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“I grew up with sex - fucked up, rough, twisted sex filled with screams, tears and blood. I was forced to hear, to watch, to participate, and to give.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat, trying to imagine him as a child – confused, scared… before I can really contemplate the situation he stroke another info like a whip, “The woman who I thought was my mother wanted me to fuck her.”
“And you took revenge,” I whispered.
Looking deep into my eyes he said, “It was the sweetest thing I’ve tasted.”
“What about the other one?”
“Kacey… she didn’t deserve that,” he whispered. I wasn’t expecting him to say that. I was preparing myself to hear satisfaction in his voice. I waited for him to continue.
“She was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“How?”
“She trespassed my sanctuary, the only thing left as mine.”
“And you were angry.”
“I was.”
“And she was there…”
“She was…”
“And you killed her.”
“I did.”
“And it felt good,” I whispered.
“It was so much better than feeling weak.”
His choice of words shook me and I was speechless. I tried to find words to give him some answers, to understand how his mind worked, but then I was afraid of understanding him because if I understood him I knew I would be deeper in his darkness.
And as he hit the play button for the movie I chose, I wasn’t terrified of him… I was sad for what he’d been through and also I had a sick respect that he could survive all these things and get out alive.
*****
“I love this movie!” I swooned as the credits slid on the screen.
He glared at me, but it was different than his angry one; he gave me this look when he went all possessive over me. “Because that Gosling guy, yeah?”
I smiled at his grumpy attitude. His reaction stroked my ego in a weird way. “No, because the movie was good. I don’t swoon over Ryan Gosling.”
“Hmm, isn’t he your type?” He turned his body toward me on the couch. My mouth went dry, my heart beat faster, and a throb showed itself between my legs as he leaned down into me.
“No,” I breathed out.
“What is your type then?” he whispered, hovering over me.
“I like more dangerous ones, someone who can pull of the scar I left on his face,” I told him. My hand moved on its account and touched the scar on his face.
Who could love me even after I hurt them like that?
Who else could still want me when they can remember my hateful mark every time they looked at the mirror?
Who could take care of me even when I was broken?
