In a recent review, a reader asked me to continue off of a previous prompt set by If Only it Was that Easy. I've decided to take them up on the suggestion; that, and the plot-bunny won't leave me alone.

Disclaimer. fan (noun): an enthusiastic devotee, follower, or admirer, of a sport, pastime, celebrity, etc (for example: He's a big fan of Iron Maiden)

fiction (noun): the class of literature comprising of works of imaginative narration, especially in prose form.

.net (web thingy): something placed at the end of a web address, short for network.

Now that we've dissected the meaning of the words that make up the name of the website, ask yourself one question:

Do you feel lucky punk?*

You're radiant.

Why do I choose to use that specific word? Simple: it fits. I can't think of any other word in the entire English language that so well describes the glow of effervescence that surrounds your being. Beautiful just doesn't cut it, and amazing doesn't even come close. You think I don't notice you, but I do. How could I not notice your dark eyes, your platinum hair, and your graceful figure? How could my eyes just pass over a creature so elegant? You've captivated me from the very moment I laid eyes on you. Do you remember that time? I do. After the invasion of Warsaw, and Germany's declaration of war, I had accompanied France and Britain to your brother's house. As you'll remember, I had no intention of traveling with them, but Britain had insisted that I be present, if for no other reason than to further convince Russia that he join in the fight. Personally, I think they wanted me there for back up in case things got ugly. Unfortunately, your brother refused to agree to anything while in my presence and so I had to exit the room. As I stood waiting outside, wondering why I was even there at all (I had no intention of getting involved in the second round of Europe's trifles), I felt the weight of eyes upon me. When I looked about, I found your cobalt eyes staring into my own.

I can't remember the thoughts that went whirling through my mind, but I do remember being in awe of your beauty. We exchanged words, few of them kind, and when we parted, your image did not escape my mind. For the next few weeks, you invaded my thoughts and only in the deep recesses of sleep could I escape the reality of you haunting me. However, that peace was fleeting and your face floated to me out from the brackish waters of my dreams. Throughout the entire endeavor against the Axis, I tried to deny the possibility that I had feelings for you; but when the war came crashing down and the Iron Curtain went up, I knew there was no other way to describe my feelings for you. How else could I justify my bitter disappointment and abject rage at you so blindly following your brother than by saying the results of such emotions was a strong love?

I could approach you, but I'm afraid. I'm afraid of gaining your love and then losing it. Just like how I lost her, She loved me once too, although deep in my heart I believe she lied through her teeth. After all, it's hard to forget standing on top of the South Vietnamese Headquarters, helping escapees into a waiting helicopter, then looking down and seeing the one who had come to you in the night, sobbing and frightened and begging you for succor, standing at the head of the Viet Cong army and glaring up at you with cold, snakelike eyes. I've never forgotten the sound of that building being destroyed as I sailed off in the helicopter; nor have I ever forgotten the pain that went slicing through my hears as I turned my back on that sight and swallowed my burning, bitter tears. I'm a coward. You can say it, I don't mind. Why else would I be hanging back if I wasn't afraid? Dealing with rejection has never been my forte.

We're so different, you and I. You're like a Siberian tiger, beautiful and deadly- the type of creature that, when it kills, nothing is blemished. The spray of blood flying forth from the slash wounds is like the scattering of hundreds of rose petals. The tiger's long, ivory fangs pierce the flesh of the prey smoothly, sinking right down into the bone. The tiger's grace turns every aspect of the hunt into a beautiful and tragic spectacle. It is the solitary hunt personified; it needs no others. I, on the other hand, am more wolf-like. I need a pack, I need a close kinship. Instead of spinning beautiful red ribbons with my claws, I hack into my prey with serrated teeth, tearing the kill to pieces. I'm savage, snapping and growling at all who get close, marking anyone not in my pack as an enemy, claiming a team kill as my own. The tiger will watch and asses whether or not it can take down its prey. The wolf rushes in without a second thought.

You squander your love on your brother, do you know that? He'll never return your feelings. When he looks at you, the only thing in his eyes is a boundless terror, but that doesn't stop you from staring into them. Why won't you look into my eyes? I'll regard you with a look of pure, absolute love. Not fear and thinly veiled hate.

I love you. I love you so much it's painful. Every time I'm near you, I can't keep my mind off you. I watch you from my place near the front of the room, and as I do, I imagine myself striding up to you and confessing my love.

It won't happen, but it's nice to dream.

*(So I don't get sued) Quote from Scar Face

Sorry about the depressing ending. Let me know if the tiger and wolf analogy made sense.