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It’s a start.
I walk back to the bedroom and stare at the bed. It still looks like the most uninviting thing.
One step at a time. Today I wear clothes. I went out in public. Soon I can try the bed again.
I stare at the blackout curtains blocking the sunlight. Maybe just one more step?
I walk to the curtain, grip the edge, pull it open and let the light in. I lean against the window forcing myself to feel the warmth, forgetting some windows in the house turn into a door when the appropriate pressure is applied. The window falls open, and my body trips out onto the balcony.
I wince as the brightness of the sun burns my eyes. It’s so fucking sunny. But it’s warm and relaxing at the same time.
Just five minutes. I’m already out here. Five minutes. Tomorrow it will be six, then seven, then eight. I will get my life back; I’m not a prisoner.
There is a couch with a small table and chairs on the balcony. I want to sit on the hard chair, but I choose the soft couch. I curl my legs up, compelling myself to try and get comfortable.
Four minutes. Just four more minutes.
I am strong.
I am not broken.
I can heal myself.
I don’t need Enzo.
I don’t need anyone.
I close my eyes, trying to block out some of the sun’s rays.
But my body shakes at the heat. I shift in my seat trying to get comfortable. I grab the hem of the shirt I want to rip from my body. It itches and scratches, driving me mad.
I try to adapt to my old ways. Shutting everything out. Squeezing my fists to the point of pain to distract myself. Counting. Blocking. Guarding. None of it works.
Enzo.
I know it’s the one that will work, because it’s what saved me time after time. There is nothing wrong with it. Fantasizing about him doesn’t make me sick. It’s just because he’s the only man in my life. The only man who hasn’t physically hurt me.
That’s not true—Mason didn’t hurt me either. But I’m not attracted to Mason like I am Enzo. He doesn’t have that rugged, beckoning, mysterious look Enzo has. Enzo is the only boy I’ve ever kissed. He’s the only one whom I can imagine.
Kiss me.
His lips brush against mine, stopping just shy of giving me what I fully want.
Kiss me, I say in my head again.
This time, he doesn’t resist. His lips devour me; his tongue slips deep inside, threatening a groan to escape my throat. I hold the sound in, not ready to show him how much pleasure a simple kiss gives me.
More.
He tangles my hair in his fist as our bodies rub against each other. I shift my weight, pressing my body closer.
Want me, fuck me.
He pushes me back, and I fall against the soft fabric of the couch. His dangerous eyes leaving me dazed as he exposes me, pushing up my shirt.
“Touch yourself,” he says.
I nod.
