Manchild In A Storm

by Indigo

David Qin wanted to look himself in the mirror.

He wanted to, but he found that he couldn't bring himself to do it.

He tried, but failed on a regular basis, so every day was spent dressing in a flurry of motion all designed to take him blindly through his existence without ever catching a glimpse of his reflection in any shiny surface. Get up, get dressed, get out, get going, go to bed, do it again. But never look at your own reflection, David.

David's reflection looked back at him with accusing eyes. And in the reflection of his reflection's accusing eyes, David saw not simply his own youthful face. He saw not just the black hair, the sallow skin, the artistic softness of his features. Instead, he saw the storm brewing like an offshore typhoon; the opposing foorces poised to tear his life apart.

The tumultuous sea, pounding against the shore was David's sister, Darcy Parker. She said she loved him, but David didn't think she ever spoke those words and meant them. To her, people were playthings, puppets ... toys. To be used for her entertainment and discarded or destroyed when they had served her desires or outlived their usefulness to her. Darcy thought she could keep David with her through sweet honeyed words. But no matter how sweet her words were, there was always the cruel tang of betrayal like the after-aroma of illicit sex on her skin. There was always the sharp odor of her controlling lust, poisoning her smile, her moves, and everything she said or did. But worst of all was the foul stench of hatred; he saw it around her like a putrid fog through his artist's eyes. She *was* lonely and they both knew it, but she covered up the reality of her horrible existence with flowers, expensive surroundings, and the modern day equivalent of slaves.

The thundering, stormy sky, squalling in spite of itself into the sea was his love, Katina Choovanski. Katchoo. She laughed at him, and hit him. She was brutal, cold, and brusque. She railed with all her strength against him, trying to get him to leave her. And though he had done so once, he couldn't stay away. Katchoo thought she could keep

David at a distance with bitter rhetoric and bilious remarks. But no matter how much metaphorical arsenic she had on her tongue -- David tasted the salt of tears shed on too many occasions. Behind the sarcasm that scared away most men, and rightfully so -- David could smell her fear, and over that, like some heady musk, her determination not to give in to it. She was lonely, and they both knew it. But she was implacable. She wore marks and scars that showed she'd survived the worst the world (say it, David, "Darcy") had been able to throw at her; she'd survived it, spit in its face, then turned to saunter off with a cigarette hanging between her lips.

His problem was that his love had been his sister's lover. And what Darcy considered hers, *stayed* hers, until she decided she was done. And what she was done with, no one else could play with. David had screamed in her face, telling her none of her shallow, petty, cruel controlling games mattered -- that all she cared about would belong to someone else after she was gone. Darcy had just smiled coldly and told him he was a silly boy; like he was some child whose grasp of the world had never developed beyond wishing on the starlight-starbright first star of evening light.

Katchoo, of course, would never go back to the life she'd turned her back on and walked away from. David loved her for that. He smiled; he probably couldn't *count* all the things he loved her for, if asked. Francine, Katchoo's best friend, had asked, once, when they were praying Katina would live through the bullet wound she'd suffered. David had just shrugged and said she was just the most incredible woman he'd ever met.

Francine, Katchoo's dutiful sidekick and best buddy -- agreed.

David, a poet to the soul, enjoyed the irony of his situation when it wasn't agonizing him to the point of tearing out his hair.

If not for his sister and her illicit dealings, David would never have met the prostitute Darcy called "Baby June." It had been love at first sight, and Darcy had laughed in his face.

If not for Darcy, David would never have had a chance to see Katina again. Was it so wrong, then, that he leapt at the chance? That he chased her in the rain for a cup of coffee, even though Katchoo had laughed in his face.

What was I supposed to tell her, he wondered. "Um, hi, you don't know me. I know everything about you because my psycho sister used to be your madame and your lover. She sent me to watch over you, but it's more than that now. I want to take you away from all that because I love you." He knew it sounded absurd. It would've sounded even more absurd had he been fool enough to give voice to those words. Katina Choovanski needed no knight in shining armor, let alone him. Katina was the one who rode in on the white horse and fought evil. Katchoo to the rescue. Francine still told the story of the night she strung Freddy Femurs up in the Macy's picture window with a magnifying glass over his privates because he'd dumped Francine.

Now, David lived in Darcy's house, under Darcy's roof, eating Darcy's food -- but his body and heart were empty. He felt contempt and pity for his sister. He felt love for Katchoo and it seemed like there was nothing else in his world besides that. The yin and yang, in opposition rather than balance, threatening to destrroy him...or each other. It took no intelligence whatsoever to know Katchoo would never return willingly. It took even less to know that if there was a way to force Katchoo back, Darcy would be the one to find it. And exploit it.

Darcy wore her lily on her ankle -- a tattoo. All her "girls" wore one on their left nipple, just over the heart. To show who they belonged to, Darcy said. And suddenly, David's answer was clear to him.

He smiled, and looked up. Behind his wire-frame glasses, David Qin looked back and smiled into the mirror. Darcy wouldn't like it, but she didn't like much she couldn't control. David expected this of his sister. Just as he expected Katchoo to react with the force of a bulldozer, in some attempt to batter him down with ridicule so he wouldn't get close enough to pierce her defenses.

If not your defenses, then, Katchoo, David thought, my skin.

The needle stung as it pierced David's skin, and he gasped, biting his lip. The tattoo artist, perhaps sensing his apprehension or determination, didn't laugh. He simply waited to make certain David wasn't going to change his mind and jump from the chair. Once satisfied his customer was in for the long haul, his gentle but firm gloved hands returned to their work.

The ink was simple grey, like the sky on the day David considered the day they met. The ink was bright yellow, like Katchoo's hair. The ink was red, like the blood Darcy wanted spilled, and like the blood Katchoo *had* spilled punching David in the face. The ink was blue like the sea and sky in Hawaii -- the only place Katchoo had ever said she'd had a good night's sleep.

David smiled. Love may be blind, he thought. It may be foolish, but love's perseverance is a force to be reckoned with. David knew he was a gentle boy -- a child in a man's body. He couldn't raise a hand against his sister, any more than he could be like "any other man" in Katchoo's world and tell her she *had* to love him.

This gesture, then -- this permanent, indelible gesture -- was spit in Darcy's face, and the serenade outside Katchoo's window. With every etch of the needle into his skin, David Qin became more himself, rather than the boy torn in twin by two powerful women.

The electric vibro-buzz of the needle was almost soothing to David as the endorphins flooded his system, dulling the pain. He'd endured worse, though the scars weren't the sort that showed on his flesh.

The tattoo artist chuckled at his customer. They made all manner of faces, but rarely did they ever get a serene, beatific smile.

"Katchoo! Mail!" Francine Peters bounced in from the porch of their tiny garage apartment like an eager six year old. "Oh. From David." Her dark brown eyes narrowed distrustfully beneath heavy brows knitted into a frown. She hesitated, clutching the envelope against her blue sweatshirt.

Katchoo said nothing. She merely clamped her teeth down hard on the cigarette and held out her hand for the envelope. Her other hand was on her hip, a paintbrush hanging loosely from her fingers. She was painting -- this was usually a good sign. When her life was a chaotic mess, Katina Choovanski usually reacted violently. If she was painting, then life was pretty much as close to idyllic as it ever got.

Life with Francine, to Katchoo, was pretty much as idyllic as it ever got. So the mention of David -- harbinger of skeletons from the closet of her past -- was a jarring impact on her otherwise comfortable, safe (illusion, Katchoo!) of existence.

"Are you sure, Chewy?" Francine gave her friend a look that was worried and loyal and altogether precious.

Ah, Francine, you silly thing, Katchoo thought. You know how I love you and dream of you -- and you still try to protect me, as if this were still high school. Katchoo grinned. "Francie, like you don't know by now that I do what I'm gonna do, even if I'm not sure? If I don't open it, I'll always wonder. If I do open it, I'll know. I'll know whether

I'm forgiving him, killing him, or just writing him off as another dumbass who only thought with his balls."

"It could be another house," Francine offered hopefully.

"I somehow doubt that," Katchoo chuckled ironically, and opened the envelope with the tail of her paintbrush.

She was seized by a cold fist of apprehension though, and set the letter down, unopened. Instead, she turned to the broken canvas in the corner of the tiny room she used as bedroom, studio, vanity, library, and den. A half-sketched nude of David was no longer recognizable to any eyes but her own. Katchoo turned away from that as well, shaking her head.

She tossed the envelope into the trashcan, or attempted to. It fluttered off the top of the stack of balled-up sketches and soda cans, wafting gently to the floor. "Fuck!" Katina snarled, and picked it up too angrily have another go at it. As if it were mocking her, the envelope teetered on the pile of wastepaper for a moment before sliding off and drifting lazily to the floor.

From the doorway, Francine watched, and laughed.

Katchoo whirled to glower at her roommate, best friend, and beloved.

Francine shrugged guiltily and murmured sheepishly, "Well, you look silly."

Katchoo glanced down at herself, garbed only in a paint-splattered T-shirt and panties, fighting with a wastepaper basket that seemed determined to make her read the damn letter. She had to agree; and with that, she and Francie both had a good laugh.

Thursday was Xena night, so Katchoo had another excuse to pretend she didn't care about the letter. At least for an hour, while she pigged out in front of the TV with Francine.

With 10:00 pm, the drone of the news drove both women from the flickering hypnotic eye of the TV. Francine trundled off to bed, preparing for work the next day. Katchoo tucked her in and sat with her until she fell asleep, then returned to her own room.

And on her nightstand, beneath her reading lamp -- sat the envelope with its jaggedly torn top. David's handwriting, as unassuming and sweet as he himself, offering her name -- Katina Choovanski -- in big, looping, swooping letters. Looping, swooping letters, Francie had once told her, meant "open, honest, and trustworthy." Right, Katchoo had smirked in return. As if any man ever had those qualities.

It was three AM before Katchoo woke from a dream of a stormy sky and finally had to give in to her curiosity. She slipped out the contents of the envelope.

Inside was a Polaroid with a Post-It Note attached.

The Polaroid was a color picture of David, neat white shirt open, with a tattoo of the female sigil O-+ with the letter "K" inside the circle over his heart. The whole thing was on a background like a blue sky. The K was red and yellow; the sigil steely grey. He was nude from the waist down, smiling shyly like he was sharing a secret with her. He had refused to pose nude for her (the broken canvas still lay in a heap in Katchoo's corner); but now, here he was, making amends in his small, unassuming, David way.

The note said, simply, "She may think the lily means you belong to her. I know better. You belong to you. I may be her brother, but I don't belong to her. I belong to you. -- D."

It presumed nothing, David's way. It offered without expectation. It hoped without pressure.

Katchoo's tears fell onto the celluloid.

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