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His eyes dart away the second they meet mine.
I think I’ve left the man traumatized. The thought makes me smile, and I chuckle as I lift my beer to my lips.
I could deny the real reason I’m here, but I’ve spent years internalizing why I do the things I do. It hurts, which is my goal in life.
Pain is familiar, needed, a requisite for me in life.
But even I need a reprieve sometimes.
I’m here because Cerberus is safe.
The men don’t leer at me.
The women, although they pity me, don’t talk shit behind my back. I don’t catch them gossiping or sneering when I enter a room when their men aren’t around.
I don’t have to worry about the lock on my door being busted in the middle of the night because one of the guys just couldn’t help himself. They don’t see me as something to take without permission.
I guess I’m a masochist because the refuge hurts as much as the uncertainty my job entails.
I benefit in a way from how fearlessly these men protect the ones they claim to love, the possessions they’ve earned with their compassion and care.
They’re safeguarding them, not me.
I’m unworthy of that shelter.
I will always be unworthy.
If they had to choose, it would be no choice at all.
It’s them… always.
Happiness and laughter surround me. It echoes off the walls.
Nothing but good cheer and joyous celebration for these people.
Despite what they’ve seen, despite what they know happens outside of these walls, they manage to find jubilation.
Maybe we’re all just pretending, waiting for the other shoe to drop, and it will.
It always does.
Someone will cheat or be unable to hide their anger. Someone will lash out, get violent at the wrong time, get caught with their pants down.
Bliss never lasts forever. Sustaining it is impossible. Those that think they can hold on to something as tenuous as contentment are bigger fools than they’ll ever realize. The wool covering their eyes will be pulled back eventually. The slap in the face will be harsh, leaving behind a mark nothing can erase.
But I’ve been here multiple times, off and on for several years, and I can never find the pain, the abuse.
I don’t see bruises left behind by the men.
I don’t see the women plying their men with more drinks on the off chance that they’ll be able to fall asleep without having to succumb to their partner’s desires.
I’ve never walked into a room and seen one of the men angry and backing away from his partner in an effort not to be discovered for the monster they truly are.
Maybe they’re better than me at playing their parts, but I know the darkness always rears its ugly head.
The pain always manages to bubble over, spilling on the floor at your feet.
Liana was the best actress of them all.
