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I thought the reason for my dad’s distance was business-related stress, but in all reality, he was having paranoia episodes and untold doctor appointments, all because I was looking and acting more and more like my mother with each passing day.
Oh, my God. My mother! How could he? He stole my entire life from me! My brain feels like it has just been dipped in batter and deep fried in the devil’s kitchen, searing my consciousness to a crisp, marring and scarring what little bit of inner spirit I had left.
As the water rushes over my head, I grab fistfuls of hair and tug hard at the roots. My heart has been ruthlessly ripped out of my chest and bled dry. I wish I could just simply die at this very moment in time. My mouth gapes open as I try for a shrill cry of pain, but no sound comes out. My chest constricts in agony. My lungs burn, scream, and claw for oxygen, but I can’t inhale. Good, maybe I will die.
At some point, my body finally catches up with my emotions, and I let out a long-winded wail. A torrent of tears follows close behind as I grieve for everything I never had, and nothing I will ever obtain.
I’ve lived in an endless cycle of constant insanity, and an unhealthy psychosis is knocking on my door. The decision is made; I unlock the deadbolt and answer by opening the door wide open with welcoming arms.
A set of strong, muscular arms slide around my waist and pull me up off the shower floor. When it becomes apparent I can’t stand on my own two feet, Nick sits down on the shower floor and pulls me onto his lap. He’s still fully clothed, and how I even noticed is beyond me. He tries to disengage the death grip I have on my hair, but I won’t let go; I’m a mortal mess.
“Let go of your hair, baby,” he softly demands. His hands thread themselves over mine in another attempt to loosen my grip. “Please, let go,” he pleads.
I’m cataplectic, unable to move, but somehow he loosens my fingers, and the second he frees my grip, my hands promptly search frantically for something else to grab onto. Nick’s shirt is the next closest thing I find. I fist his shirt and twist it as pure turmoil rolls through me.
“Oh, God, take it away, Nick,” I cry out in distress. “Take the pain away…please,” I beg imploringly between sobs. He firmly holds my head by cupping my cheeks, forcing me to see him through my blanket of tears. His eyes unexpectedly look tortured, full of empathy and somberness as I wail in his arms.
“I’m right here, baby,” he chokes out as if he feels my pain. The water streams over his face, but he doesn’t blink an eye as his stare penetrates mine, “I promise you, no one will ever hurt you again.”
I wrap my arms around his neck and bury my head into his chest, sobbing until I have nothing left. I don’t know how long I lay over Nick like this, but he holds me without complaint, continually consoling me. Once I’ve cried myself out and my breathing has evened out, I come to rest my head on his shoulder. The same familiar smell of his spicy cologne still clings to his skin, and as I breathe in his sultry scent, the desire to lick and swirl my tongue over the muscular ridge of his neck overcomes me.
What the hell? And then it quickly dawns on me that I know this feeling. I know it all too well. He must have drugged me with Blyss at some point while I slept. I should be livid, but for some odd reason, one that I can’t explain, I just accept it. In fact, it’s probably a blessing in disguise. Lately, I’ve found that sex and orgasms can be a potent distraction to escape the pains and realities of a fucked-up life.
He whispers sweet nothings over my head as he rubs my back, rocking me back and forth in a soothing motion. Once he feels that I’ve settled down enough, he gently slips out from underneath me and stands up. His clothes are stuck to every inch of him, outlining every taut muscle he owns. He looks like he’s been caught out in a heavy downpour.
I’m feeling very naked and exposed, so I curl up in a ball and wrap my arms around myself. Nick doesn’t pause to ogle or make me feel uncomfortable. He stays focused as every move is made with purpose and intent, as his face is full of nothing but concern. I watch him as he reaches for a loofa and pours soap on it. Even his fancy dress pants are clinging to his taut, muscular ass, hugging every perfect curve. When he turns around to face me, my lips twitch.
