Anything Resembling Love

by S Qiouyi Lu

  “Shots?” Connor says, raising a fifth like he’s toasting. Joe whoops, and I cheer along with the others.

  It’s cheap vodka, and the shots go down like gasoline. I’m flushing, but I don’t want to be left out. I take shot after shot with the others, and I can’t help but feel giddy as Connor’s friends now welcome me in, how they’re friendlier to me. Delilah and I have had our fair share of dorm parties, much to our RA’s chagrin, but this is the drunkest I’ve ever been in my life. I’m flopping like a ragdoll, and soon I can’t tell whose hands are on me anymore, whether they’re Connor’s or one of his friends’.

  “Hey,” someone—Joe, maybe?—says, “let’s go back inside. It’s getting chilly.”

  It feels fine to me. I’m warm, sweating even, but I get up and take swaying steps with the others, take the stairs down to the suite that all of us are piled into. Soon it’s me and Connor and Andy on the bed, the two of them touching me, Connor guiding Andy’s hands: “No, not like that. She likes it like this.”

  It feels odd, me lying on my back in a haze, Andy’s hands on me. His touch is different from Connor’s: rougher, like he’s handling machinery. Closing my eyes and trying to conjure pleasure, I feel like a mannequin being experimented with. That thought sparks a familiar squirming inside me. I can still suppress it though. A hundred legs tickle my throat. My esophagus constricts. My mouth fills with the aftertaste of vodka and something briny, raw. I smile encouragingly at Andy, delight in the relief on his face, the way he seems so grateful to even be touching a woman like this.

  I fake an orgasm for him, just to see him instantly get hard. Connor’s smirking like he owns me, like he’s proud of Andy, and now it’s Connor’s lips on mine, his kiss making me ecstatic.

  He pulls me into the tiny bedroom attached to the suite, closes the door so it’s just us. I’m grinning up at him, but for a half-second my grin fades: Andy’s fingers leave the ghost of a touch that my body now registers as violating, as something I wouldn’t have accepted before. I almost start choking on the centipedes that clog my throat, but I take a breath through my nose and use my tongue to shove them all down. I pretend it’s a half-retch from the alcohol, but even so, Connor doesn’t notice a thing.

  He tugs the last of my clothes off, leaves my top and lacy bra in a heap on the floor, undresses himself. I flop onto the bed—a different kind of nausea rises in me now, and I realize that I’m sobering up a tiny bit. But Connor’s brought a fifth in with him. He takes a glance at me, then pours two more sparkling shots.

  “To us,” he says. I take the libation, swallow back the alcohol, wait for my body to relax again—but it doesn’t seem to, not in the same way.

  Hesitation steals over me. But Connor’s already getting into position on top of me, already slicking his touch and stroking me, tugging moans from me. Mixed in with that gorgeous tingling is a squirming that doesn’t stop, a writhing that cuts under the pleasure. I’m not sure if I’m okay with this, but my vodka-hazed mind thinks sure, why not? and even the parts that aren’t vodka-hazed are longing for the way he looks at me, longing for his praises and his kisses.

  He works himself into me. It doesn’t go as easily as usual, maybe because of the alcohol, and it hurts. I wince, but Connor only smiles.

  “I’ll go slow,” he says, and I nod. It’s less like the comfortable fullness I love and more like he’s pulling me taut, my whole body vibrating with the tenseness of it. It hurts, it hurts, and I gasp as tears prick at the corners of my eyes.

  “Slower, then,” he says. He plants a kiss behind my ear, and I take in another sharp breath, this time with pleasure—pleasure mixed in with pain, pleasure that confuses me. “Good girl. Take me all in.”

  But where his words would normally comfort me, this time, there’s something vile about them. My world goes in and out of focus, the pain sharpening and dulling my senses, and then I can’t take it and I say,

  “Connor … it hurts.”

  “Shh,” he says, stroking my cheek. “You’ll be okay.”

  “But it hurts.”

  “I know,” he says. Shock rifles through my body. “Take all of me.”

  My whole body is squirming, shuddering, writhing with the stabbing-dragging-hurt of it all, and suddenly I can’t hide them anymore. I can’t swallow the centipedes down. They erupt from me, from every pore on my skin, and I’m crying and the tears wash away some of the centipedes, but more of them erupt in their wake. I’m whimpering that it hurts, and only then does he stop and jump away from me. There are centipedes crawling all over my face, dipping into my navel, onto my limbs. I’m sobbing, I’m sobbing and I can’t stop, my whole body on fire with the pain and the centipedes’ venom as they bite me over and over again.

  “Hey,” he says, “hey, it’s all right.”

  But there’s revulsion on his face. The realization that my whole body has erupted—that I’m naked and open, that he’s seeing this—sends me down a spiral of shame. My face flushes. Every part of me flushes. Centipedes bite me and sting me, leaving welts in their wake. Connor’s talking to me from across the room, telling me about how he’s my friend, how he’d never hurt me, and all the while I feel centipedes on my tongue, centipedes inside me, centipedes everywhere he’s been.

  I can’t form words. I can’t even parse my thoughts. I want to throw centipedes at Connor, call him a liar, but my whole body is still burning with shame, my breaths too quick to speak, my flesh so buried in centipedes that I can’t do anything but sit on the bed and cry.

  Connor bolts, slamming the door shut behind him, leaving me to deal with my centipedes alone.

  * * *

  The rest of the vacation passes by in a blur. I only remember bits and pieces: Connor and his friends being obnoxious at a high-end restaurant while I feel so embarrassed to even be seen with them. Joe and Matthew drunk in public, littering the streets as brown paper bags with beer bottles in them drop from their hands, cascading broken glass onto the concrete. Children run past and I think, This is a family vacation spot. Why can’t I just enjoy myself and be happy? Vodka, everyone’s breath stinking with it, our hotel suite dense with body odor and five kinds of cologne overlapping with lingering centipede venom.

  But most of all, what I remember is shame. Shame at breaking down, shame at revealing myself in such an awful way. I’m four years old again, struggling to remember how to redirect my centipedes, struggling to reclaim that effortless way I’d swallowed them before, but now, if Connor so much as bumps me, a centipede emerges—even in public.

  We leave three days later.

  I spend the ride home in silence.

  * * *

  Delilah’s not there when I return to the dorm.

  They left a note on my desk, though, and I find tears unexpectedly blurring my vision as I take in their familiar round handwriting, the smiley faces that have peppered their notes ever since we started exchanging them in ninth grade:

  Hey Sylvia!

  Ended up going to Big Bear with a couple of socio folks. Hope you had a good time in San Diego! ☺ I should be home Sunday evening. Let’s grab dinner together and catch up, yeah? ☺

  Much love,

  Delilah

  I hug the note to my chest as I sink into my bed. It’s only Saturday afternoon. I don’t know what I’m going to do until Delilah gets back. A wall of loneliness overwhelms me—I don’t have many friends here other than them. I sure as hell can’t call any of the men I’ve dated friends. I need someone to talk to, yet I’m scared that beneath Delilah’s smiley faces is an undercurrent of anger—what if Delilah’s mad at me? I was a dick to them, after all.

  But there’s no one else for me to turn to, no one else I might feel safe with. I take out my phone and scroll to Delilah’s number, hover over it for a moment, then press call. It goes straight to voicemail. Only then do I remember that the signal in the mountains must be terrible.

  I spend the rest of the weekend huddled in my room, my mind flashing back to every moment in
San Diego. I hug my knees, but even contact with my own body reminds me so vividly of how Connor touched me. Centipedes emerge one after another. Alone in my room, wrapped up in blankets and tasting nothing but hunger in my mouth, I let the centipedes swarm me, let myself drown in my own memories.

  Before I realize, it’s Sunday evening, and someone’s unlocking our door. I don’t have a chance to get cleaned up. I squash as many centipedes as I can, try to hide them from view, but when the door opens and Delilah walks in, there are still dozens crawling on my sheets.

  “Sylvia,” Delilah says, letting their duffel bag fall with a thump, shocked. “Sylvia, what’s wrong?”

  I shake my head. Delilah closes the door behind them and sits down on the papasan we bought together, pats the space beside them, inviting me in.

  I can’t take it anymore. I’m crying again, my shame mixing with my guilt over how self-centered I was, how I got angry at Delilah when really they just had my best interests at heart. And now Delilah’s acting like I never acted like an asshole. They’re being too kind to me.

  I don’t want to get up, but my centipedes are disgusting me, and the papasan is clean, at least. I sink in beside Delilah, and they rub my back.

  “It’s okay,” they say.

  The touch is familiar, but then I’m remembering Andy’s hands, Connor’s hands. Centipedes emerge all over again from where Delilah’s patting me. I’m frustrated at myself, and I feel another pang of shame when Delilah draws back. But they stay on the papasan instead of running away like Connor. Delilah remains near me while giving me space, all the while not chastising me for my indiscretion. They only ever smile, the curve of it so gentle on their face.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, the words bursting from me. “I’m sorry I canceled on you. I … I never should have gone with Connor.”

  Delilah looks at me, alarmed.

  “You don’t need to apologize,” they say. Their voice isn’t stern, only patient.

  “But I was a jerk—and I canceled on you—and then—” I take a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m sorry.”

  “I never wanted anything bad to happen to you,” Delilah murmurs. “I was never even mad at you. I just wished you’d talked to me.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, half for Delilah, half for myself. Why couldn’t I have just spent time with them instead of going out with Connor? Why couldn’t I have just stayed in LA instead of going to a city I’d never been to, a city hundreds of miles from anywhere I could call home, with no way to get back to somewhere I could consider safe?

  “You don’t need to apologize,” Delilah says again. They look like they’re about to say more, but they leave it at that.

  A moment passes between us as I sit with the intensity of my emotions, my head resting on Delilah’s shoulder, their hand rubbing soothing circles on my back, their gaze directed at the same point a thousand miles away on the opposite wall. My crying quiets down. I realize that a centipede I’d let out earlier is still crawling on my chest. I pick it off of me with a sound of disgust and toss it to the ground.

  “Sorry,” I say again, “that you’ve had to see my centipedes twice now.”

  “Hey,” Delilah says, “that’s totally fine. I know people say we have to hide them, but around me, you don’t have to. Hell, around your lovers, around anyone, you shouldn’t have to, you know? Men can let theirs show whenever. Why can’t we?”

  That’s the first time I’ve realized that—that I’ve always comforted my lovers when I’ve accidentally caused their creature to emerge, but that none of them have ever comforted me. I think about how Connor had jumped away, how he’d talked to me from across the room like I was some kind of diseased animal, making me feel like something less than human. Anger twists away inside of me, anger and a dozen other emotions. I can’t breathe.

  “It hurts,” I whisper, the words bringing me back to what I said in San Diego. I can’t stop crying. “It hurts.”

  “I know,” Delilah says. “I know.”

  I start sobbing again, the sound of it pathetic to my ears, but Delilah doesn’t say a thing. Instead, they take my centipedes into their hands, toy with them, start petting them and treating them with the same kind of tenderness they’d treated me with.

  “You’re so weird for wanting to become a socio—socio—whatever you do,” I say finally through choked breaths. But watching Delilah calm my centipedes has calmed me down, too.

  Delilah laughs.

  “Whatever. Like polisci is any better.”

  They reach a hand toward me. One of my centipedes is curled up around their delicate fingers, relaxed, almost like it’s sleeping. I reach out a trembling hand and take the centipede back, let it scurry up my arm to perch on my shoulder.

  “You’re not alone,” Delilah says. They close their eyes, and a grimace flits across their face. They pinch themself, and a long, black millipede appears. They hold the millipede out to me. I take the centipede back down from my shoulder, my breaths still halting, but my heart calmer as I hold it up to Delilah’s millipede. The two creatures interact, touching each other in a familiar way.

  “You’re never alone,” Delilah says. It’s only then that I notice the tears brimming their eyes, the way the smile on their face trembles. My throat tightens and my stomach turns. I try to smile too, but only sobs emerge when I realize what they’re telling me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. The phrase becomes a compulsion, a prayer, a warding talisman. I repeat it over and over, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. I apologize for the shame we’ve been forced to bear, the shame of other people’s cruelty. Our creatures curl up together as my heart gets heavier and heavier.

  My voice descends to a whisper.

  I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

  Then, when nothing else can get past my lips but my shaking breaths, all we have left is silence.

  * * *

  For resources on coping with sexual violence and information on how to support survivors, visit End Rape On Campus (EROC).

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Begin Reading

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2020 by S. Qiouyi Lu

  Art copyright © 2020 by Reiko Murakami