She overheard, while dressing after gym class, that it stained. Lying in bed that night, bare arms shoved under the pillow behind her head, she thought about thin lines of pink on white cotton. A pain much deeper than she was able to give herself without having to focus on toys or weapons of choice.
She had always inflicted her own pain so she could control taking it away. She couldn't cut; she didn't like to look inside. Burning. The threat, but not assurance, of her soft meat erupting at the flick of a lighter or the strike of a match was usually enough. That another could so easily bruise her soft, untouched creases left a dull thrill that kept her up half the night.
She had played around with boys but had never gone too far. She wasn't a tease. She didn't want them to want that from her. But it was hard to keep them content the older they got. The steady stream of attention she had received from boys since junior high was dwindling. No longer happy with gazing, rubbing, and touching, they stopped waiting for her after school in the parking lot. No more rough kisses over the consoles of suped up Javelins and Mustangs. No more groping on sofas in the glow of MTV's Liquid Television.
So on her third date with a man, not a boy, who picked her up in a car he owned and took her to dinner at a restaurant, not a buffet or pizza joint, she handed over her control.
He was easy. He talked to her in words not intended to coerce. Loved her without saying he did. He never mentioned the rush to take her home. He never mentioned a curfew, hers or his. And afterwards, he turned on the shower, scalding and steamy, as if he knew, and washed the scent of sex out of her hair.
He didn't find it funny or sexy when he caught her in the kitchen later that night with a lighter in one hand and a screwdriver in the other, but his kissed the burn anyway before smearing a glob of A & D ointment on her thigh.
Friday, July 11, 2008
The Three Little Pigs
Jake was the first to do everything. The first to steal a pack of Lucky Strikes. The first to smooth pot into a long slender line and lick the rolling paper. He liked to test the drugs before giving them to Emily and Allison, his girls.
Tight, studded with the coolness of Anthony Kiedis and the angst of Eddie Vedder, Jake walked them down the hallway the first day of their freshman year and quickly became their in-between man. Jealousy only existed in relationships outside the trio, and jealousy often forced loyalty.
He snorted for three months before inviting the girls into his bag. Emily had giggled. Allison had waited to see what happened to Emily before shocking her nose with the burn. Two hours later, Jake pulled over into a Thorton's gas station, and for the next hour, snubbed one butt-less cigarette after another into the curb while Emily and Allison detailed his car.
He only supplied them on the weekends; eventually starting the weekend on Friday morning so they could crash on Sunday, then adding a Thursday to make it a four day weekend. They didn't worry much at first, even after Emily's nose started running pink and Jake's tawny cheeks became flecked with scabs. They had each other and a loyalty to the bag.
Allison was the first to find the smoke, the good stuff; the better quality, the less Jake would pick at the imaginary mites on his skin; the better quality in smokable form, meant the flesh in Emily's nose might have a chance to heal.
She tried it first, a taste with the dealer, but unlike Jake, she was anxious to share, anxious to help her friends, and couldn't get over the fact that when she sucked the pipe, it felt like she was smoking pot. She wasn't over the edge after all. She was slowly backing away.
Allison spent all her money on the smoke. It was more expensive, but it was healthier, she told herself. If it had just been her, she would have kept it up the nose, but she had Emily and Jake to think about. Still, she couldn't afford a good pipe. And she didn't know the right people to tell her where to get one, besides the guy who told her she was too young to smoke but still sold her the bag after she said - while leaning against the door frame, all prettied up in a dull haired, crank sweating kind of way - that she was buying for her dad.
Allison was always the smart one though. She unscrewed the bulb in the bathroom since it had a vanity light and an overhead, tapped and twisted until the silver bottom sat in her hand like a popped off button, sucked the smoke into her pink lungs, then offered it to her friends.
Tight, studded with the coolness of Anthony Kiedis and the angst of Eddie Vedder, Jake walked them down the hallway the first day of their freshman year and quickly became their in-between man. Jealousy only existed in relationships outside the trio, and jealousy often forced loyalty.
He snorted for three months before inviting the girls into his bag. Emily had giggled. Allison had waited to see what happened to Emily before shocking her nose with the burn. Two hours later, Jake pulled over into a Thorton's gas station, and for the next hour, snubbed one butt-less cigarette after another into the curb while Emily and Allison detailed his car.
He only supplied them on the weekends; eventually starting the weekend on Friday morning so they could crash on Sunday, then adding a Thursday to make it a four day weekend. They didn't worry much at first, even after Emily's nose started running pink and Jake's tawny cheeks became flecked with scabs. They had each other and a loyalty to the bag.
Allison was the first to find the smoke, the good stuff; the better quality, the less Jake would pick at the imaginary mites on his skin; the better quality in smokable form, meant the flesh in Emily's nose might have a chance to heal.
She tried it first, a taste with the dealer, but unlike Jake, she was anxious to share, anxious to help her friends, and couldn't get over the fact that when she sucked the pipe, it felt like she was smoking pot. She wasn't over the edge after all. She was slowly backing away.
Allison spent all her money on the smoke. It was more expensive, but it was healthier, she told herself. If it had just been her, she would have kept it up the nose, but she had Emily and Jake to think about. Still, she couldn't afford a good pipe. And she didn't know the right people to tell her where to get one, besides the guy who told her she was too young to smoke but still sold her the bag after she said - while leaning against the door frame, all prettied up in a dull haired, crank sweating kind of way - that she was buying for her dad.
Allison was always the smart one though. She unscrewed the bulb in the bathroom since it had a vanity light and an overhead, tapped and twisted until the silver bottom sat in her hand like a popped off button, sucked the smoke into her pink lungs, then offered it to her friends.
Alone
She's finally gone. I deadbolt the front door so she can't get back in. If my mother returns, I'll tell her I didn't hear the door. I was afraid. I was sleeping. I'll never tell her I was lonely.
I stand before my hazy bedroom mirror and check off my inventory; a Fuck the World poster, dead flowers in a dirty vase, and tiny strings of incense ash hanging off the bookshelf, dangerously hovering above thick red shag carpet. I unwrap the white towel, dingy and stained from the black dye fading out of my mohawk, and lie down on the bed. He always liked it when I got naked before I called.
"Hello?"
"Come see me tonight," I say into the phone.
"Crys?"
"Come see me."
"Where are you?"
"Back at my mother's."
"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
Anxiety awakens in my heart. I don't want to be like this. I don't want to know that I'll only have tonight, but I have to. I need a lump to rise in the back of my throat. I need a pain in my heart that draws up my stomach. I need to feel like I can never have him again. I lie to myself and say this will be the last time.
I go to the mirror. I want him to see me and ache. I pull my hair over my shoulders so the freshly shaven sides of my head are covered. I want to look innocent and helpless - at first. But even under the cover of hair, the rings in my nipples catch the light of the lamp. He'll have to use his imagination.
He'll stop at the park three blocks away. He'll trot down the sidewalk on the north side of the road where there are no streetlamps. He'll hold onto the latch on the gate. He'll push the gate closed and gently lower the latch, without raising a sound or suspicion.
I hear a grunt below my bedroom window when he climbs on top of the iron railing and reaches above the kitchen window. The key slides into the door. The deadbolt locks behind him.
He doesn't say anything when he comes through my bedroom door. He slowly undresses, watching me, searching my face. I smile and he climbs into bed.
Every time with him is new now, despite the routine that brings us together. The moon reflects off his black hairless chest. I kiss it. He buries his nose in my hair, and I chew the end of a dreadlock.
He is so sweet when he cries. A hint of heartbroken-induced wrinkles curl around his eyes and white teeth gnash between beautiful full lips.
I wrap my arms around his chest and feel for the long thin scars on his back, scars put there by me when I was young and selfless. My thumb brushes across the ripples and he grins through the tears, remembering that night at the park, in the backseat of the blue Lincoln, shadows of the trees dancing across my belly. Beautiful, white, perfect teeth in a grin I will never see again.
We don't have sex or make love just yet. We remember emotions. Every sour word ever passed between us lies in the bed. We toss it back and forth. What made those words slip over our tongues? What caused us to separate in anger? How could we so easily tuck away our relationship - this relationship - and pretend as though we could go on forever without each other?
When I was young and selfless, he used to pull me against his chest and surround me with his arms. I was helpless, completely dependent upon the steel cage he built around me. Tonight, I pull him to my chest. His breath fogs the metal rings in my nipples. He sobs. Without me, he says, life is lonely.
But I know he is just like me. Without me isn't lonely, just as without him isn't lonely. Finality hurts. Finality is a song you've heard but only remember two words of the lyrics. You can't explain it. You can't explain what you remember clearly enough so that another can help you find it again. That last final kiss, the lips you know you'll never feel again, the wet pillowcase, the rush, the anger, the hate, the absolute goodness of being out of control are why you look for it again and again. You know that once the newness of the first lingering kiss wears off, you'll never feel those emotions again until you convince yourself it's the end.
I stand before my hazy bedroom mirror and check off my inventory; a Fuck the World poster, dead flowers in a dirty vase, and tiny strings of incense ash hanging off the bookshelf, dangerously hovering above thick red shag carpet. I unwrap the white towel, dingy and stained from the black dye fading out of my mohawk, and lie down on the bed. He always liked it when I got naked before I called.
"Hello?"
"Come see me tonight," I say into the phone.
"Crys?"
"Come see me."
"Where are you?"
"Back at my mother's."
"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
Anxiety awakens in my heart. I don't want to be like this. I don't want to know that I'll only have tonight, but I have to. I need a lump to rise in the back of my throat. I need a pain in my heart that draws up my stomach. I need to feel like I can never have him again. I lie to myself and say this will be the last time.
I go to the mirror. I want him to see me and ache. I pull my hair over my shoulders so the freshly shaven sides of my head are covered. I want to look innocent and helpless - at first. But even under the cover of hair, the rings in my nipples catch the light of the lamp. He'll have to use his imagination.
He'll stop at the park three blocks away. He'll trot down the sidewalk on the north side of the road where there are no streetlamps. He'll hold onto the latch on the gate. He'll push the gate closed and gently lower the latch, without raising a sound or suspicion.
I hear a grunt below my bedroom window when he climbs on top of the iron railing and reaches above the kitchen window. The key slides into the door. The deadbolt locks behind him.
He doesn't say anything when he comes through my bedroom door. He slowly undresses, watching me, searching my face. I smile and he climbs into bed.
Every time with him is new now, despite the routine that brings us together. The moon reflects off his black hairless chest. I kiss it. He buries his nose in my hair, and I chew the end of a dreadlock.
He is so sweet when he cries. A hint of heartbroken-induced wrinkles curl around his eyes and white teeth gnash between beautiful full lips.
I wrap my arms around his chest and feel for the long thin scars on his back, scars put there by me when I was young and selfless. My thumb brushes across the ripples and he grins through the tears, remembering that night at the park, in the backseat of the blue Lincoln, shadows of the trees dancing across my belly. Beautiful, white, perfect teeth in a grin I will never see again.
We don't have sex or make love just yet. We remember emotions. Every sour word ever passed between us lies in the bed. We toss it back and forth. What made those words slip over our tongues? What caused us to separate in anger? How could we so easily tuck away our relationship - this relationship - and pretend as though we could go on forever without each other?
When I was young and selfless, he used to pull me against his chest and surround me with his arms. I was helpless, completely dependent upon the steel cage he built around me. Tonight, I pull him to my chest. His breath fogs the metal rings in my nipples. He sobs. Without me, he says, life is lonely.
But I know he is just like me. Without me isn't lonely, just as without him isn't lonely. Finality hurts. Finality is a song you've heard but only remember two words of the lyrics. You can't explain it. You can't explain what you remember clearly enough so that another can help you find it again. That last final kiss, the lips you know you'll never feel again, the wet pillowcase, the rush, the anger, the hate, the absolute goodness of being out of control are why you look for it again and again. You know that once the newness of the first lingering kiss wears off, you'll never feel those emotions again until you convince yourself it's the end.
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