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There’s someone inside me.
Water freezes in my lungs, and the darkness rushes back in.
“No. Fuck this. Fuck you.”
I scramble to my feet, scratching my elbow on an end table and rolling down my hoodie sleeve to cover the blood trickling down.
“You don’t even care, do you? That you could die tomorrow and neither one of us would bat a fucking eye.”
My throat gurgles like I’m going to vomit, so I gather the spit and shoot it straight in the old man’s lap. The nausea hits me full force, and I lean over the stupid, old, pink recliner that’s been here as long as I can remember and empty my stomach.
No regrets even as my eyes water and my throat burns.
“Your mother would be ashamed.”
As soon as the vomiting stops, the tears start up. Not the ones out of frustration or watering from being sick. Tried and true tears that don’t give a damn whether I need control at this moment or not.
I can’t even give him one final ‘fuck you’ before I’m storming out the front door and nearly throwing myself from the porch railing to get on the ground and spit up stomach acid.
Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.
My hands are shaking too hard to make any use of my phone, so I bury them in my hair and tug at the roots. Salt and iron fill my mouth as tears overflow and my teeth dig into my tongue.
Shut up. Go away.
Something warm touches the back of my neck, and it takes until I gain enough function to look over my shoulder that I realize it isn’t a phantom touch. It’s not a memory or an episode.
It’s a stranger. Around six feet with a scraggly beard and a ballcap.
“You Novak’s boy?”
The reality that I share blood with the man in the trailer turns my stomach. But there’s nothing left to purge.
“Nope. Just thought I’d water the weeds.” My humor comes off flat and dry, but the stranger laughs anyway.
“If you need some water, my trailer is just down that way.” He points to another conglomerate of trailers, but even growing up here they all blend into each other.
“Got anything stronger than water?”
His hand is still on my neck: clammy and greasy. I don’t shrug it away, and he doesn’t pull away.
“I’m sure I’ve got something to quench your thirst. Nothing like a little burn on a sore throat, right?”
I see the moment he knows his joke isn’t lost on me. His fingers tighten but not to the point of pain.
We walk away from the trailer, and though it’s as if my legs have gone numb, each step away feels lighter. I don’t know which house is his. Don’t even care as he opens a door and ushers me in.
Three other men size me up, but all I have to do is smile and disarm their apprehension.
These are men who will do wicked things to me if I play them right. All they need is permission.
“I hear you’ve got booze.”
Someone offers me a half drunk bottle of beer, and I put it to my lips but don’t tip it up.
“You know.” I put it back down on their little half table in the corner and drop to my knees beside one of the men. “If I’m going to drink piss, might as well get it from the source, right?”
Slut doesn’t even need training. He knows just how to be a good fucktoy.
