Flame

by Clarissa Wild

  Her lips part, a moan slips out, and she shivers from the waves of ecstasy flowing through her. I thrust into her again, catching each and every drop of her orgasm until I explode, shooting my come into her with a loud, guttural groan.

  After a while, I can barely hold her up anymore, my body drained of all its energy. My flaccid cock spills out of her, and I lower her to the floor before ditching the condom. She sighs, noticeably shaken by what happened, but then a sneaky smile creeps onto her face and she’s all giggles again.

  “Oh … my God,” she whispers.

  “What?” I say, grinning as I zip up my pants again.

  “We just had sex … at school.” Her eyes sparkle with excitement, making me laugh. Guess that’s a new one for her. Not for me, unfortunately. I wish she was my first, but it’s too late for that. Luckily I get to show her all the good things in life, though.

  “Hmm …” I murmur, kissing her sternum as she fumbles with her jeans to get the button right. “I like surprise sex.”

  She giggles again. So many giggles. It’s cute. “Yeah, but what about class?”

  “Who cares?”

  “I do …” Her voice shifts back into the uncomfortable zone again, so I’m guessing this is not something I can get off her mind right now. She really is concerned.

  “Look. We’ll catch up. Don’t worry about it.”

  She pulls down her shirt, covering her beautiful tits again. Damn. I was so used to staring at them. “But if we keep this up, we won’t be following any classes if it were up to you.”

  I smirk. “That part is right.”

  She playfully slaps me on my arm. “Hey! You know college is important.”

  “Yeah, yeah … I know,” I sigh.

  “Although … it was fun,” she muses.

  “I hope it was much more than that.”

  I don’t know if she moans or gasps, but the sound still fucking turns me on. Only she can do that. “Much more …”

  I kiss her neck again, trailing up to her ear as my hands move from the wall to her waist. Wrapping my arms around her, I hold her close, sniffing up her scent as I enjoy this moment of us two just being together.

  “Hmmm …”

  “So … this is your way of keeping us together,” she murmurs.

  I chuckle a little. “Pretty much.”

  “Hmm … Well, I don’t object.” Now she’s chuckling too.

  “I hope not. I intend to do this more often.” I look up into her brilliant blue eyes, the vastness of them still amazing me.

  “What? You mean in here?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Who knows.” I peck her on the lips softly, lingering, our lips still partially locked together as I continue speaking. “Anywhere, anytime is good for me.”

  She giggles, and I’m not sure if it’s because she secretly likes the idea of having surprise sex, or if she’s still a little scaredy-cat. I guess what I’m about to say will probably put her on edge, but I’m okay with that. She’ll just have to deal with it, because I want something … and when I want something, I do everything to get it.

  With a smirk, I say, “I want you to start the pill.”

  She gasps, her eyes widening. “W-what? Why?” Her cheeks turn red as a beet, making me grin. I like that color. Makes me want to kiss her more so she turns red all over.

  “You heard me,” I say. My hand slips from the small of her back to her belly, slipping further down with each ragged breath she takes. Placing my hand on top of her pussy, I say, “The next time I take you here, I want to feel it. For real. Naked. Nothing in between us.”

  She swallows, quivering as I move my fingers around, showing her that I don’t intend to ever let her out of my sight.

  “And I’m going to take a test, so you know I’m for real. I want to have you completely, and for that I need you to feel me. So I’m not taking no for an answer.”

  “O-okay,” she stutters.

  For a second I just stare at her, squinting, gauging her reaction. From the look in her eyes I can tell she knows I mean business. “Good. Now let’s get back to class.”

  CHAPTER 8

  WRECKED

  Hunter

  Evening, A few days later…

  We’re chilling on her bed, watching a movie together because that’s what couples do. She picked out some sappy love story, like all those girls, but I don’t mind. I’m not even watching the movie. I just enjoy having her next to me with her head on my chest as I caress her cheek. Touching her brings me peace of mind, and that’s all I need to relax.

  She sighs, and it’s not one of those ‘I love this movie so much’ sighs, but more of a ‘there’s something wrong, but I’m not telling’ sigh. I hate that kind of sigh. Only girls seem to be able to not actually talk when they want to talk. It’s like they deliberately want things to escalate.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask gruffly.

  “Well … this is nice.”

  Okay. I blink a couple of times, trying to grasp what she’s saying. Does she mean it in a good way or is it just sarcastic? I wish I knew. There’s no understanding her. Maybe that’s why I only fucked girls and never dated them.

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “Nothing …”

  “Oh, c’mon.” I turn toward her, making eye contact in the hopes of getting a real answer from her.

  “It just seems like …” She sucks in those lasts words as if she’s afraid to speak her mind.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know … it just feels like we only have sex.”

  I frown. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, we never really talk.”

  I’m confused. I don’t know what she means, but then again, I’m not much of a talker, so I guess she’s got a point. I’ve always been more of a physical being. Nothing wrong with that, but I suppose she’d be more into talking. I wouldn’t know what to talk about, though. I hate random conversations about the weather and how someone’s weekend was. That’s fucking uninteresting. I wonder what she wants from me, and I wonder if I can even give it to her.

  “What do you want to talk about?” I ask.

  “Well … I barely know anything about your past, for example. Or where you come from. What you did before you went to college. Your friends. Your parents.”

  The moment she mentions my parents, I freeze. It feels like my heart stopped beating. I loathe that word, but then I realize she’s right. I never tell her anything, because I hate digging up the past. I hate talking about anything that’s from before she came into my life. It’s not pretty, it’s fucked up, and I’d rather forget about everything than dig it up again.

  “I can’t …” I mutter, defeated. I know she won’t take no for an answer, but I don’t know what else to say. I don’t even want her to know. What would she think of me if she did? My mother, she was … not a real mother. No mother would do that to her children.

  “But why? I really want to get to know you,” she says, clinging to my arm. I think she’s afraid I might barge out on her. I might. I don’t want to, but I might. Anything to avoid having this conversation.

  “I don’t want to dig up old crap in my life. That doesn’t make me happy.”

  “What crap? You can’t even tell me why your parents left you and your brother? Because I think that’s a pretty important thing in your life, and I want to know about it so I can support you and understand you better.”

  “No! You don’t understand. My parents were never there for me. I don’t have anything to tell you, because I barely remember them at all.”

  Her lips part in a moment of shock, her eyes widening as she sees the misery in mine. I know she can see it all behind my eyes, the hurt, the pain. Everything I’ve been through. And then the expression on her face changes from confusion to recognition. It’s almost as if she knows what I’m feeling.

  “What happened to them?” she asks, hesitantly.

  My head drops between my shoulders as I stare at the remote control in my
hand. I don’t know what to tell her. Even if I wanted to, I still wouldn’t know what to say. I wish I knew where my parents were.

  “I don’t know …” I mutter under my breath. I know what happened to them, but I don’t want to tell her. I really want this conversation to be over.

  She leans forward far enough to look into my eyes, her brows furrowed. “You don’t want to tell me.”

  My fingers brush through my hair as I attempt to get a grip on the situation. I know what she’s asking, and I want to give it to her, but I’m far too afraid of her reaction. Too afraid of my own reaction to what happened. Too afraid to face the demons that haunt my nightmares.

  I get up from the bed and walk around the room. Memories flood my head, heating me with anger. Hatred. Rage. I can’t stop the uncontrollable fury from rushing through my veins, can’t stop the pain from pouring in. I don’t want to feel it. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to remember it. I don’t want to remember my parents abandoning me and my brother.

  “I’m sorry if I’m asking too much of you,” she says quietly. Her voice doesn’t chase away the memories consuming me. She and my brother have been the only thing keeping me from hitting rock bottom, but this … this can bring me down. Talking about my past tears open the gashes I’ve never fully closed.

  “Please … come sit back down with me.” She pats the bed.

  “No!” I don’t want to yell, but the anxiety is taking control. “I can’t. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “We don’t have to …”

  “I can’t go back to watching a movie now, pretending everything is okay,” I say. I wish I could, but it’s not that simple. I can’t block out the thoughts from entering my mind. Now that she’s opened up old wounds, they’re all I can think about. And I can’t let go.

  “I have to go,” I say, and I storm out the door before she can say another word.

  ♥♥♥

  6 years ago

  I’m walking home from school, wandering across the streets as I stare at the beautiful houses. Peeking into their living rooms, I can clearly see the candle flames dancing, flickering through the window like a warm, inviting light. People walking in the rooms are oblivious to me, which gives me all the more reason to keep looking. Their happy faces make me smile, if only for a second. Catching a glimpse of a normal life lets me escape from reality.

  Envy unfurls in my stomach, and a bad taste enters my mouth as I spit on the ground and walk further. Up to the next house. Up to the next short moment of carelessness.

  Reaching my house is the last thing I want, but I know it’ll happen eventually. I’ll have to go home. I always have to. There’s nowhere else I can go, and my brother needs me. Not as much as I need him, though. I probably wouldn’t even be alive without him.

  No one at my age should be going through this. No one should be picking up their mom from the grass every morning. No kid should have to drag his mom to bed. No kid should have to raise himself.

  My home is a broken one. When I spot it, a heavy feeling overcomes me. Each step I take leads to another day in hell.

  The garden is littered with used needles, empty bottles of liquor, and old condoms. Me and my brother never have time to clean it all up. We’re too busy trying to keep the house clean enough to live in.

  As I enter the house, a familiar but disgusting stench causes me to cough. All the windows are closed, smoke wafts through the air, bottles are scattered on the table, and an empty bag of white powder is in my mother’s hand as she hangs like a wet rag in her seat. Ash-gray hair sticks to her face, masking her eyes. Her head is on the table, and she’s snoring loudly. The only thing keeping her in place is her bony ass stuck to that chair she only leaves to get some more. More of whatever she needs to satisfy her addictions.

  “Hey, bro,” Jessie says. He’s unwinding the vacuum plug, turning it on at the same time.

  “Hey …” I say.

  “Sorry, I thought I’d have it cleaned up by now, but it was too much of a mess.”

  “Don’t apologize,” I say. “It’s not your fault.”

  He smiles briefly. “I know. I just don’t want you to see it.”

  A moment of silence passes between us, the air thick with unspoken words. I owe my brother so much. He’s the only one taking care of both of us right now. I wonder how long we’ll last if she keeps this up.

  I start unpacking my things, shoving my mother aside from the table so I have enough room to check what I need to do. My notebook is filled to the brim with short notes of things I need to remember. My memory always fails me, especially when it comes to short-term things like homework or names. It’s been like this for as long as I can remember. My brother thinks it’s because of my mother. We don’t know her any other way than she is now. Drunk. Addicted. Full of drugs.

  Just thinking about it makes my skin crawl. Sometimes I really hate her, but she’s my mother too. I owe her for keeping us alive, for trying to do her best to give us a home. Somewhere along the way she failed. I can’t not resent her for that. At times I wonder if she ever intended to have us or if we were accidents she regrets.

  It doesn’t change anything about our situation. It doesn’t change anything about the fact that it’s her fault I have a learning disability and my brother has ADD.

  One of the notes slips from my book, and it lands on her arm. The paper immediately gets stained with blood. Sighing, I pick up the piece of paper and notice the puncture marks on her skin. She looks more like an orange than a human sometimes, that’s how many holes she shot into herself. So many it doesn’t stop bleeding. Still, it doesn’t make her quit.

  Suddenly, she grabs my hand, and I’m startled by her movement. I jolt up and pull my hand back as her head shoots up from the table. Her eyes are bloodshot, staring back at me with a crazy look, like she doesn’t know who I am. It takes her a few seconds to register that it’s me, and then a smile slowly creeps onto her face, exposing her black, broken teeth and smelly breath.

  “Hunter …” she mumbles.

  Her hand drops off the table, the bag of powder tumbling to the floor. The sound immediately catches her attention, as if it’s food for a starving woman. Bending to pick it up, her fingers tremble as she reaches for the bag.

  “Shit. It’s empty.”

  “You used too much again,” I add.

  “No, no, no, this can’t happen,” she mumbles, clearly still under the influence.

  “Mom. Calm down. You can go without it for a few hours. You won’t die.”

  “No, I can’t!” she gets up from her seat, barely able to stand; her legs are two thin sticks ready to snap.

  “I’m going to get more,” she stammers, grabbing me by the coat.

  “Let go of me,” I say.

  “You can’t stay here alone with your brother.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because …” she sniffs. “I need you. I can’t do this without you.” She wipes away the tears filling her eyes. She, most of all of us, is unable to face the monster she’s become.

  “No, Mom. I’m not coming with you. I’m not going to be your busboy again. Not anymore.”

  “What? You don’t mean that. You know I need you. Please don’t let me go through this alone.” She tightens her grip on my arm, dragging me to the door. Resisting is what I should be doing, but I don’t want to hurt her. She’s been hurt enough in her life.

  “Stop,” Jessie shouts. He stops vacuuming, turning it off. His fists are balled, his nostrils flaring, and his stance is aggressive, as if he’s about to attack my mother. I know he would if it was necessary.

  “Let. Him. Go.” His teeth barely separate as he speaks the words. His furrowed brows even scare me.

  Her fingers untangle themselves from my arm, and I shake myself loose from her grip. I turn away from her, slanting to the side because I’m scared she might grab me again and make a run for it. My brother is and always will be the only thing keeping her from ruining not only herself, but m
e, too.

  “Fine, but I’m going,” she says, and after making a horrible face she walks out the door. The slam that follows forces the tears to spring from my eyes.

  ♥♥♥

  My brother got some groceries so we could eat properly tonight. Mom brought home some cash the other night, so we used it up before she had a chance to get her hands on it. We didn’t want her to spend it all on drugs again.

  Jessie’s busy cooking up some food and it smells delicious. I’m doing the laundry, washing my mom’s dirty clothes, which are scattered across the house. They all smell like piss, puke, and come. I don’t want to know what she’s been doing, and I sure as hell don’t want to know what she does in this house when we’re not around.

  At night I don’t leave my room. When I was younger I used to go for a glass of water in the middle of the night, but one look at her room and the tiny slit through which I could see the unknown man taking advantage of my mother was enough for me to stop getting out of bed completely. Now, I don’t leave my bed until my brother wakes me, assuring me it’s safe.

  I don’t feel safe. Not ever. Not with my mother. Only my brother pulls us through this hell.

  He told me he’ll get a job and take care of us both so we don’t have to rely on my mother. I doubt it’s going to work, considering his condition, but I won’t stop him. Desperation calls for drastic measures. Bills must be paid, and hungry stomachs must be filled.

  I’m taking out the trash in the dark when I discover my mom lying face-down on the grass. The bag drops to the floor as I rush to her side. Even after everything she’s done, I still care about her. She is my mother. There was once a time where I think she loved us. I try to hold on to that thought.

  I roll her to the side and immediately notice the bruises on her arms, face, neck. A needle is stuck in her arm, the contents already flowing through her bloodstream. Grabbing her wrist, I check her pulse, but I don’t feel anything. My heart starts racing as I bend over and hover close to her nose. No breathing.