Chapitre 2: Turn off the Light ch.2
With his flat unfeeling tones, Leight continues, "She knew. She was jealous, yes, but more than anything, she was angry. She wanted you to suffer, as you had made her suffer. She thought she found a way to end her own suffering at the same time. She'd kill herself and be free of you, but you would never be able to escape the ghost of your guilt. It was all very clever."
"Leight," the Captain cuts in when he gets the chance, "you don't have any proof. I agree that we can eliminate Mr. Wilson as a suspect, but that doesn't mean she killed herself. Anyone else could have done it. There were plenty—"
"No one else could have done it. Do you remember what this apartment looked like yesterday, Captain? No furniture was over-turned. Nothing was out of place; everything was immaculate, except for the corpse on the floor. And even the corpse was pristine, with the exception of the knife wound. There were no bruises, her dress wasn't wrinkled, and she didn't have so much as a hair out of place. And that knife in her chest? It was a steak knife. It wasn't the knife she'd put out on the lobster platter, which would have been the most convenient knife for an intruder to grab. The door wasn't forced. There were no signs of a struggle."
"But if she knew her attacker—"
"There would have been signs. There were none. Ergo, she didn't want to struggle. She knew what she was doing. She was clever—but not as clever as me."
"Mr. Wilson," the Captain turns, with a deep sigh, to the widower, "do you believe your wife was capable of something like this? If we rule this a suicide, the investigation stops."
Mr. Wilson is deathly pale. "I didn't know." He wrings his hat in his hands. "I didn't realize. I thought—I don't know what I thought. But—you know, don't you?" His eyes dart wildly, ferret-like around the table, searching for something, anything. He stops at Leight, holds the blue-gray eyes in a vice-like grip.
"It wasn't that I didn't love her. I did. I swear I did. I just—I couldn't not. This place—her floral dresses, lobster dinners, immaculate—stifling. But she—she lived for this place. I didn't think—I never thought. I didn't love her any less." His protests grew softer and softer, and his eyes resumed their darting.
The Captain and the Lieutenant look at each other; then the Captain throws his hands in the air. Surrender is so simple.
"There it is," Leight concludes. He shrugs, so agonizingly indifferent, even in the face of such inane absurdity.
This is when the ritual is supposed to begin, Peter realizes. They are supposed to leave and take a taxi back to their apartment. Leight is supposed to fuck him. Peter is supposed to fall asleep in Leight's bed and wake up alone.
He is supposed to relish this, but for once—the thought leaves him cold. He can't get the image of the body lying on the floor yesterday morning out of his head. He sees Lynnette Wilson's blood spilling from her abdomen, staining her purple floral dress because she stabbed herself with a steak knife. She stabbed herself.
The man she loved was fucking a whore, and she was hurting, so she stabbed herself. The images fades, only to be replaced by a new one. It's his dream. He sees himself in Lynnette Wilson's place, the knife in his own abdomen. And it isn't so difficult to imagine doing what she did because he already feels what she felt.
The man he loves is fucking a whore, and he is hurting. It's even worse for him, really, because at least Dennis Wilson pretends to love his dead wife; Malcolm Leight does not pretend to love Peter, and he wouldn't even try, not even if Peter was dying or dead. But Peter knows he would never, could never kill himself.
"Peter."
The images shatter. He is back in the Wilson's dining room, which everyone has vacated except Leight and himself.
"We're leaving."
Numbly, Peter nods.
This is not their ritual. Leight does not put his arm around Peter's waist as they exit the building. Leight does not press against Peter in the cab. Leight does not help Peter with the key to their apartment. They don't fall in; they simply walk.
Leight does, however, pin Peter against the closed door. He captures Peter's wrists with one hand, raises them above Peter's head.
He leans in close until their noses are almost (but not quite) touching. He stares down into Peter's confused, frightened, blighted eyes.
His voice is soft, almost (but not quite) a caress, "How do you want me to treat you, Peter?"
Peter's eyes flutter shut. This is not their ritual, and he does not know to expect. This is too much. He shakes his head. His voice is lost in his throat.
"You weren't terribly pleased the last time I guessed," Leight reminds him.
Peter shakes his head. He is not responding to Leight's words so much as his inability to process what is happening.
"I understand now," Leight murmurs. Suddenly he releases Peter's wrists. He runs a hand through Peter's hair. "You don't want to be Lynnette Wilson."
Peter tries to gasp, but Leight snatches his breath away with his lips. He's gentle and passionate, and everything about their embrace hints at romance. The kiss is everything Peter has dreamed of, and yet—it still isn't enough. Maybe it's the insomnia talking, but this doesn't feel real.
Leight pulls back, just barely. Against Peter's lips he whispers, "You're not her."
Peter wishes this was easy, a sunny, breezy summer day, but it isn't. This is too much. It is hard and heavy, and he's lost at the eye of the storm.
The images are flashing like lightning all around him—Leight fucking him on a scratchy wool blanket, Lynnette lying bloody on her bedroom floor, Larry standing in a smoke-cloaked room, himself murdering a lobster—and the revelation comes, a thunderclap, a heartbeat later.
"No," he whispers, burning with epiphany. "I'm not." As he utters those universe-shattering words, he extricates himself from Leight's loose embrace.
Peter is tired. He is tired of living a life not sacred. He is tired of his not sacred love, of his not sacred lobsters. He is tired of performing rituals to appease an indifferent deity. He is tired, and he wants nothing more than to sleep a dreamless, lightless sleep.
He goes to his bed—not Leight's, not the couch, not floor—sits down, kicks off his shoes. He will sleep, and he may snap, but he will never be that woman. When he wakes, he'll learn to control his all-consuming parasitic love. Because he loves Leight too much to ever leave him alone.
Leight is still standing by the door, dumbstruck, when he calls, "Peter?"
"Please, Mal" he sighs. "Turn off the light."
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État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone