Jeremiah Quick

by SM Johnson

  When he came back, he draped something with many heavy soft strands over her left shoulder, and she cut her eyes that direction, tilted her head, and saw a thick set of brown flogger tails. Was this to be the rest of her punishment? How many were left now, just ten? Had she earned further punishment with the ten on her backside? She didn't know, couldn't remember. Silence was still terrible, but was starting to feel almost normal. She didn't even have to fight away the words anymore.

  His hands kneaded the flesh of her back, a deep massage, soothing and warming her. It went on until she was almost swaying on her feet, drowsing in her bindings, her whole body relaxed and leaning back, trying to lean into him, longing to feel his arms around her, not just his hands on her skin.

  The flogger tails slipped from her shoulder, and she could hear them brushing softly together as he did something behind her. When the tails struck the wood beside her, she flinched and let out a voiceless gasp.

  He struck the wood a few more times, as if warming up his arm.

  And then he flung the flogger over her shoulder again, and walked away. Her half-starved brain sucked up every sound. A click. Groaning hinges, rustle, rustle. Thump.

  And then he appeared in front of her, almost smiling, almost making her smile, because he was wearing the old, old jacket, the one with the spikes, and it took her back in time, her heart soaring at the sight of him – yes! This. Her friend and teacher. Jeremiah.

  He cupped her cheek with his left hand, and for just those few seconds, looked like he wasn't lonely.

  His mouth came close, his breath warm against her lips, and an eternity of waiting happened between the breath and the kiss.

  And then it was... just as it had been. The scent of autumn in her memory, bonfires. Hot coals and embers. The first touch of his lips burned, a kind of shock to her system, and as he pressed his tongue between her lips, she gasped an inhale, her eyes closing for a half a second, then opening to see his irises morph into a darker shade of blue as he exhaled, letting her breathe him in. He leaned toward her, jacket spikes clicking against the wood, a hundred pressure-points that she longed to feel against her skin.

  His hand came up to hold her chin between thumb and finger, and his tongue danced a cool swirl against hers, a firmer press in, the feel of his teeth nipping at her lip.

  The smell of him and the taste of him... the answer to an endless question, a fulfillment of a wish, a hope, a dream.

  It was over too soon.

  He released her face first, and then her lips, and circled around, tugging the flogger from her shoulder as he went by.

  Pretty braced and tensed for the thud, and this time the tails landed on her back.

  It felt like… well, not much different than the massage of his fingers, really – heavy and warm, not biting, but there, unable to be ignored.

  It came again, a definite thud, not frightening, not exactly painful.

  She counted to two on her fingers, then waited a beat… and then… three. This one definitely hard enough for her to catch her breath. And… four – but no, it didn't come. Wait, wait. She was already anticipating his rhythm – because it was what she'd come to expect – fast or slow, there was always a discernible rhythm.

  But… nothing. And then he was touching her hand, curling her fingers into her palm, stretching his neck to kiss her fist, holding it enclosed in his hand for a minute, shaking his head, a slow deliberate No.

  She tried to follow his silent message. It was obvious he didn't want her to count. Because… this wasn't punishment?

  Oh! Why did he make it so difficult? If he'd just talk, she could bear it. She could bear anything, if he would only explain.

  When he resumed the flogging there was a rhythm, all right – and nothing Pretty would have been able to count on her fingers. The tails fell and thudded, one lash after another, and she reacted not at all at first, but later – and she had no idea how much later – with struggles and wiggles and flinging her head back and forth, trying to hard not to make noise, but her back was unbearably hot, some kind of mush and burning, and what she didn't identify as pain with the first few blows, and maybe not even the first quarter of an hour – now she knew was the worst torture she'd ever been subjected to.

  And she knew how to make it stop.

  She heaved, and cried out, and stopped fighting the burning in her eyes and let them fill with the tears he wanted.

  And then the flogger was on the floor and Jeremiah was facing her from the other side of the wood, blocking her from seeing herself in the mirror, leaning in and lapping at her face.

  In the silence, Pretty could almost hear him thinking, coaxing, Yes… cry for me. You know I love it.

  Hands patting her hair, lifting it from her neck, blowing cool breath into the sweaty mess, and then he was walking around her again, too close, until he was directly behind her. Pretty watched him in the mirror as he took one last step and leaned, pressing a hundred tiny spikes into her sensitized flesh, hard enough that not only did she absolutely groan out loud… she writhed and moaned and came - the unexpected orgasm tearing through her, shuddering her limbs, arching her spine as much as possible while strapped to the frame, hips frantically thrusting into the space beneath the crossbeams where there was nothing to thrust against.

  Just. From. That.

  The press of his armor.

  Ahh, Jeremiah, she thought, we're both fucked, aren't we?

  And he… he took his silence and left. Yet again.

  Without even giving her a taste of chocolate.

  Jeremiah was in complete control of their relationship, always. Pretty was open, friendly, talkative. Too much so, perhaps, for he tended to ignore her when she was at her most chatty, when she was talking just for the sake of talk, to fill in the silence. Or he'd find a way to shut her down. Once, she complained to him about the fainting girl. How, the moment anyone had something they were excited to tell the group, the fainting girl collapsed into a boneless heap on the floor, face slack, eyelids fluttering, interrupting the conversation, pulling all the attention to herself.

  Pretty thought it was suspect that the fainting girl never got hurt. And because Jeremiah hated bullshit, she thought she'd have his sympathy. So when she paused to elicit some response from him about the gossipy complaint, she was startled to find frown lines marking his forehead, and one of his colder expressions directed at her. "It's her reality, not yours. Maybe she doesn’t know any other way to ask for attention."

  What? He was going to take her side? But that girl drove Pretty crazy…

  "Be a better friend," he suggested. "Listen and be kind."

  Huh.

  That shut her up for the rest of the lunch period, quietly pouting and feeling very uncool. Which was as ridiculous as anything – Jeremiah was the opposite of cool – and yet… somehow his opinion of Pretty mattered, and it bothered her that he thought she was being unkind.

  Still. The next time the girl fainted, Pretty found herself rushing toward her instead of standing back rolling eyes at the ceiling, and then made herself be quiet, more available to listen.

  Jeremiah never gossiped. Not even when Chill shaved his eyebrows, and everyone seemed to think it was exceptionally weird, and it made Pretty self-conscious of her own eyebrows, so light blonde they were almost invisible.

  "But why did he do it?" she asked Jeremiah.

  "Ask him."

  That made her squirm. "I don't want to ask him. I want you to tell me."

  "Listen, Precious. I don't talk about you to other people. And I won't talk about Chill to you. If you have a question about his fucking eyebrows, ask him. It's not hard. You open your mouth and let words come out. It's not like you have any trouble with that any other time."

  She didn't know how to explain it – how sometimes it was her very shyness that made her chatter, that silence felt heavy and non-productive. If she was silent, and Jeremiah didn't talk, they weren't interacting, and therefore Pretty wasn't learning more about him.
/>   Again, ridiculous, because she only ever learned what he was good and ready to share.

  She didn't know his favorite food, his secret fear, his hope for the future. She could name a band or two he liked, but didn't know if they were his favorites. She knew he liked black, and British flags, and safety pins. And spikes.

  The next morning Jeremiah gave her a hard nudge in Chill's direction, and a very long, steady look.

  She rolled her eyes, and he answered with a quick jerk of his chin, again indicating Chill.

  All right, all right. Loud and clear. Asshole.

  She ambled toward Chill, hating to interact with him, really, because he was… well. She was going to say weirder than Jeremiah, but that wasn't true. Chill was differently weird, obviously enmeshed in the same sub-culture, but somehow… less appealing. He came across as less bright – to the point that knowing his IQ was genius level made him almost like an idiot savant. And she felt shitty just thinking that.

  "Hey, Chill," she said, letting her shoulder bump against his in greeting. She didn't know why he was out here all the time – he didn't even smoke. But that was unfair, too. She knew that he went where Jeremiah went.

  "Good morn-ing, Sun Shine," he said, enunciating each syllable, making both morning and sunshine into two words, and looking directly into her eyes. He was one of the shorter guys around, only a couple inches taller than Pretty.

  "Can I ask you something that might be personal?"

  He shrugged, but his pupils flared for just a second, and his expression was open, so she took the chance. "Why did you shave your eyebrows off? Everybody's wondering."

  "Interesting," he said, in the same concise tone. "Not one person has asked."

  "I'm asking," she said, and offered a tiny smile.

  His facial expression didn't change, but his eyes seemed maybe a little warmer. "My cat died."

  She nodded and smiled, pretending that this made perfect sense, but of course, it made no sense at all.

  "He found me seven years ago, and he never left. I will mourn him until the next cat finds me."

  It was the most words she'd ever heard him say in one stretch.

  She gave up trying to understand and decided to just be kind, which came naturally to her. "I'm sorry about your cat," she said. "That sucks."

  He nodded, and then turned slightly away, breaking eye contact with her to glare toward the red line, where one of the asshole wanna-be jock stars was leaning into Jeremiah's space, saying something heated.

  Pretty caught the word 'faggot' and the word 'freak,' and then she was there, sliding in between them, the back of her winter coat scraping against the studs of Jeremiah's leather jacket. "What's your problem? Jesus, don't you have any friends out here?"

  This made the jock asshole laugh, and she felt Jeremiah's breath hot against her ear as he said quietly, "Not helping."

  "There's no help for a permanent asshole," she answered, talking to both of them. "But hey, Nick, you know Melinda?" Pretty gestured across the pavement at the fainting girl. "Over there, reddish hair, pixie face? That girl thinks you're totally mint. Go talk to her."

  It was like tossing a coin past a crow, or a peanut near a squirrel. Nick the wanna-be jock held up two middle fingers as he backed away, then turned and made sure he tucked them away before sauntering through Pretty's friend group and saying something that made Melinda blush and smile.

  The bell for first period would ring in three minutes at the most.

  She didn't even turn to look at Jeremiah. She knew she would be less than pleased.

  "What the hell were you doing?" he asked, his voice rougher than gravel, which she took to mean either he was pissed, or he was trying not to cry.

  She had no idea. She still didn't look at him. "I like you. I hate when they're assholes."

  "There will always be assholes. I don't want you to do that, ever. I don't need you to stand up for me."

  "But you don't do anything, you just take it. And you… you could slay them with words, easy. If you wanted to." Because he slayed her with his words, all the time. And then she was the one crying.

  His whole voice, hell, his whole body, when she turned to see him walking backward, was one long, lean sneer. "They're not worth either my time or my energy. And I'm a pacifist. If you don't know what that means, look it up."

  The bell rang.

  Bastard, she hissed to herself, but he must have heard because the sneer grew even more well-defined, and he flicked his fingers at her, then toward the entrance to the school. "See you soon, Precious."

  She knew what a pacifist was, but when she got to third period English she looked it up anyway, unsurprised to read a person opposed to war or violence of any kind.

  Oh so lovely and idealistic, but Pretty was still pissed off. She hated that Jeremiah stood still and let the assholes hit, shove, and humiliate him. She guessed she wasn't a pacifist. She believed in standing up for yourself. She suspected Jeremiah would say that by being passive, he was standing up for something bigger than himself. But the truth was, it made him look like a coward, helpless, and she hate hate hated that. He wasn't helpless, he was brilliant. And if he chose to look odd, well, what of it? The world didn't need more and more and more of the same, did it? Different was interesting. Fascinating, and Pretty didn't understand why more people didn't get that – why they were so terribly afraid of different.

  Because humans are pack animals. Everyone wants to fit in, we all want to belong, her brain answered, very, very quietly.

  And she never would, not for a long, long time.

  Not with Jeremiah; not with Drew or Laughing Girl. Not at school or work or her parents' house.

  She would build her own reality, her own little place of fitting in. And she would find belonging. And twenty years later, she'd let Jeremiah Quick lead her away from it. And for what? To fuck? To finish something they'd started eons ago?

  Chapter 15

  He stayed away for a long time.

  Long enough for the inevitable to happen – the bladder twinge, and much, much worse – a twisting rolling cramp deep in her gut that she fought, oh, with everything she had, but to no avail.

  She cried, then, in anticipation of the humiliation of his return, and couldn't bear it, couldn't bear any of this.

  He would take all of her away, and then what?

  On a deeper level, she knew exactly what; there would be nothing left. Of either of them

  The click of the door startled her to attention, horrified all over again.

  She was a mess, all aching arms and trembling limbs and stink.

  The first thing he did was come around the X frame and look into her face. The makeup was smudged, almost worn away, and his eyes were initially kind, thumbs brushing her cheeks as he kissed her mouth sweetly, ignoring the fact that her legs were a mess of urine and shit. Some deep interior part of her rolled over, offering soft underbelly, trusting his kindness. But then, as if he felt the salty trails of tears beneath the pads of his thumbs, his kindness faded, and eyes turned cold, detached.

  He said, "You cried without me. Pity. I'm disappointed in you."

  Hearing his voice after what felt like days was an overwhelming gift, but the words, themselves, crushed her.

  She would have collapsed without the bonds, curled up on the floor as far into herself as she could go, arms wrapped over her head to hide her face, so strong was her sense of shame.

  But of course she could do none of that, only hang helplessly and endure.

  "So, so disappointed, Pretty."

  That brought another wave of shame, that he, who rarely addressed her by name, would call her pretty when she was this much of a mess.

  It felt like a betrayal, and she felt little, and helpless, and tears slipped from her eyes like an apology.

  He kissed them away, his lips against her cheek the gentlest touch. And then he smiled into her eyes. "A peace offering. Rather brilliant of you. Are you tired of being silent?"

  She n
odded her head, pleading, she hoped, with her eyes. Begging. Not silence. No more silence. She had a million words built up, waiting to tumble out her mouth, to explain her life, to convince him she wasn't the person he thought she was, and she didn't deserve his disdain when she only wanted him to love her back.

  "Not just now, but soon," he said.

  He left her for a few minutes and came back with a warm towel that he used to wash her backside and legs. His movements were quick, efficient, and without comment. She cringed while he cleaned the floor, embarrassed all over again at her body's betrayal, grateful that he didn't groan or complain or tease.

  She fell against him when he unfastened her, unable to hold her own weight. The pins and needles sensation in her arms made her grit her teeth. She flopped one hand toward the opposite arm in an effort to speed up the acclimation. He laughed, a soft snort, and said, "Little dork," and she burned again, wondering how she could please him.

  He walked her a couple times around the play-space, until she had her legs under her own control, and then led her into the bathroom. "Shower?" he asked, and she nodded. The thought of a hot shower was so amazing that she would have agreed to more hours of silence. But the privilege didn't seem to require that price. Maybe showers were free when you shit yourself. She flushed with embarrassment at the thought, then shoved it away. There was no point in getting stuck on that. It was over. Jeremiah didn't seem hung up on it.

  He greeted her with a towel when she stepped out of the shower stall, not letting her take it in her hands, but using it to dry her, still as if she were helpless.

  She didn't like it, and her dislike must have shown in her face, because he said, "Shh. This is the least of what you'll have to be angry about, so I suggest you don't bother."

  Well. That was not at all what she wanted to hear.

  There was a counter set on top of cabinets that extended past the sink, with a mirror the length of it on the wall, and when Jeremiah decided Pretty was dry enough, he stood her in front of this, wound the towel around her wet hair, and pressed her down, so her breasts kissed the countertop. "Stay," he said, and the command made her want to scratch his face. Stay, like a dog. Like a slave.