Page 48 of Beautiful Scars

This time when she comes for me I let her get a bit further. She lets out a rush of air as she stands on the bed and goes for my neck, trying to fit her little hands around it.

“Meisie darlin’, give it up,” I grab her arms and flip her around, this time when I put her down I go with her. Her face gets buried in the messed up bed covers but her hands sneak out from under our bodies and she’s wriggling like hell.

It’s giving me a fucking hard-on.

“I hate you!”

“That’s alright,” I tell her, my voice strained. I can’t even see her head because it’s locked down so tight under my chest, but I can feel she’s still breathing.

After a while she starts to get tired. Her little jolts and kicks and wiggles begin to weaken.

But I don’t move. She seems to find it comforting. I think.

Finally, her breath calms down and she goes still.

“Meisie?”

No reply.

Do not tell me I’ve killed her?

I climb off her body, and she’s breathing—thank fuck.

She’s just fallen asleep again.

I stand there at the edge of the bed, staring at her little shape in the dim red light. Her hair is an absolute mess, her clothes disheveled, but other than that she looks like she’s found some peace.

I push my hands down under her and move her into bed properly, then I tuck her in.

What is wrong with her? Where the fuck did that come from?

She needs help.

At least I think she does. Then again, maybe not. She said she hated me, maybe that’s the healthiest thing to come out of her mouth since the day I stole her away.

I need a cigarette. And a cold fucking shower.