The words sound muffled, distant, but I hear them through the water in my ears and above my head, across years of time.
“Shhhh,” Aidan whispers, his fingers trailing along my spine. It’s that sound, his voice, that pulls me from my dream and into our room, tugs me back into my own body lying next to his. I don’t open my eyes, but I part my lips.
“You were dreaming,” he cuts me off.
I stretch, reaching for his hand, then I pull it to my chest. I want to ask for more, but without having to speak.
Aidan nuzzles my neck, obliging my request, but not for long. He stops to ask, “Were you dreaming about me?”
Was I? The dream is gone, my consciousness shaking it lose the moment it took over. Though, something feels right about his suggestion. I dream of Aidan often.
“I can’t remember. Why?”
“You were moaning like you were.” He smiles, mischievousness written all over his face. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I just wanted to touch you.”
I sigh and lean into his body.
“Why are you awake now, anyway?” I ask, looking to the clock on his nightstand. “It’s three in the morning.”
“You woke me up.”
And I bury my face in my hands, no longer wishing for another round of sex. “Well, that’s embarrassing.”
“Shut up,” he says. But I don’t uncover my eyes, leaving my fingers pressed hard enough to send shooting stars across the blackness behind my lids. “Hey, look at me.” He grabs my chin, tilting it softly and slowly until I finally look into his eyes.
“Fine,” I breathe out.
And I kiss him. I pull him by the hair, bringing his face crashing into mine, meeting our lips hard and fierce. It feels good, the rough texture of our kiss, the pressure of his body as I pull him on top of me. The force of his knee pressed between my legs, his hand in my hair, his tongue on my teeth, his teeth biting my lip. It all feels so good.
Aidan’s hands worship my skin, as I internally worship all of him, his mind, his soul. He’s so different than anyone I’ve ever been with before. He matches me stride for stride, making me his partner in almost everything, even here. When I stroke his sides, he moves his attention to my breast. When I arch my back, he runs his fingers though my messy hair.
When I kiss him, he devours me at the exact pace and depth I beg for.
But then it’s over too fast; he’s back beside me instead of on top, and he’s letting his fingers drum lightly down my spine once more.
“Are you kidding me?”
“Shhhh.” He echoes his response from before, making me want to deck him. “It’s late, we’re exhausted, and you actually have to get some writing done tomorrow.”
He may be right, but I don’t have to like it. I turn over, facing the wall, and sigh heavily so he knows I’m annoyed as hell. But it doesn’t change his mind, so I try willing myself to sleep. I focus on the wall, past the wall, on nothing, on the blackness behind my eyes.
And I’m almost there when a sound pulls me back.
Aidan breathes into the night, filling my body with the questions I can feel spiraling from his mind even if they aren’t to his lips yet.
“What?” I ask, because if I don’t now I’ll still have to later.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs against my earlobe, trying to let it go.
“What?”
“I just…I just wondered about the first time you…” He sounds nervous, which is relatively rare coming from him. The only other time I’ve heard it was when he realized I knew he was like me, the same night he asked me to marry him.
“The first time I watched someone take their last breath?” I finish for him.
“Killed someone” is probably what he was going to say, but it doesn’t seem to fit into the space here tonight, into the warmth of our bed.
He nods. “I realized, you’ve never told me. I think you’ve told me about some, but not that one. I was too stupid to ask, too wrapped up in my own stories for you. You know about my first,” he says, pleading with me. His tone is soft, letting me know it’s okay to say no. But before I can speak he continues, adding to his case. “You know nothing really lead up to mine; there weren’t any signs. I just snapped.”
I roll to face him again.
“I know.”
I don’t start sharing, though; I want to hear him say it. I want him to ask the right way.
“I just want to know all about you, everything I don’t know already. I want to understand what makes you you. Please.”
Then
I reminded myself to breathe, blink away the crimson if I could. Breathe. Calm down.
“Come on in,” Parker said with his back to me, as I tried singeing holes there as I stared. “Felix bailed, so I came home to crash early instead.”
Lie.
“I—I texted you, but I never heard back. Did you get it?”
LIE.
He stumbled over his words as he lead me to his bedroom, scrambling for what I’d want to hear, probably praying I hadn’t crossed paths with anyone on my way in. He was so obvious, so stupid, it was hard not to react.
Inside I screamed.
But on the outside I was the picture of calm, the same old me.
“Weird, I didn’t,” I said through the pain in my jaw from clenching. “I just came over hoping to surprise you. I missed you.”
“Get over here.” Parker flopped on his bed and motioned for me to join him. His hair was everywhere and his sheets were still rumpled. And as he laid there a thought exploded, giving me a breath of energy and determination that I didn’t know I’d needed.
I stripped off my dress, and he waggled his eyebrows at me.
“You’re gonna break me, baby,” he said with a lazy smile.
“Let’s hope.”
I knelt on the bed but didn’t let him touch me, pretending to tease him like he preferred. “Here,” I said as I tied first one hand to his headboard, then took off the rest of my clothes to tie his other limbs.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you tonight, but I like it.” He almost growled the words, and they pushed me forward.
I leaned down and kissed him. Bile rose in my throat as I did it, but I let his tongue search my mouth, pretending everything was the same. Nothing in my life up to that point seemed to matter, and I wasn’t sure there would be anything to come after, so all that mattered was now.
All that mattered was this.
After I pulled back, I leaned to check each of his ties, pulling tighter on them all.
Parker winced, but he refused to say I was hurting him, big strong man that he was. I gritted my teeth before finally opening my mouth to ask him why, to ask him what the hell he had been doing with me all this time.
But then I had an idea, and hopped off the bed silently instead.
“What the hell?” he asked.
And all I said was, “Hold on.” I almost laughed then, because what else was he going to do?
I came back with my hands behind my back, still completely naked, and when I got onto the bed I straddled him. His body reacted exactly as expected, and I could see the lust clouding over his face.
“HOW could you?” I screamed.
He jerked back, as far as he could, as my hands came out from their hiding place and a flash of metal caught in his sight.
I screamed the words again, willing him to say the right thing, to make it all better, to undo what I’d seen, to eat the lies he’d fed me. I screamed, and I felt like I’d been screaming my whole life.
I thought, maybe, I would be able to continue screaming for the rest of time, my voice never giving out, and my mind never losing steam along the exhaustive list of grievances. All that was done, done to me.
My question went unanswered, no snotty or even apologetic reply returned. But that was fine. I should have expected it, anticipated the whimpers and dissolving into hysterics. Though, I didn’t, and that was on me.
He wasn’t anything like I’d thought, l
ike he’d convinced me. He was a stranger, which made everything suddenly easier.
“And somehow, you tricked me all this time. You made me feel stupid. I thought you loved me.” My words had bite within them. I’d almost said “guilty” instead of stupid, but no. I was innocent in all of this. There was only one verdict, and it wasn’t against me.
He deserved this.
“I—I—I’m,” he started.
“No.”
He clamped his mouth shut, having learned quickly not to argue. And while he should’ve learned that months ago, learned before he made everything come to this, I’d take any brief reprieve from his stupidity that I could get.
His hands twisted as he tried to get out from under me, to get himself free from the bed, but all he did was tighten the restraints with his jerking. He bucked upward, but got no momentum, and soon tired himself out.
“You know, I didn’t want to hurt you. But you forced my hand here. You hurt me first,” I said, so much quieter then, some of the rage returning to a simmer, no longer boiling over, for the moment.
The knife I’d honestly forgotten I was squeezing slipped in my hand, but I didn’t look down. It was slick, despite my grip, and somehow it felt like it was barely there, like it could disappear if I said the wrong thing.
“You’re a horrible person. I gave to you, and all you did was take. I saw her, you know. I watched you fuck her.” Parker winced, but understanding seemed to cross over his face. The room was red again then. He knew he’d done wrong, and he’d done it anyway. “You don’t care about anyone other than yourself, do you?”
I swung my hand to point the tip of the sharp metal at his face, between his eyes.
It didn’t matter that they were clamped shut.
“You distracted me with your bullshit.”
He whimpered, so I kicked him, sending pain upward and hopefully through the entirety of his body. And I sighed as his head reverberated against the headboard in reaction. The sound was like music, alleviating some of the pinching in my shoulders. It didn’t matter that he cried harder afterward, his skin pinched by his binding to the piece of furniture. Nothing mattered.
The sheer strength of my emotions caught me a little off guard—I’d never threatened anyone before, not like this. But that too didn’t matter.
So I continued.
“I told you from the beginning to leave me alone if you weren’t serious. I said it that first night we met at the club, when you were so persistent. You could have walked away. I didn’t need saving. I’ll never need saving.”
“I know,” he cried.
And my vision reddened at the edges; a mist rolled in and turned up the temperature all around me.
“You know, Parker? YOU KNOW?”
***
There was a shift in the room, poignant but invisible, and I couldn’t put my finger on it exactly. The disturbance shifted out of my reach, something moved, and then I was in the air, watching what was happening below.
Someone was seriously upset, horribly and irrevocably angry, which I vaguely realized wasn’t typical. She looked a little like me. Whatever that man did—and let’s face it, it surely was his fault—must have been bad. Really bad.
He looked familiar, too.
Because he was covered in blood, and she was screaming. When had he started bleeding? I wasn’t sure, but her face got red, and her hair was wild with the effort it took to let all of her feelings free. Red dripped from her hand, the one that swung her weapon before the trembling man.
“Tell me what you know,” she said, her lips pale but strong, her arms above her head then.
Drip.
“You cheated,” she yelled.
Drip.
“You lied,” she said.
Drip, drip, drip, went the drops of blood from her hand, into her sweaty hair.
But she didn’t stop.
“You are nothing,” she rasped, suddenly quiet, which seemed worse.
She kept going and punishing; she kept telling the man what he’d done wrong. And he was wrong. This Parker had ruined her life, and he deserved even worse than he was getting.
But I felt bad for her. She was so broken. I could see the shards of her, barely clinging together. It looked like she’d been okay once, like she could have managed after the shattering if she’d taken care of herself. Or if it had been gentler, not so damaging. I watched as she screamed, as chips of her fell away and into the darkness. And it happened again. And again.
And again.
Now she had pieces missing in spots, and all she’d wanted was time to heal.
She needed this. She needed me to stand by and watch, to keep guard.
So I would. I’d hover there, protecting her from the worst of everything.
I’d make sure she would be okay after one more breaking.
***
“Say it,” I said, blinking.
A rush filled my head, like I was waking from a nightmare, like I was ripped back from unconsciousness without mercy. I saw him clearly, the vessel taking on my pain for me as I shook my head and came back into myself. And I knew it was time to end it.
“I’m sorry,” Parker whispered, his last lie worming into my brain, finding a way to irritate me one last time. Just once more, like he’d done to me a million times before.
“You should be,” I said.
And then my world went gray around the edges again, black rolling in to take me away.
***
My head ached.
Blinking over and over from the floor, I saw Parker twisting and using a free hand to untie himself. His lip was bleeding, and the skin around his eye was swelling, but I couldn’t remember why.
Then the throbbing in my forehead kicked up a notch, and I realized.
He’d crashed his own head into mine and sent me over the edge of the bed.
The rest, everything tonight, came rushing at me in vivid, horrifying detail, so quickly that I almost gasped.
My knife.
I felt the panic rising. The situation, my world, had turned a corner, and I was to the point of no return. I had to fix everything, had to finish what I never should have started. On all fours, dripping sweat and blood onto the floor, I searched for the knife.
“Shit,” I said.
“You crazy bitch,” Parker answered. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
He had both hands undone now and was working on his feet. But it wouldn’t take long.
He swung at me, wasting precious seconds he could use for freeing himself, trying to crack my skull again. He missed as I dove under the bed toward my salvation.
And then I had it, the metal fueling my anger again, giving me strength.
Parker’s feet hit the floor as I rolled to the other side of his bed, and we both stood at the same time, both braced to run.
Now
“I didn’t even know him. And I thought I’d forget about it, move on and keep it as a horrible secret forever.” I take a breath. “But then it wasn’t a one-time thing, like I’d thought,” I say, finishing.
Aidan’s face is soft, somehow looking like he’s accepting and protecting me in the same breath. But it doesn’t make me feel better. Instead I want to slap the look from his eyes, and even knowing it’s my own insecurities, my own anger and disappointment in myself, doesn’t help rid the spike of shame fueling my rage.
Though, as the anger slows then retreats entirely, I’m left with nothing.
I miss him still, sometimes. I even miss me and what once was. But that longing isn’t there right now, just the words to describe feelings long lost.
Numb.
I feel numb, and I can’t hide it, so I roll over to face away from Aidan. His silence allowing me to do it, no protest. And when, minutes later, he opens his mouth to say something, I consciously refrain from tensing. I scream at my muscles to hold still as he asks, “Can I do anything?”
There’s nothing to do.
I continue breathing evenly, pretending t
o sleep. After moments pass by, nothing else uttered, Aidan moves closer to me, snuggling up against my back. And I try to feel something other than numb.
***
The empty feeling lasted for days, to the point where I feigned extra deadlines in order to escape to my own house where I didn’t have to wear a mask or play pretend for anyone. And it only gave way to annoyance, so I’m not really sure how much has improved.
But whatever.
Rolling my eyes, I catch a glare from the stupid streetlight through my window again. It’s been flaring out like an overexposed photo, and my frustration bubbles. I stare, but it doesn’t change, doesn’t flicker off just because I want it to go away.
Tempted to go outside and throw a rock at the bulb, I take a breath then grab my glass of wine instead. When the burgundy liquid moves past my lips, over my tongue, and down my throat, the impulse passes. It would be too much effort just to have the city fix it in a day or two.
So I pull the curtains closed on one side of my window, allowing the night sky to shine through the other half, and it’s better.
Holding my glass, swirling the wine inside, I look past my computer screen to the rest of my desk. It’s littered with papers, pens, books upon books upon books. There are paperbacks on the floor, teetering on shelves, and covering almost every surface in my office. They’re comforting, and sometimes they help motivate me when the words aren’t coming easily.
The wine can do that too, though.
Drinking when I write became a helpful habit. There’s a fine line—too much and the need to just go to sleep becomes overwhelming—but when I find that sweet spot, there’s magic on the pages.
Wine helps amplify my feelings, makes me more aware, shocks me out of a detachment when that black fog sets in occasionally. And I still haven’t been able to shake the one lingering since last night with Aidan. And there’s a building of tension between my shoulder blades.
Draining my glass, for the third time, I look to the bottle sitting next to my computer. Three quarters of the way gone. There’s no sense in leaving less than a full glass, so I pour the rest, and lean back in my chair once more.
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