His door slams.
The lock clicks.
Seba’s brand burns around my throat, my heart banging against my ribs, each pulse echoed by a throb in my cock.
I don’t mind the ache. I prefer it. I’ll draw it out— savor the unrequited euphoria until it consumes me. Because this torture is better than the alternative.
You’re giving in to it.
Her voice is getting louder. Not even fucking myself stupid smothers the incessant madness circling my mind like a committee of vultures. A soapy film coats my tongue, the thick scent of anointing oil and salt making me dizzy. Any lingering arousal dissolves as I float in a haze to my room.
I’m losing my grip on reality.
It was never real.
It was too real.
Reminding myself isn’t working anymore.
Swimming through the chaotic tornado of whispers, I flip a sketch pad to a new page and splay it on the floor. Grab the ink, a few tubes of paint and a cup of murky water from three days agooff my desk, a brush clamped between my teeth. Kneel in front of the blank, white nothingness andpurge.
Blue-black ink splashes.Sunt mala quae libas.Swirls of grey-brown, broken by bubbling paint water.What you offer me is evil.Streaks of brightness smothered in oil slick.Nunquam suade mihi vana.The chants blend together like the medium on paper.Never tempt me with your vanities.Incoherent violence bleeds from every brush stroke into the grooves and grain.Ipse venena bibas!An explosive frenzy of darkness, thrashing and smearing and staining.Drink the poison yourself!
The brush falls to the carpet.
Panting, I sit back on my heels.
I need a cigarette.
Wet paint glistens in the lamplight.
I stare at my work and feel nothing.
Detached. Cold.Quiet.
For now.
Nineteen
SEBA
Secondsafter the final bell rings, students spill from classrooms, their laughter and excited chatter chorusing through the halls. But the racket isn’t enough to drown out the noise in my skull. It’s a constant battle for control over my wayward thoughts.
I’m fucking exhausted.
I close my locker and sling my backpack over my shoulder, pushing up the sleeves of my hoodie as I fish out my keys. Maybe I should hit the gym like yesterday. Sit at the pier until the sun sets. Skip dinner and eat leftovers at midnight.
Distance.
Discipline.
Distractions.
Anything to avoid thinking about the other night. Because if I think about it, I’ll be reminded of how it felt. Howhefelt?—
Nope.
Not going there.
