had a problem with that, unlike her. The stupid bitch couldn't act to save her life but learnt her lines like they were the lord's bloody prayer. So he sat in that little room, adjacent to the class where they were supposed to be performing. He read his lines over and over, trying to force them into his brain. At some point she came in the room, needing to use the phone. She talked acquiesingly to daddy dearest, asking him to come pick her up now that her performance (line-perfect but emotional as a stone) was over, all the while looking at him curiously from under lowered lashes. Then she gently placed the phone back in it's cradle and turned toward him, looking right at him, daring him to look back.

The world should have exploded then and there. She'd broken those rules that she'd set for herself and he should've known something was coming.

"What you doing?" she spoke, massacring the English language as she was wont to do.

"Learning my poem," he told her.

She looked at it, indulgently like one looks at a small child.

"Can I read it?"

"Sure."

She moved over beside the chair in which he sat, standing above him and reached for the piece of paper in his upward-moving hand. And as he handed it to her she brushed her hand against his (innocently innocently) and he nearly jumped out of his skin. Because he had never touched her and he had never. Felt. That. It was like an electric shock and suddenly the air was crackling and he was aware of her and she was looking him in the eyes, indugently. She even read his poem after that, pronounced it to be "really, really good" and said she thought he'd be great.

I hope so, he told her and then she said, "Good luck."

She had to go -- daddy was picking her up and he didn't much want her to be in the room after that. That exquisite laugh came out of her and at the time he dismissed it as nervous.

When it was his time to perform he went on stage. He spoke the first few lines, looking into the stage lights that were so familiar. And he froze. He could feel everyone in the audience's eyes on him, wondering what had happened. He tried to speak but all that came out was a tiny squeak. He couldn't remember another line. All he could remember was what she'd said. She knew, of course, he's sure of it. She'd grown up around the theatre, had acted (badly) her whole life, so he knew she knew she'd cursed him. Good luck. She'd said Good luck. Not "break a leg" or some other variant. Good luck.

He couldn't go near the stage again after that. And she stopped staring at him, looking at him, noticing that he existed. She changed into the knee-length skirts and the flirtatious smiles and smelling like scorched earth.

She'd done it. She. Broke. Him.