Story 1 of Falling In: a collection of three short love stories about the abduction of a high school student

Roy looks at his worn, rubber boots when he walks down the feminine care aisle. He feels intrusive next to the neatly stacked boxes, organized by time of day and heaviness of flow, as if the bearing of his feet disrupts their pretty, printed flowers. His coarse fingers reach for a box of tampons: the sleek ones with the smooth tip and the grip that Celine uses. They’re also the most expensive, but Roy enjoys spending a few extra dollars on everything for Celine. He heads toward the checkout, and passing through the paper goods aisle, he notices a pack of napkins printed with the tiny, angular hearts Celine likes because they match the kitchen décor of the house she’d grown up in. He and Celine have napkins at home, but Roy can only afford to purchase small things, like napkins, on whim. And Celine likes the small things. Roy buys both items with the crumpled cash he earns from unclogging sinks.

He opens her door with extreme care, pushing so its movement barely stirs dust particles. He tiptoes to her bed and kneels beside it. She’s still asleep. Celine’s head is turned away, and though all that’s visible is a heap of hair, Roy admires the sun shining through it. He loves her hair, because it belongs to her. And he loves the sun’s light more for having encountered her. Roy doesn’t want to touch her just yet, or talk to her, or see anything other than her hair. He’s full from her comfort alone; to want interaction would be greedy. But it’s almost eleven, and she should eat. Roy moves delicately in next to her. His arm wraps around her smooth, hard stomach, his fingers slip into her cool hand, and his body presses against hers, feeling her lack of pulse. Roy guides Celine’s hair out of her face. He laughs—she’s been awake all along! Celine looks at him with her ever-open pastel eyes, blotched irises, long lashes sprawled upwards and downwards like paintbrush bristles: Good morning. Roy rotates her to face him, her unbending, hollow body shifting with the lightest touch. He scrunches his face into a smile and brings his chapped mouth to her bright, perpetually jutting lips. “Good morning to you,” he replies. The back of her head rests in his hand, and he runs his fingers through the length of her hair. Roy frowns. He runs his fingers through once more, slower this time. His frown deepens. Celine’s hair is becoming stiff, breakable, old again. She looks at him, wide-eyed and fretful, and he’s consumed with resolve to protect her. “There’s a girl downstairs,” he explains, “in the basement. How about brunette this time?” Celine looks more agitated. But there’s nothing to be jealous about: he’s only keeping her for her hair, for her nails, only until they grow stronger, and beautiful enough for Celine. Her disquiet turns into excitement, and Roy is glad he’s put her at ease; she makes him feel like a man. He grazes a finger along her arm and notices the chipping color. “Maybe some soft skin, too?” Roy withdraws his hand to his side, and he lies next to her with an inch between them. When he isn’t feeding or bathing her, Roy remains this way for most of the day, because he loves her. He loves her. He loves Celine, but he doesn’t show it by hitting her or by touching her between the legs, like he’d learned from his parent. This love isn’t aggressive. This love is about giving. This is real intimacy.