Reprieve

by A. E. Woodward

  The flick of the lighter sounds. My heart stops racing and evens out. I sniff back a tear and focus on the spoon, the heroin bubbles creating a hiss and pop that sounds delicious to my starved ears. My senses are alive.

  And all of a sudden a blanket of calm surrounds me, and everything I ever knew comes flooding back as I go through my old routine.

  Place a dab of cotton into the liquid.

  Needle into the center.

  Draw back.

  Fill the syringe.

  I drop the spoon to the ground and lift the needle up to lightly tap out the bubbles, rushing to unfasten my belt, freeing it from my shorts, loop by loop. It scratches against the fabric slowly, much like the slow burn I had developed for Asher.

  My movements are quick and practiced, the promise of a high mere moments away as I tighten the belt around my arm. I run my finger lightly along the alabaster skin of my arm. It’s different. There are no red marks, no scabs, no blown veins. I’m healed. Or at least I thought I was.

  Since my veins are like new it doesn’t take me long to find one to use. The prick of the needle against my skin, creating a small indent against my arm, brings me back into the moment. I’m ready to take the plunge. I pause, hesitation and doubt suddenly creeping back into my head. This isn’t right, the voice inside my head shouts. But then the demon that is addiction takes ahold of me again and I slide the needle into my skin, my thumb on the plunger.

  “Tegan!”

  My body freezes. My heart stops. I don’t move.

  The voice is closer. “Tegan!” Heavy footsteps echo against the walls. “Stop!”

  Strong arms wrap around my waist.

  “Shit.”

  A hand travels gently down the length of my arm, leaving goose bumps in its wake; fingers curl around my wrists, squeezing them, the warmth from his skin seeping into my own. “Tegan. Look at me,” he says and I turn my head, meeting his gaze. His eyes are wet. His mouth is slack. I recognize the look.

  He’s sad.

  “Asher?” My voice sounds unfamiliar to me. It’s low and harsh, like someone took a cheese grater to my throat. It makes me uncomfortable, thinking of how much I sound like the old Tegan. The broken Tegan. Tegan the junkie.

  “I’m going to take the needle out of your arm.”

  “But you don’t want me. I’m not enough.” I’m not sure whether I’m talking to Asher or to myself. He shakes his head and I feel the pressure of his hand over mine, guiding the needle out of my arm, licking his thumb, pressing onto the fresh wound.

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Snapped from my trance, anger suddenly courses through me. All I’ve done is open myself up to this man, allowed him into my life and all he’s ever done is take things away. First a kiss. then his support, and now the only means I have of escaping. “How so? Because you made it perfectly clear. I laid it all on the line and you sent me packing. Message received. This is where I belong.”

  “No,” he bites back. “It’s not. You’re more than this.”

  “Bullshit. I’ve never been enough for anybody!”

  “That’s not it at all.” His rough hand cups my cheek and his face gets close; close enough for me to see the wet on his eyelashes, the shadow under his eyes. His thumb moves, featherlight against the chafed skin of my cheekbone.

  “Don’t you see it, Tegan. It isn’t that you’re not enough.” His eyes drop to the floor and I watch in wonder as the evidence of his sorrow splashes onto the concrete, swiftly followed by another, and another. He takes a deep breath and looks into my eyes.

  Right into my eyes.

  “It’s that you’re too much.”

  BEING A FRESHMAN was overwhelming. I entered the doors that Fall not knowing what to expect, unsure of my future. I didn’t have a lot of friends and I liked to keep to myself. That was fine, preferable even, because being friends meant telling each other secrets. And there was no way in hell that I was ever going to tell anyone mine.

  Despite being a loner, boys had an interest in me. I attributed it to my early puberty. I had curves that other girls my age were still developing. Day after day, they’d come and sit with me. They’d make small talk, I’d offer a weak smile and they’d get the hint and move along. It was all very mundane and I quickly grew tired of it. Then one day, an upperclassman came and sat down across from me, wearing a Varsity jacket. I couldn’t quite make out what he’d earned it for so I asked. “What sport?”

  “Wrestling.” He grinned and my cheeks flushed. I could read between the lines. “You any good?”

  “Made it to states last year as a Sophomore.”

  “Nice. I’ll have to come watch you once the season starts.”

  I half expected him to make some lewd remark but he didn’t, choosing instead to go with a simple, “You should.”

  We sat across from each other and talked the whole lunch period, exchanging names and numbers when we had to go to class, him promising me he’d call that night.

  And he did.

  We talked half the night about nothing of importance and I quickly found myself enamored with him. Brent Johnson gave me more than the time of day; he gave me someone to talk to when I didn’t have anyone, and I hoped that he’d be the answer to my prayers. Maybe he was the one who would save me. Maybe he could protect me. Maybe he was the one.

  After a few weeks of daily lunch dates and late night phone conversations, he asked me out on a date. I accepted, giddy at the prospect. My mom took me shopping for a new dress and my father lectured me about the responsibilities that came with dating. I tuned him out.

  Brent took me to a really nice restaurant. I ate filet mignon and even had dessert. He paid and opened the car door for me—the epitome of a gentleman. I hoped he wanted me to be his girlfriend. After dinner, he drove us to a secluded spot overlooking the city and as soon as he turned the car off my stomach filled with butterflies, thinking he was going to kiss me. But he didn’t. “Isn’t it beautiful,” he said quietly.

  “Mmmhmmm,” I agreed, siting in silent, waiting for him to make his move, hoping that he’d reach across and take my hand; that he’d touch me in some way so that I’d know where I stood. Minutes felt like hours and then finally he did it. He slid his hand into mine. Our fingers entwined and I looked over at him and smiled. He did the same.

  “I like you a lot, Tegan.”

  My heart raced. “I like you too.”

  Slowly, he leaned over the center console and placed his lips on mine. A little unsure of myself, I stayed perfectly still as he ran his tongue tenderly over my bottom lip. He leaned back and looked at me with hooded eyes. “It’s okay, Tegan. I’m not gonna hurt you.

  And I believed him—after all, he’d given me no reason not to. I lifted myself up, pressing my lips against his, kissing him. This time I was more relaxed and allowed his tongue to slide into my mouth because even though I was nervous, I could feel the attraction between us. It felt good. His hands started to explore my body but I didn’t object. It should have startled me when I felt his hand on my thigh. I should have moved away as it traveled up underneath my skirt. And when he dipped his fingers into me I should have told him it was too soon.

  But none of that happened. Instead, I found myself extremely turned on. His fingers between my legs, I bucked against his hand, moaning as he did his thing and before I knew what was happening, I was on my back and he was between my legs.

  It was the first time I’d had sex willingly. It should’ve been the first time period, but it wasn’t. That was stolen from me a long time ago. But this time it was different. This time I was the one in control. I was the one calling the shots. I liked the power I had by offering myself up; liked how it felt to be wanted by someone. But more than that, I liked how it felt to want them.

  The next day I tried calling Brent. He didn’t answer.

  Monday, when I saw him in the cafeteria, he avoided me like the plague.

  Tuesday I got up the nerve to confront him
at his locker.

  “I’ve been trying to call you,” I said quietly. He sighed and slammed his locker shut before turning to face me.

  “I know.”

  My heart sank. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, Tegan, but we’re not a thing. You were fresh meat. Now . . .” He trailed off, smiling sympathetically, as if that would make the whole thing okay, and walked away, leaving me there in the hallway, completely destroyed. I vowed to never let another man make me feel like that again. I’d spent too many years in my life under the rule of another human with a penis.

  So, through the remainder of my freshman year, I made a reputation for myself. I embraced my sexuality, hopping from one guy to the next, no space in between. The guys didn’t seem to mind. In fact they really liked it. The girls, not so much. They made my life a living hell.

  Tramp.

  Slut.

  Whore.

  Spread it like peanut butter.

  These were things I listened to in the hallways, but somehow it didn’t bother me. How does the saying go? Sticks and stones may break my bones, but when you’ve been through hell you don’t give a flying fuck what names people call you. Instead of feeling sorry for myself, I reveled in the fact that I was controlling my life. I was choosing who crawled on top of me. I made the choice.

  And that was the way I liked it.

  YOU’RE TOO MUCH . . .

  Asher’s words echo in my brain over and over again. What does he mean, too much? Try as I might, I don’t understand. I probably never will. It’s beyond me. But there is one thing I do know. He came for me. He rescued me.

  He cares.

  I feel weightless, the emotion of the moment taking control. My breath comes fast. I’m hyperventilating. I’m trying to stay awake, really I am, but his voice starts to sound really slow, like a cassette player when it’s running low on batteries. His face distorts left, then right, then back again. His arrival, him saving me, the thought that I would have relapsed . . . it’s all too much for me. My eyelids are fluttering.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Gone.

  I’m back in Asher’s office. It’s yesterday again. That can’t be right. How am I back here? It seems so real. There is no sound and the quiet feels strange. Unnatural even. He’s standing in the doorway, holding it open for me. But this time he isn’t looking away. He’s looking straight at me. He’s smiling. He doesn’t want me to be with someone else; I just know it. He wants things to be just as they were. Just the two of us. I try to smile back at him but for some reason my lips wont move.

  He’s staring at me now.

  “Stay with me, Tegan,” he’s mouthing, but I can only see his lips moving. No sound comes out of his mouth. His face is changing, warping almost. My body jostles. Blood rushes in my ears. I can hear sounds. Loud sounds. People are talking. I recognize their voices.

  Opening my eyes slowly, I have to shield my eyes from the fluorescent lights above me. And then, somehow through the light, I see his face. He’s here. I feel strong arms under the backs of my knees and shoulders. He’s got me.

  I turn my face toward Asher’s chest, burrowing my face in the crook of his arm, feeling his grip around me tighten. Immediately I relax. He will keep me safe, I know it.

  If I strain, I can make out Jim, the night security guard, saying, “If she relapsed she’s outta the program, Hughes.”

  “She didn’t relapse,” he bites back.

  “Well where the hell was she? She looks terrible.”

  “She’s back, isn’t she?”

  “You better talk to her about consequences for her erratic behavior.”

  “I told you, don’t worry. I’ll handle it.”

  I hear an exasperated sigh and then nothing but the pounding of footsteps against the tile floor. Eventually he slows and I hear a door creak, then click shut, before my body is lowered onto something; a bed, maybe? I open my eyes and recognize the four walls as those that have come to be my home. My room at the center.

  I look around for a moment before allowing my eyes to land on his. They’re staring at me with concern. The feelings of shame and remorse flood every fiber of my being and I can’t keep the shame from spilling out of my eyes and down the side of my face. He leans down slowly, pressing his lips softly to my forehead. “I’m so sorry,” he says.

  My body is exhausted but somehow as his lips leave my skin it comes back to life. I want to tell him there’s nothing to be sorry for, that it’s not his fault, but I can’t. I can’t for a bunch of reasons. Mostly because I can’t find the ability to form words but partly because, in a fucked up way, I want for him to be sorry. I want it to be his fault. I want to be able to place the blame somewhere else. This can’t possibly be because of me. “You found me,” I manage to whisper, despite the fire attacking my throat.

  He nods, concern still weighing heavily on his brow. “I couldn’t not find you. I had to.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He’d been the one to say that I should work with someone else. He was the one who sent me into a tailspin. I needed him, and he even though he knew that he still wanted to pass me off to someone else.

  “When you left my office, I panicked, for a bunch of reasons, but mostly because I knew I’d made a mistake.” He leans forward so that his face is closer to mine. “I know I should stay away from you. The logical part of my brain knows that it would be what is best for both of us. But I’ll be damned if I can.”

  “I don’t want you to stay away.” My voice comes out so quiet and weak that I barely recognize it, but I need to say the words so he knows how I feel. No matter the outcome, I need to know I’ve told him everything.

  “I know.”

  His hand slowly moves toward the side of my face, his fingers cautious, tentative, as if moving of their own volition while he contemplates something. But then he makes up his mind, his finger lightly brushing my ear as he tucks a strand of hair away from my face.

  My eyes grow heavy. The emotional roller coaster of a day has drained me and now that I feel safe, the Sandman attempts to wrap me up in his arms. “It doesn’t make sense, does it?“ I say sleepily, with my eyes still closed.

  “I can’t explain it. I just want to see your light. The fire. The hunger. I want it all. With you. And I don’t care what I might lose trying to find it.”

  A slow smiles spreads across my face and I force my eyelids to open. A fit of schoolgirl giggles deep within my stomach threaten to make their presence known but knowing this reaction is somewhat inappropriate given his confession, I try my best to beat back my laughter. My battle is short-lived.

  “What’s so funny?” he asks staring down at me like I’m insane.

  “ This,” I say, reaching up to run my fingers along his cheek. “This is crazy.”

  He doesn’t join in, and my laughter slowly fades to silence. He stares down at me. His pupils are almost completely dilated, his lips pursed, his brows pulled together. “Tell me you don’t feel it too.”

  My once dry mouth fills with moisture and I fumble over my words in an attempt to get them out quick enough. To confirm what he knows to be true. “I can’t lie, Asher. Not again. Not ever. And especially not to you.”

  “Good. So why’d you do what you did?”

  “You of all people know why. Besides you, it’s all I’ve ever been able to count on. And when I thought you weren’t going to be around me anymore, I panicked and—”

  “Went back to the only other thing you could trust,” he finished for me. I nodded, unable to speak past the growing lump in my throat. “Don’t ever do that again, Tegan. I mean it.”

  “Then don’t leave me.” My words are demanding and fast, but they’re the truth. I need him to stay by my side. His eyes break away from mine, and they shift nervously as he contemplates my words.

  “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

  “You are.” And even though he’s said it, I’ve
said it, and he’s physically here, next to me, it doesn’t seem real. “Thank you. For not giving up on me,” I add.

  He shrugs like it was no big deal when we both know that couldn’t be further from the truth. “But, while we’re being honest, I have my own confession.” He pauses to take a breath and my heart drops, the weight of my nerves uncoiling like a snake in the pit of my stomach, making its way up through my body, choking me, making it hard to draw breath. “I’m scared shitless,” he blurts.

  “Of what?”

  “I’m scared that once I have a taste of you, I’ll never be able to stop.”

  “Then don’t.” I reach up, placing my hand on the left side his chest, directly over his heart. It hammers against my palm. It’s oddly reassuring that he’s as on edge as I am. With his eyes tracking my every move, I run my hand over his chest, up his muscular shoulder, down his arm, his eyes closing as the pads of my fingertips skim the top of his hand.

  “God, your touch . . .” His words trail off and for the briefest of moments there is nothing else. Nothing but him, and me, and whatever this thing is between us. Deep down, I don’t think that either of us understands it, but right now none of that seems to matter as warmth radiates from the point where our bodies connect. He leans in, closing the distance between us and I watch in wonder as he revels in my touch. I wish I could stay here, locked in this moment forever. But even as I think about it, I know that any kind of forever won’t be long enough.

  “I should leave.” Fear surrounds me as he knifes up and away from me, the air around me devoid of everything Asher. I don’t like it. I don’t want to be alone. I can’t be alone.

  “Please don’t leave.”

  “I shouldn’t stay in here with you any longer. Someone might notice. It’s not right.”

  “We shouldn’t eat cake or deep fried Oreos, but we all indulge here and there, don’t we?”

  He looks at me, his knuckle bouncing against his lower lip, looking over my shoulder toward the door as he blows out a series of short breaths. I touch his elbow and he stills, his teeth holding his knuckle captive, the skin turning white with the pressure.