by Beck, J. L.
Whiplash, that’s what this is. Just five minutes ago, he was here for sex, to hurt me, and degrade me. Now he suddenly cares? Anger rushes in, flooding my mind, overtaking the panic and fear. Now I’m just furious.
“Does it matter who did it? Would you believe me if I said you did?”
“Me?” He takes a step back like I’ve slapped him. “I didn’t fucking do that to you, and we both know it.”
“You’re right, you didn’t physically do it. Didn’t slice the skin, but you’re part of the reason they’re there.” I pause and look away, feeling ashamed and sick that he now knows how fucked up I really am. “Why do you even care? Why does me being hurt matter to you? It’s never mattered before, so don’t pretend like it does now.” I snap my thighs closed and scurry backward on the bed.
Jackson shakes his head and scrubs a hand down his face. “I’m not going to ask you again, Kennedy. Who did this to you? I don’t give a fuck about anything else right now. Just tell me who did this to you.”
I shake my head, shutting down completely.
“Tell me, or I’m calling your mother and telling her that someone is hurting you.”
“ME!” I snap, “It’s me. I’m hurting myself. I’m the reason there are scars on my thighs, I did it. Are you happy now? You know my secret. Go off and tell everyone. I don’t care anymore.” My heart cracks in my chest, and it’s like every feeling I’ve been holding in pushes through to the surface.
“Y-you?” he chokes on the single word.
I give him a sad smile. “Yeah.”
“Why would you do that? Why would you hurt yourself like that?” He isn’t looking at me with disgust like I expected him to, but the look isn’t necessarily pitying either. In fact, it seems like he’s just seeing me for the first time. Recognizing that our pain is the same. “Why? Just tell me why so I can understand this?”
“Because… I… it just helps me deal.” How am I going to explain this to him in a way he would understand when I don’t really understand it? “I guess when I cut myself, everything in my mind goes silent. For one second, I don’t feel guilty or ashamed.” I look down at my hands, wondering what’s going to happen next. Is he going to laugh in my face? Tell everyone? Now that he knows there isn’t anything I can do to stop him from making me the laughing stock of the entire school.
I can’t hold the tears back any longer and start to silently sob while I wait for him to mock me. My stomach twists and knots, and I feel the itch to cut myself right now to shut everything off.
“You want to do it now, don’t you?” he questions.
I don’t know why I bother replying, it’s none of his business. I don’t have to tell him what I’m thinking or feeling, but I want to. I want someone to know that I’m suffering, just one person. “I do.” I sob, wiping at the tears that keep coming.
My vision is so blurry, I can’t see anything, but I know he’s still there.
“You can leave now. You’ve got what you wanted. Go tell everyone, go make a mockery out of me like I know you want to.” The ache in my chest is intensifying, making it hard for me to breathe, and I gasp for air like I’m being choked.
“I’m not going anywhere. Scoot over and climb under the covers.”
“Why?” I ask as I start doing as he says. I’m so used to doing what he tells me, I simply act and ask questions later.
“Because I want to hold you, that’s why. Now don’t ruin this. Roll over and let me do this.”
“I don’t want your pity.”
“I don’t pity you, Kennedy. In fact, for the first time in forever, I think we actually might have something in common. Now roll over before I make you.”
Doing as he says, I roll over and pull the blanket up to my chest. A moment later, I hear clothes hitting the floor, and then he’s crawling under the blanket and moving toward me. Heat envelopes my body, and when he puts his arm over me and tugs me back into his bare chest, I feel… safe, which is the strangest thing since he’s the last person I should feel safe with.
“What do you mean by we have something in common?”
“I feel the same about fighting in the pit. I like kicking the shit out of someone, but I don’t mind getting my face smashed in either. Physical pain is better than the alternative, isn’t it?”
“Yeah…”
“Sleep. Your secret is safe with me, Junebug.” He uses the nickname he used to call me when we were younger, and my heart shatters. I sob into the pillow while he holds me tight, holding all my broken pieces together. Then, I close my eyes and fall into a fitful sleep, wondering if he really means it.
Is my secret safe with him?
19
Jackson
Seeing her pain for the first time is like ripping the scab off an already healing wound. I thought what I was doing was the right thing. I thought she was bluffing, pretending that she felt bad, but the proof was right there. I thought that discovering her pain—seeing her suffer—would give me more satisfaction than it did. Instead, it made me sick, made me hate myself a little bit. Knowing she was cutting herself, causing herself physical pain. All along, she had been suffering right in front of me. I was just too self-absorbed to see it. Too wrapped up in my own pain, in wanting to make sure she was hurting, to notice that she was.
I spent all night holding her in my arms, listening to her sob. I can’t wrap my head around her thinking I was going to tell. Make fun of her. I almost scoff at the thought. It’s totally understandable why she would think that, but I’m not that big of an asshole. I won’t have her doing it anymore now that I know though.
What if she cuts herself too deep?
I can’t have her death on my conscience, and I can’t lose her. I don’t know if I’m ready to forgive her or if I ever fully can, but I don’t want to lose her.
After not sleeping a lick, I drove back to my apartment just as the sun was rising. Yes, I’m a pussy. I didn’t want to be there when she woke up. Mainly because I’m not sure what I should say to her. I don’t know how to react to the knowledge that she’s been hurting herself, cutting herself for god knows how long to deal with the pain.
I think about what my mother told me as I toss a ball at the wall and catch it. I haven’t dealt with my sister’s death because I feel like the moment that I do, the moment that I accept she’s dead, I’ll start the process of moving on, of forgetting her, and I can’t imagine ever forgetting someone like her, even if she is dead.
Then the shit with Kennedy makes me feel guilty, it makes me feel like I’m betraying my sister. Yet, I can’t shut off the fact that I care about her.
Sighing into the empty room, I wonder what Jillian would want me to do? Would she approve of me caring for Kennedy? Would she be okay with me forgiving her?
Confusion seeps into my bones. I don’t get a chance to focus on it, though, because my cell phone starts ringing, interrupting my thought process. I grab the device from beside me and look at the screen.
It’s my mother. I haven’t talked to her in some time, and I kinda miss her. Hitting the green answer key, I put the phone on speaker.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, sweetheart, how are you?”
“I’m doing good.”
“You don’t sound good, you sound sad. Is everything okay?” Of course, my mom can read me, even over the phone. Must be some motherly instinct or some shit.
“I’m sorry about acting like a total ass last weekend. Kennedy ran off because of it. Like left school and hid out in a hotel.” I mean, that’s not the complete reason, but I’m not telling her everything. Some things my mother doesn’t need to know.
“Oh, Jackson, I know you’re still hurting, but it wasn’t Kennedy’s fault. It was an accident. Yes, Kennedy made a stupid choice, but she was so young, and people make a lot of mistakes when they are young. I know in my heart, she would never hurt anyone on purpose, least of all her best friend. She loved Jillian, probably as much as you did.”
Damnit. There isn’t a
ny denying what she says. Jillian and Kennedy were connected at the hip. They loved each other as much as any sisters could. I know it because I was afraid that if I ever made a move on Kennedy, it might ruin her relationship with my sister, and I couldn’t risk that.
“I know, but it’s so hard to let that go. It’s so hard not to blame her when if she had just waited for me, things might have been different.”
“You’re right, things might’ve been different, or they might not. Your sister could’ve got in a car accident later on, anything could’ve happened. It’s important to remember that tomorrow is never promised. Your sister’s death opened our eyes to that, and I wish it would open your eyes too.” I kinda sorta hate how right she sounds right now.
“I just… I feel like if I let it go, if I start to forgive, to move on…” my throat tightens, “I feel like I’ll forget her. If I don’t remind myself every day, then I’ll forget her…”
“You’ll never forget her. She’s your twin, a piece of her lives inside of you, and we both know she would be angry as hell to see you and Kennedy suffering because of her.” A smile tugs at my lips as I picture my sister staring me down, her hands on her hips. “I promise, it’s the only way to move forward. It’s time for you to start living your life without carrying around all that pain, all of the time. It doesn’t have to be this way, Jackson.”
She’s right, she’s so right, but I’m not sure if I can forgive and forget so easily. It still feels like she died yesterday. I can start to try though.
“Okay, I’ll try, Mom.”
“That sounds wonderful, sweetheart.” I can see her smile in my mind, and I know she is happy about this. Happy that I’m taking the first steps of learning how to deal with Jillian’s death. “Why don’t you come home to visit next month?”
“Sure, why not. I’ll look at some dates and call you in a few days.”
“Great!”
“One more question… did you get Kennedy’s cell number while you were here?”
“Yes, why?”
“Can you send it to me? I want to talk to her.”
“Sure, I’ll send it right over. Please, be kind to her, Son. She blames herself enough, and even though you don’t want to believe it, she lost Jillian too.”
“I know, Mom.”
We say our I love yous and then hang up. Part of me feels the phone call was what I needed. I’m terrified of what will happen next, but this has to happen eventually. Being angry and bitter every day is killing me on the inside. Destroying the best parts of me. Jillian would kill me if she was here right now and saw the way I’ve been acting.
My thoughts of Kennedy swirl, and I wonder how I’m going to approach this with her. She’s my trigger in the big mess of things. Scrolling through my phone, I open my mom’s text and save Kennedy’s contact info. I’m tempted to go over to her place, but then I’ll want to fuck her, and I won’t get to say what I want. Plus, I’m not sure she is ready for sex yet, and I don’t want to push it. I’m going to do my best not to hurt her anymore. I don’t want to be the reason she continues to hurt herself.
So, I send her a text that says, hey.
Instantly, I get a reply.
K: Who is this?
I contemplate telling her that it’s Jackson, but I figure what I’m about to say is enough knowledge for her to get the hint.
Me: You can’t cut yourself anymore. If you do, I’m telling someone. I won’t let you hurt yourself anymore. Promise me you won’t.
I hit send before I can stop myself. I’m reaching that point where I want to just shut down and say fuck it, but this is part of moving on, and I can only deny that I care about her for so long. It’s time to face the music.
K: Promise.
Reading her single word text, I don’t trust that she really means it, so I send her another.
Me: On Jillian’s grave.
My phone dings, and I imagine she’s staring at her screen with the same conviction I am.
K: On Jillian’s grave.
Dropping the phone onto the mattress, I tip my head back into the pillows and let my mind wander. Maybe I can forgive Kennedy? Maybe I can let go of the pain? Or maybe I can’t? At the very least, I know Kennedy won’t be hurting herself anymore, and that’s the most important thing of all because if she ever killed herself because of me, I wouldn’t forgive myself. It’d be like losing Jillian all over again, and I doubt I could survive that.
20
Kennedy
Life seems to be headed in the right direction. For once, I feel like I’m not suffocating. Like I’m swimming back to the surface, instead of being dragged down deeper. The fact that Jackson isn’t doing everything in his power to make my life hell helps immensely.
We’ve come to this strange agreement that we aren’t quite friends, but we aren’t enemies either. Every day I see a little bit of the old Jackson returning. He smiles more, laughs, and seems as if he too is healing.
I still wait with bated breath for the other shoe to drop. How long is he going to keep up this act of caring before he snaps on me again? I keep hoping things will stay this way, and we can heal together, but I’m not stupid enough to believe that’ll happen.
As sad as it is, I’m wary of every little thing he does. I don’t understand how he flipped a switch, how he went from hating me so passionately to showing he cares in the blink of an eye. It’s not like he goes out of his way for me, but he also doesn’t actively try to make my life difficult anymore.
Descending the steps outside of my economics class, I find Jackson sitting casually against a bench. He looks ruggedly handsome in nothing more than jeans and a T-shirt. He’s surrounded by his friends, or at least, I assume they’re his friends. I stare at him for a second longer than necessary before turning to walk toward my apartment.
I’m not a part of his life in that way, and I’m okay with that. I’m okay with being alone because I’m used to it. I can’t say I don’t miss being his best friend, hearing his laugh, and watching him smile. His joy was once my joy. I used to think I loved him, and part of me still feels that way. I don’t think you can stop loving someone once you’ve started. Your love for them just changes.
Halfway home, I get this odd feeling that someone is following me. Shivering, I turn around to look over my shoulder and find that Jackson is behind me. I’m not sure if him being here is a good or a bad thing yet, but I’ll slow down anyway so he can catch up with me.
“Hey,” he greets, his hands shoved in his pockets.
“Hey,” I reply as he falls into step next to me.
In an awkward silence, we walk side by side the entire way home. When we get to my apartment complex, I wonder what his next move is? Is he going to leave? Come in? He answers my questions without even knowing it when he continues walking with me up to my door.
“I’m coming inside,” he tells me. I guess we’re still not on asking terms. “I want to check your thighs. Make sure you’ve kept your promise.”
“I did.”
“Then you won’t mind showing me, right?”
“Right,” I huff.
He follows me up the stairs and into my apartment. I drop my backpack on the ground and take off my sweater jacket while Jackson closes the door behind us, locking the deadbolt into place. Leaning against the door, he crosses his arms in front of his chest and looks down at my jeans, motioning for me to take them off. He doesn’t seem annoyed or even impatient, so I should be thankful for that. I know he’s already seen my scars, but the thought of showing him them again is frightening all the same.
“Show me,” he orders, pushing off the door, taking a step closer.
Insecurity takes hold of me as I start to unbutton my jeans with shaky hands. Careful not to drag my panties down too, I shimmy my jeans down my legs, exposing my thighs to him.
He closes the distance between us and gets down on one knee to inspect the scarred area even further. I close my eyes, unable to look at his face while he does this. I don�
�t want to see the disgust or pity in his eyes. I shiver at the contact, wondering what he’s thinking?
Hot breath fans against my thigh, a moment before lips brush over my skin. His lips against my skin is like a firework going off in an enclosed space. My eyes fly wide open, and I stare down at him, watching as he places soft kisses over the uneven skin.
“What are you doing?” I ask, a light tremble in my voice. I’m ready to push him away, shove his body away from mine, even though part of me wants to pull him closer.
He places one last kiss on my leg, peering up at me while he does before pushing himself off the floor to a stand.
I open my mouth to speak, but before a single syllable can make it out, his lips are on mine. My eyes flutter closed on instinct, and I give in to the feeling… give in to him.
I don’t want to need him, but I know a part of me does. I’ve come to love these secret moments we share together, where we’re not Jackson or Kennedy but two entirely different people. His arms wrap around me, and like putty in his hands, I mold to him, my body curving into his. His tongue darts out and runs over my bottom lip, begging for entry, and I part my lips, granting him access.
He tastes like fresh mint and sin, wrapped all in one. I can’t stifle the groan that slips from my throat, but that doesn’t matter because Jackson swallows the noise, his tongue gliding against mine with ease.
This isn’t my first kiss, but it almost feels like it is. Because nothing I’ve ever done has felt the way this kiss feels. All-consuming, provoking, searing. It’s one of those kisses you won’t forget, that will be forever ingrained in your mind.
One of his hands stays on my lower back while the other travels down over my butt. He strokes me there before giving it a tight squeeze.
Only then do I remember that I’m standing here with my pants down to my ankles.
Jackson doesn’t seem to mind, judging by his hardness, which is pressing into my lower belly. His other hand moves lower until both are cupping my ass.