Reprieve

by A. E. Woodward

  Then a third.

  And a fourth.

  More and more people join in with the dance, moving to the rhythm of the music until Asher and I are completely surrounded. The music thunders against the walls as we watch them. I’m so engrossed that I almost forget that we’re still holding hands until I feel his fingers tighten around mine, squeezing gently. The dancers are smiling and laughing so much that I can’t help but join them, bending forward as laughter spills from a place deep inside that I didn’t know existed.

  “See what I mean,” Asher yells over the music. “When you stop worrying about finding things to make life worth living, they find you instead.”

  DEEP DOWN, I KNEW better. But I couldn’t be better because my needs and desires were greater than my morals. Well, what few morals remained. I was so high that my parents sounded like Charlie Brown’s schoolteacher; just a bunch of sounds coming out as if they were five feet underwater. Only, unlike in the cartoon, I could see them, standing in front of me, the kitchen table between us. My mother crying while my father paced. From the way his face had turned red and his eyes bulged out of his sockets, he appeared to be yelling. I jumped as his fist slammed down against the kitchen table like a crack of thunder. “You’re a thief, Tegan! A goddamn lowlife thief.”

  Snapped from my drug haze, tears started to well in my eyes, because he was right. I wanted to stand up to him, to shout and scream and bawl, but there was still a broken little girl inside cowering at his words. All I wanted to be was his daughter. Just once I wanted to hear him say that I was his and that I was enough. But that never came. Not then, and certainly not now.

  I wished I had the strength to explain it to him. But I couldn’t. Not again. I had tried before. He didn’t understand that my addiction was greater than me. It didn’t care that I had a family, and that family had things that were valuable. It certainly didn’t care that those things were more important to keep in the family rather than to pawn for drug money.

  “You don’t have anything to say for yourself?” he asked breathlessly.

  I shook my head, the action making the room sway and I could hear my own voice slurring as I said¸ “There’s no use. You woan u’stand anyway.”

  “Damn straight I don’t understand.” He looked away from me and sighed. “Now get the hell out of my house. You’ve done enough to this family.”

  The sadness I felt knowing that he wouldn’t understand instantly morphed into anger. Every time I did something wrong he loved to throw my failure in my face. He enjoyed making me feel like shit, yet interestingly enough we never really went beyond the idea that I was a screw up. God forbid I ever tried to talk about all that had gone wrong to allow me to reach this dead end.

  “I’ve done enough to this family?” I screamed. “Let’s talk about all you’ve done for this family, Daddy! Just livin’ the American Dream, huh? Some dream it’s been.”

  As soon as the words left my mouth I knew I’d made a mistake; the back of his hand connecting with my face just solidified the fact. Among the melee I heard my mother gasp, her horror immediately turning to sobs. Unsure of whether I was shocked or not, I placed my hand on my cheek, the heat rushing to the contact site, warming my palm as I slowly started to back away.

  “That’s it!” he yelled. The vein in the middle of his forehead bulged against his skin. I’d seen enough of that vein to know he’d well and truly lost it. In fact, I was pretty sure that I was the only one who ever brought it out. “You’re not welcome under my roof anymore. Pack up your shit and get out!”

  “My pleasure.” I wanted them to think I was thankful to be out of there, but inside I was terrified. I had no idea what I was going to do. Without my parents providing me a place to stay every night I had nowhere to go. I struggled daily to come up with enough cash to support my habit, but to find enough to actually live? I didn’t know how I was going to do it.

  My mother began to plead with him, begging on my behalf for one more chance, but we all knew it was no use. My father was finally going to be rid of me. It was what he’d wanted all along, anyway.

  Tail between my legs, I made my way to my room and hastily began stuffing my old duffel bag with the clothes that I still had—the few that I hadn’t taken to the thrift shops in order to turn a buck. They weren’t much but they were all I had left to my name. As I packed I tried to think of where I could go. It was a time of uncertainty for me. I didn’t have very many options, just “friends” I hung out with when I was looking to get high. Everyone else in my life had cut me off by this point.

  Wails echoed through the house, my mother crying through her words as she tried to speak to my father. It lasted just a few more minutes before I heard the door slam and a car start. He’d left. He didn’t like to upset my mother; that was one thing I was certain of. He loved her like crazy and couldn’t stand to see what I did to her and the rest of the family. Knowing that he was gone, I tossed my bag over my shoulder and made my way back out to the kitchen.

  My mother lay in a heap on the floor. She looked up at me, her eyes red and swollen, her cheeks tearstained. “Tegan, I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice cracking as she dropped her face to her hands. I went to her, dropped my bag, and fell to the floor. Neither of us spoke. I leaned forward and took her into my arms, holding her close as her body shook with each tear she shed. We clutched onto each other like our lives depended on it. “Momma, you have nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one that keeps screwing up. I’ve made a mess of my bed, and now it’s time for me to lie in it.”

  “This is it isn’t it? The beginning of the end.” She wiped her cheeks clean and took a deep breath. With a quick nod, I slowly made my way to my feet and hitched the strap of my bag up on my shoulder. I was halfway out the door when I heard her speak.

  “You’re going to die out there,” she said without inflection or tone. It was as though she was just coming to terms with what this meant.

  “You and I both know that I’m going to die either way, whether it’s here with you, or out there. It’s inevitable. But at least if I’m out there you won’t have to watch.”

  Her mouth hung open as I delivered my parting words. I choked back my own tears before turning on my heel and walking out of the only home I’ve ever known.

  “TAKE A BATH,” she said. “It’ll be relaxing.”

  Bullshit.

  From the minute my night nurse suggested a bath I was skeptical, but in the end I figured I didn’t have much to lose. I could at least try it, give it a chance. I watched the water slowly climb the walls of the tub, trying not to make the connection between baths and getting high. It was useless. Trying not to think about the last time I’d had a bath was making me think about the last time I had a bath. A chill swept across my skin and I shivered, remembering how I had been desperately searching for a good vein. How I would stop at nothing to get what I wanted . . .

  That was then, and this was now. I owe it to myself to attempt to take a bath like a normal person. That’s what is happening to me. Over the past month, I’ve become more “normal.” I hate that word because, really, what does it actually mean? Is anyone truly “normal”? Semantics aside, I really have started to notice a change in myself. And it’s not just that I’m washing now, or talking about menial things with people and actually giving a shit about their answer. I’m actually tasting food again. I’m seeing colors. The other day, during a session with Asher, I found myself tuning out his ramblings about dopamine levels and concentrated on the color of his eyes. At first glance, they look brown, but if you take the time to really look at them—and believe me, I’ve had the time—then you’ll see the tiny flecks of gold. Looking at a person and thinking about their features is something I haven’t done since high school. More recently, the only thing I’ve concentrated on is whether or not the person whose eyes I’m staring into is already high, or whether there’s a chance they’ll let me share.

  Lately my sessions have been going by too fast. Asher and I talk
like friends, and I like it because we never just focus on me. Asher tells me things about his past, things that I can’t help but wonder if he shares with only me, or if all his patients get a peek into his life. Yesterday, when I casually mentioned my schooldays he shared with me a story about his first grade year.

  “I hated my life. Everything about it sucked, until I was in first grade. For whatever reason, Mrs. Tate took a liking to me, made sure the other kids didn’t see her sneaking me snacks or giving me lunch money. She made sure I had someone to play with at recess and taught me the proper way to clean underneath my fingernails so that they weren’t grubby. I never understood why she took such care of me, but now as an adult, I realize that she knew I came from a shitty home. She didn’t have to do that. But she was the kindest soul I’ve ever known, and I am forever grateful for the one year of bliss I was able to have.” He paused and gave me a cheeky grin. “Wow, I haven’t thought about her for a long time.”

  Needless, to say, I love everything about our sessions. Whether it was getting lost in Asher’s eyes, or our ability to have such meaningful conversations, I looked forward to them everyday, then once they get here, they’re not long enough. I’m always left wanting more.

  Once the tub is full, I lock the door leading from my private bathroom out to my bedroom. It seems like overkill but when you’ve seen what I’ve seen you learn that safety is no longer guaranteed. I carefully disrobe, allowing my clothes to fall in a pool around my feet. With great hesitation, I place one foot into the tub; pins and needles covering my skin as I step into the water, lowering myself and feeling the warmth surround me. I manage to take a deep breath and exhale before I still myself. I wait for my skin to start crawling—I figure I’ll get that feeling at the back of my throat. That my heart will start racing and driving me crazy with the sound of it reverberating through my ears. But it doesn’t happen. At least not in the way I thought it would.

  I expected it to trigger a craving within me, and in a way it does—just not how I predicted. Lying back, dropping my shoulders to beneath the waterline, all I can think about is him.

  Asher Hughes, LADC.

  I sure as shit didn’t expect it to be like this.

  Inappropriate thoughts have somehow weaseled their way into not only my mind, but my body too. I try to think of something else, anything else, but my efforts are of no use. The minute I try to focus my attention elsewhere, it shoots right back to him.

  Ever since we took that ride to the field, he’s all I can think about. There’s something different about him; something I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s like there’s more to him than being a counselor. It’s like he’s my friend. Like he cares about me more than I’m used to.

  Despite spending so much time together, I still can’t get a good read on him. He’s obviously dedicated to his job, that much is clear, but with him wanting to break rules for me I’m confused. I can’t imagine that all his clients get this sort of treatment. His conversations with me feel so real. He’s genuine, and my relationship with him has evolved. Without me even noticing it, he’s slowly become more than my counselor. I’ve allowed him glimpses of the real Tegan, the one I hide behind my walls. As I confide more and more in him about my past he’s becoming my friend. My only friend.

  But it’s more than that. I find myself thinking about him when I shouldn’t. Times when I could be thinking about what I’m going to do with my life, I find myself wondering what Asher is doing. Sometimes I’ll hear the sound of a motorbike and my heart will skip a beat, wondering if it’s him. Other times, my thoughts border on inappropriate, like right now, while I’m in the bathtub . . . naked. He’s the first person in a long time to show any sort of interest in me. I’m not used to it. Needless to say, the whole situation is confusing so, in true Tegan fashion, I’m burying my head in the sand, ignoring the issue until it goes away.

  I close my eyes, hoping to find the relaxation that my night nurse spoke of, but instead I see him. He’s smiling, like always. Allowing myself a moment to embrace the daydream I press my eyes tighter. He’s leaning forward, listening intently to the words I speak. Then he’s lightly touching my skin. And then he’s pressing himself against me . . .

  My eyes pop open, the water running off my skin as my chest rises and falls rapidly. I’m surprised with myself—no, surprised doesn’t cover it. My cheeks flush with embarrassment as the shame settles over me. I should be focusing on my recovery but, for whatever reason, all I can focus on is the throbbing between my legs. Maybe because it’s been so long since I had sex. Maybe it’s because I’m no longer numb to the world around me.

  Maybe it’s just because I can feel.

  I slide down further, the edges of the water tickling my ears as I allow my head to float, resting on top like the fishing bobbers I used when I went on fishing trips as a kid. I focus on my rhythmic breathing, hoping it will clear my head.

  In, out.

  In, out.

  Asher.

  Tight muscles, bulging under his dress shirt. Tattoos on his arm, playing peek-a-boo from under his rolled cuff. That split-second too long glance when he thinks I’m not looking, but really I am. If that isn’t maddening enough, the echo of my heartbeat thunders in my ears, the water only making it louder.

  I jolt upright, sliding the upper half of my body out of the water, the change in temperature causing goose bumps to form across my hot, flushed skin. I look down at my red body and sigh. The water isn’t the issue; it’s my uncontrollable and inappropriate thoughts. Lifting my knees out of the water, I prop my elbows up and place my head into my hands. The whole thing is stupid. A silly crush. How pathetic is it that I’m shown a little kindness and attention by a man and suddenly my heart is going pitter-patter? I’m ashamed.

  But maybe there is a connection there. We talk like we’re long lost friends. Hell, he snuck me off campus. Twice. Of course there’s something there. I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. After all, it might be completely normal to be feeling this way—especially given my lack of sustainable relationships. In fact, it’s a good thing. It shows me that I’m not just alive, but that I’m a living breathing being with actual feelings. It’s a positive. A sign of things to come.

  I chalk it up as a phase and allow the fantasies to continue playing out for me. They’re harmless, after all. Thinking about Asher on top of me is okay in the privacy of my bathroom because nothing will ever come of it. It can’t.

  I bite my lip. Sitting in this position, thinking these thoughts, has increased the ache between my legs. With one quick glance toward the door, I lie back and close my eyes. What I’m about to do isn’t right, but the fire deep inside me is relentless and demands attention. I don’t understand it, but I don’t have to. Maybe this is part of it. Maybe this is me working him out of my system. Maybe instead of fighting how I feel I need to embrace it.

  My body is ablaze with lust and, unable to fight the urge any longer, my hand slowly travels down my body, grazing the side of my breast as it moves from my neck toward my stomach. My nipple tightens and peeks up above the waterline, allowing the cool air to hit it, sending sensation racing through my nerves, heightening my senses, pushing me to continue. My hand complies, brushing the taut skin of my stomach, my muscles clenching as my fingers slide between my legs. The rush of sensation that floods me when they graze my clit is like no other, the piercing I got when I turned eighteen doing its job as I gently roll it underneath my finger. Every nerve ending in my body comes to life and I’m searching, reaching, needing more.

  I close my eyes and all I see is him.

  Asher. Hovering above my body. Looking down at me longingly as he thrusts himself between my legs. I’m so lost to sensation that I can almost feel his muscles rippling underneath my hand with each movement.

  Completely wrapped in the moment, I allow my fingers to slide into my body and I welcome the intrusion. I gently roll my nipple between my fingers as I imagine his mouth on me and the water sloshes against the side of
the tub with the quickening movement of my hands. I’ve gone from feeling nothing to feeling everything and it touches every part of me, a hiss escaping between my teeth as my thumb rubs against the barbell, sending a delicious jolt straight to my core. I’ve spent so many years numb to the excitement that actual attraction can bring that I forgot about the things it does to my body. I feel hot, yet every inch of my skin is covered with goose bumps, and my stomach feels as though it’s filled with thousands of fluttering butterflies.

  And suddenly the fingers inside me aren't mine; they are longer, thicker, more skilled—everything I imagine Asher would be is accurate, right in this moment. Behind my eyelids he locks his gaze with mine and taunts me, teasing me to the edge of release. Squeezing my eyes shut, I moan as the tension builds in my belly. And as I writhe against my hand, closing my eyes tighter, willing him not to stop, to take me there, to prove to me that a man can touch me the way I need, the way I need him to touch me, I see his face, his smile, the cheeky glint in his eye when he says something he knows will make me blush. Then he winks at me, and I'm done. I clutch at the side of the tub, riding the coattails of one of the most erotic daydreams I have ever experienced, knowing that there is no way in hell I'll be able to look Asher Hughes in the face tomorrow, and God help me if he ever winks at me again.

  It seems like an eternity before my body stills. My hands drop away from my body and I take a deep breath, the relief washing over me. But it’s short-lived as the sudden shame follows swiftly behind, chasing away the delicious sensation and replacing it with the cold blanket of humiliation. Needing to get out of the bath, I grab the washcloth and soap and start to scrub every inch of my skin. But I know no matter how harshly I rake at my skin, nothing can wash away what I’ve done.

  IT WAS OFFICIAL: I’d flunked out of college. I was getting ready to move out of my dorm and head back home, with my tail between my legs, and in my head I could already hear my father berating me. Things had gotten bad fast. They’d spiraled out of control slowly through high school and now it was really bad. Each time I fucked up, my family kept saying that I had reached rock bottom, always thinking it couldn’t get any worse, but what they didn’t know was that for me, there was no bottom; no platform to stop me. It could always get worse, and without fail, it did. Time after time I kept finding a way to up the ante.