He watched her for a moment, the feeling of fear prickling at his neck. She rarely did anything for him, and it wasn't his birthday, which led him to question her intentions. It was possible she was still angry about before, in fact, he wouldn't doubt it. The woman carried a grudge forever. He didn't know much about her past other than the fact that she seemed to hold every personal injury close to her heart, nursing it into some monstrous, ugly thing. She had never hurt him physically, not really; he would hardly count a slap. He still couldn't understand why she always managed to drag up the weakest, most pathetic fears in him. It was as though he knew what she was capable of, even if he had never personally been the victim of her full-fledged wrath.
With a surprisingly steady hand, he opened the top of the box, then reached in through the mountain of Styrofoam pieces until his fingers wrapped around a slim case. It was wooden, painted the deepest of blacks, with small nails in the corners, revealing that it was likely handmade. He frowned, looking up at his mother, who was watching him intently, a hint of a smile on her lips.
"It's not my birthday."
"Mm." The grin only widened.
He carefully began extracting what was in the box, his fingers catching on a silk pocket square that was bundled around the sheath. He quickly pulled the blade free, a wave of pleasure washing over him at the snick it made. It was sharp, deadly even, and despite its age, it still had a near perfect, mirror-like surface. It was another Nazi dagger. She hadn't given him one like it since he was a child. His fingertips relished the smooth surface, moving of their own accord. Engraved into the blade was, "Meine Ehre Heisst Treue". It gleamed in the light, almost winking, like it had a secret it wasn't about to tell.
"Why?" he asked, trying not to sound incredulous.
"I don't know, because you certainly don't deserve it."
"It's not a replica." He could see from the condition of the sheath that the blade had been passed through many hands.
"No, it's not a replica." She had turned back to the food, seemingly uninterested again. He was confused, but he didn't want to seem ungrateful.
"Thank you." For once, it wasn't sarcastic. It almost made up for all the attention she gave to Izzy, buying her an endless supply of dresses and glittery things.
"I don't want to catch you with my book again. It's unhealthy and you need to stop," she said quietly. "I'm not going to tell your father, but if I find you doing anything similar with any of my things, you'll never see any of your knives ever again. Am I understood?"
Gabriel stared at the tabletop, trying to push down all the emotions that were trying to assault him at once. Shame was at the top of the list. "Yeah, I get it."
There was a pregnant silence where he got the impression she wanted to say something, but she was hesitating. She finally turned to face him again, leaning her body against the oak cabinets with her arms crossed and resting on the marble countertop.
"I want you to be honest with me," she began, her voice softer than he was accustomed to. It was almost gentle, but he could sense the hint of accusation that edged it, which made him automatically tense. "Were you using the characters or someone else?"
Gabriel fidgeted in his chair, his whole body gone rigid. How the hell was he supposed to respond to that? She wanted him to be honest? How? He couldn't even remember the last time she asked him how school was, let alone when they last had any kind of serious discussion. She would listen to him and his father bicker about things, but she would rarely give her own opinion, so it had always been a guessing game as to what she was thinking.
"I---" he stopped, shaking his head and biting down on the inside of his cheek. He struggled to formulate an answer that wouldn't sound entirely appalling, but he could come up with nothing. "What do you think?" he finally said bitingly, glowering at her.
Of course I was thinking of you! He wanted to say, but he held back, even as his irrational anger made it a challenge. If she had ever bothered to show even a hint of concern for his wellbeing, he was willing to bet none of it would have ever happened. It was her fault, and he wanted to hate her for it, even though in the end he knew he had consciously made the decision to give in to his private fantasies.
"How long has this been going on?"
How could she? Was she so intent on destroying him? He ground his teeth until his jaw ached, averting his gaze from her searching, condemning one, knowing there was no right answer, only damnation. Part of him was giving up, knowing that it was already lost. He had seen to that when she caught him with the book and his pants bunched up around his legs.
"As long as I can remember," Gabriel responded flatly, feeling the apprehension crush down on him in its irony grip, until it was hard to breathe.
"You use me specifically?"
"Do I have to spell it out?" he asked, easily falling into his more traditional sarcastic tones, his first defense, as flimsy and tried as it was.
"You realize it's not acceptable, don't you?"
"I'm not an idiot," he said quietly.
She paused in her questioning, studying him with her malignant, unsettling stare. Her nails clicked on the stone, and his gaze settled on them, looking for any excuse to avoid eye contact. "Exactly how deep does this fantasy go?"
He felt like he was being interrogated, and he steeled himself, knowing he was already far passed the point of no return. He could make it worse, easily, but he already knew how to get out of her line of questioning with the least amount of damage: if he kept his feelings out of it, he would be fine.
"It involves a lot of sex, if that's what you mean," he admitted, again finding it difficult to look her in the face.
"That's it, just sex?"
Her words confused him, muddying up his already scrambled emotions. Was she asking him specifically about the fantasies he had? What did she want, a play-by-play to humiliate him further?
"It's bad enough just admitting that," he commented, his fingers finding solace in the coolness of the metal in his hands.
"So it's just sexual scenarios, nothing rooted in reality? Is that right?"
"Well, I wouldn't say..." he shook his head, as if to clear it. "It's not as though anything could ever happen," he laughed shortly and humorlessly, "I think you might hate me more than I hate you." His look was scathing and bitter.
