When you got captured, I didn't know... He trailed off, had to chug whiskey before he could continue. If it'd be like...What?Like it was with Clotile.Oh, Jackson, no. I was okay. I am unharmed.Didn't know if I'd get there too late, he said with a shudder. Then he crossed over to me, until we stood toe-to-toe. Evie, if you ever get taken from me again, you better know that I'll be coming for you. He cupped my face with a bloodstained hand. So you stay the hell alive! You don't do like Clotile, you doan take that way out. You and me can get through anything, just give me a chance.--his voice broke lower just give me a chance to get to you. He buried his face in my hair, inhaling deeply. There is nothing that can happen to you that we can't get past....When you say we...?He pulled back, gazing down at me, his eyes blazing. I am goan to lay it all out there for you. Laugh in my face--I don't care. But I am goan to get this off my chest.I won't laugh. I am listening.Evie, I've wanted you from the first time I saw you. Even when I hated you, I wanted you. He raked his fingers through his hair. I got it bad, me. My heart felt like it'd stopped--so that I could hear him better.For as long as you've been looking down your nose at me, I've been craving you, an envie like I've never known.I don't look down at you! I am too busy looking up to you....The corners of his lips curled for an instant before he grew serious again. You asked me if I had that phone with your pictures, if I'd looked at it. Damn right, I did! I saw you playing with a dog at the beach and doing a crazy-ass flip off a high dive and making faces for the camera. I learned about you- his voice grew hoarse -and I wanted more of you. To see you every day. With a humourless laugh, he admitted, After the Flash, I was constantly sourcing ways to charge a goddamned phone--that would never make a call.I murmured, I didn't know...I couldn't be sure.It's you for me, peekon.
Kresley Cole
I am in this same river. I can't much help it. I admit it: I am racist. The other night I saw a group (or maybe a pack?) or white teenagers standing in a vacant lot, clustered around a 4x4 and I crossed the street to avoid them; had they been black, I probably would have taken another street entirely. And I am misogynistic. I admit that, too. I am a shitty cook and a worse house cleaner, probably in great measure because I've internalized the notion that these are woman's work. Of course, I never admit that's why I don't do them: I always say I just don't much enjoy those activities (which is true enough; and it's true enough also that many women don't enjoy them either) and in any case, I've got better things to do, like write books and teach classes where I feel morally superior to pimps. And naturally I value money over life. Why else would I own a computer with a hard drive put together in Thailand by women dying of job-induced cancer? Why else would I own shirts mad in a sweatshop in Bangladesh and shoes put together in Mexico? The truth is that, although many of my best friends are people of color (as the cliche goes) and other of my best friends are women, I am part of this river: I benefit from the exploitation of others and I do not much want to sacrifice this privilege. I am, after all, civilized and have gained a taste for comforts and elegancies which can be gained only through the coercion of slavery. The truth is that like most others who benefit from this deep and broad river, I would probably rather die (and maybe even kill, or better, have someone kill for me) than trade places with the men, women and children who made my computer, my shirt, my shoes.
Derrick Jensen