AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Only as I make my way towards them, my step falters, and again, my stomach turns and malaise eats into me at the thought of the small talk I’ll once again suffer through.
It’s not the guests’ fault, nor hers.
I’m not myself.
At the peace I felt at inhabiting the cloak of the monster I've been informed I was, has now turned to sheets of metal which close in on me.
Through a girl I barely know, I've tasted a part of myself that I had assumed was extinguished for good. I've seen him, the boy, the man. I saw his face through her, and now the door is closing in on him again… only I no longer know if I want it to.
On leaving the hallway, instead of joining them, I pivot to the left, sliding open the balcony door and closing it behind me. I take a seat on a sturdy wicker bench and peer out onto Washington DC, and the White House off in the distance to the right, glowing in the eerie light of the full moon.
It’s a sight that you never get completely used to, even when you’re brought up in DC. It always thrills a little, no matter which corrupt asshole happens to be in power at the time, but today, the image is a dull watercolor, as if painted too thinly and coated in an expired layer of sepia varnish.
My fingers curl around the armrest of the bench, twitching as I look for a cigarette… or a joint… both of which I gave up after college after a particularly vicious screaming match with my father during which he told me he didn’t want a stoner or a smoker as a son, and that if I didn’t quit, I’d be cut out of his vast will.
You’d think me inheriting my maternal grandparents’ mansion and money would have put paid to his threats, for I no longer need his money, but apparently not.
A joint or two a month with friends would hardly someone a hardcore addict, but to my father, your value as a son is not intrinsic to your existence. To some parents, their kids are these precious jewels, perfect just for existing.
And then there is a different species whom we don’t talk much about—men such as my father for whom my value is entirely dependent on how I present myself, how I make him look, how much money I earn, and how willing I am to submit unquestioningly to every comment, every demand, every abuse of his seniority.
Questioning his authority is crime number one but there are a plethora of others—hundreds, in fact.
My happiness is not of concern. What matters is whether I submit, and whether I make him look good in the eyes of those who don’t even matter, for that man lives to impress strangers while feeling nothing but disdain for those who should be precious to him.
Those like his son.
At the sound of brakes screeching on some street a few blocks away, I close my eyes, waiting for the sound of a crash, a sound that often haunts me.
It doesn’t come but I hear it anyway, conjured up by my mind, a spectral artifact from another life.
My well-being didn’t factor in for him that day either.
Maybe that’s why I still think endlessly about this girl: there has to be some reason why I felt safe enough to tell her things I would normally conceal. She never said a word about the letter, nor did I ask, afraid of what she’d think. I don’t even know if she read it or why the fuck I would want to share something so personal, so fucking dangerous, with a girl I barely know?
At the sound of cars beeping and engines grumbling, I undo the top few buttons of my shirt, realizing my chest is tightening.
Fuck.
I lean over, placing my elbows onto my knees and my head into my hands as I breathe deeply and slowly to temper my respiration, not knowing why repressed memories and emotions are suddenly clawing their way to the surface when I've made such a concerted efforted to bury them and never let them out.
Maybe as Indigo said, I’m just an emotionally stunted prick…
In fact, I think she hit the bullseye with that observation.
I close my eyes, vexation simmering throughout my body as my mind is once again hijacked, turning me into some pathetic slave to my own thoughts as I bother myself with the kind of trite, lamentable horseshit I would pity others for entertaining.
And yet here I am, wondering what she’s doing right this second, wondering if she’s touched a man since me. And if she has, where can I find him so that I can slowly slice his tongue out so that he can never taste her again.
You’re losing it…
I hear the click and slow, dull slide of the balcony door muffled somewhere a few feet away, but I barely move. My eyes study the seam between two planks of wood on the floor of the balcony, recalling the day I slowly slid my arms up her slim back, her muscles moving under my fingers as tension released from her tightly wound and highly receptive body. That smart little mouth of hers let out sigh after sigh, seemingly unaware that she was doing it.
At the scrape of a chair, I lift my head and sit back to see, Tristan, a man I've known since I was in kindergarten watching me.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I reply briskly. “Just getting some air.”
