by Megan Hart
Then he turned around and stalked away.
I let him go. I watched him go. I stood in stunned silence at the sight of his back his words echoing in my ears.
“You weren’t supposed to,” I managed to find the breath to say.
He stopped at the front door and turned to look back at me. I have never seen a look so desperate. I have never seen eyes so bleak.
“But I do,” he said. “What are you, Elle? Are you a ghost? Are you an angel or a demon? Because you can’t be real.”
He’d said those words to me the first time his touch had made me shudder with fulfillment. When he said them now, I had to sit. My knees bent, and I went to the floor like a puppet whose strings have been cut. A rag doll. Broken.
“I’m real,” I whispered.
“Not for me,” he said. “You won’t let yourself be real for me.”
I looked down at my white shirt. Red flowers had bloomed on it. My blood, from the wound on my finger.
Blood, like crimson roses, blooming on my white shirt.
I began to shake. My hair fell down around my shoulders and over my face. He couldn’t see me. I didn’t want him to see me, could not bear it, couldn’t stand to have him see my tears.
“Did you go to bed with him tonight?”
The words, spoken no more as a challenge but bleakly, made me shake my head.
“No, Dan. I didn’t.”
He was suddenly beside me. “Look at me.”
I did.
“I love you, Elle.”
“No,” I said. “You don’t.”
“I do. I love you.”
I shook my head. Tears scalded my skin, slipping in hot trails down my chin and down my throat, puddling in the hollow there. He took my hands in his, ignoring the blood.
“Why won’t you let me inside?” he asked.
There are always choices in this life. Move forward. Retreat. Leap. Fly. Fall. Succeed…fail.
Trust.
“I want to,” I told him. I shook harder, though I wasn’t cold.
“Then do it. It will be all right. I promise you.” He put my fingertips to his mouth and kissed them. Licked the trace of blood away. Made them clean.
Then I knew the truth I had been denying. He made me clean. Dan made me clean and shining and bright. He made me beautiful, and I did not want to lose him.
“I promise,” he told me, and I believed him.
This is what I told him.Andrew was always my mother’s favorite. I think he was meant to be her only, as well, because there were six years between his birth and mine, and she’d never made any secret of calling me her “little surprise.” I’d been spared, at least, of being referred to as the “mistake,” which was what I’d heard her call Chad once to her gaggle of girlfriends when she’d had them over for cigarettes and cards.
Andrew was her favorite and deserving of it. Smart. Popular. Teachers and priests adored him. Schoolmates admired him. By the time he was in high school, the girls giggled and chased after him.
We loved him too, Chad and I, and he was the perfect older brother. He never minded if we tagged along. He took us everywhere he went. He played games with us long after he’d outgrown them. Clue, Trouble, Uno, Hide and Seek, Ghost in the Graveyard. He made time for us in his life when he didn’t have to, and we idolized him. He defused our mother, who swung between suffocating us with love and whirlwind rages. He ignored our father, whose drinking increased steadily, year after year.
I didn’t connect my mother’s fits of temper with my father’s consumption of alcohol until I was older, but by then it didn’t matter. We’d all lived so long with the white elephant by then that it was easier to keep pretending we didn’t see it.
Something changed when Andrew turned twenty-one. His friends took him out. Got him drunk. Sent him home singing and banging doors at 3:00 a.m. I don’t know if he’d ever had alcohol before that, though he’d have had ample opportunity to try it at our house. I think, though, that he hadn’t. Drinking was one of those things we never discussed but the results of which we could only pretend to ignore.
He started doing poorly in school, where he’d almost completed a degree in Criminology. In fact, he flunked out of college with only one more semester to go, and he came home to live with us again.
He’d changed. He drank. He did drugs. He stole money to pay for it. He let his hair grow long and he didn’t shave. He pierced his ears. He no longer tried to make our mother laugh.
The games he played were different now, too.
He ignored Chad except to call him a sissy and a faggot. Chad, who was having trouble with bullies in school, retreated behind his black clothes and eyeliner, and his Goth punk music. It didn’t help anything. He was thirteen.
I was fifteen. Awkward. My body had changed and grown, the braces had come off, I’d sprouted up taller than a number of boys in my class. Andrew told me I was beautiful. That he loved me. And that if I loved him, I would be nice.
I did love my brother. I wanted to please him. I wanted things to go back the way they were, before, when he’d camp out with us in a tent in the backyard and keep us up all night telling us stories about monsters.
Now Andrew had become the monster. Once, he’d vowed to protect me, but he didn’t protect me from himself.
I did what he asked for three years. I thought it would make him better. It didn’t. He still drank. Still lost job after job. Still got surly and angry at the world for reasons I couldn’t understand. He’d leave home for a few months and return, hollow-eyed and sneering, and our mother turned the house upside down to accommodate him.
Chad got bigger, the makeup heavier, the clothes blacker, the music louder. I stopped smiling. Counting helped, and counting food helped more. Bites of cake. Pieces of popcorn. I shielded myself in layers of fat and clothing, hiding the beauty my brother had seen and couldn’t seem to forget.
Nobody asked me what was wrong.
Chad knew, the same way I knew the magazines he hid beneath his mattress had pictures of naked boys, not girls, in them. We didn’t talk about it. Chad and I barely talked at all. We passed in the hall and sat across the breakfast table with each other, and for three years our eyes shared secrets neither of us dared to speak aloud.
I didn’t really want to die, but cutting my wrist seemed like a good idea at the time. It bled a lot, and it hurt worse than I expected. I only did the one because the sight of the blood made me feel faint, and I had to sit down, and because Chad opened the door to my bedroom to tell me it was time for dinner.
I hadn’t planned it very well, you see, my suicide attempt. My mother ranted at me the entire time she yanked me down the stairs to the kitchen, where she stanched my wrist with a tea towel. The carpet on the stairs was ruined, and she threw away the rug from my room. She kept me home from school for the rest of the week, but we never told anyone else what had happened.
She didn’t tell me not to, I just…didn’t.
The only person who asked me why I had done it was Andrew, who let himself into my bedroom and into my bed and kissed the white bandage right over the small red spot that had bloomed on it.
“Why, Ella? Why would you do this? Is it because of me?”
When I answered yes, he started to cry. And I pitied him, my beloved brother, because he sounded so forlorn, and I envied him because I had been unable to weep for years. He buried his face against me and his sobs rocked us, rocked the bed as he’d rocked it before for different reasons, and I stroked his hair over and over with my good hand until he tried to kiss me.
And then I told him no.
“No?” He asked in a voice like broken glass. “You don’t love me?”
“No, Andrew. I don’t love you.”
I thought he might hurt me, then. He’d done it before, even when I didn’t resist. He liked to pull my hair or pin my wrists. He liked to pinch.
I didn’t flinch. I waited.
He asked me again. “No?”
“No.”
> Then he got up and out of my bed and left me there, and I thought it was over. I was wrong.
I woke to the sound of my mother’s shouting. In the kitchen Chad hunched his shoulders to shield himself from her smacks. Across the table were spread the magazines from his room. Cowpoke. Beef. Hung. She’d rolled one of them up and was hitting him with it the way you’d smack a dog for shitting on the floor.
Andrew sat at the table, arms crossed, saying nothing. Doing nothing but watching as my mother called Chad names so horrible I couldn’t believe they didn’t burn her tongue. Andrew looked at me when I came in, and I saw nothing in his eyes. Not one thing.
Chad ran away that night. He spent a few nights on the street before seeking refuge with my uncle John, my mother’s brother. Uncle John lived alone. He’d never married. He took my brother in, gave him food and clothes, registered him in school. Kept him safe. Uncle John also loved my brother and taught him it was all right to be himself. I think he saved Chad’s life.
I’d thought my world had fallen apart before, but I was wrong about that, too. Chad was gone. My father didn’t bother getting sober any longer. My mother became the Wicked Witch full-time.
I hadn’t even taken the bandage off my wrist when I came home to find the house empty and quiet. My father hadn’t come home from work. My mother was out, probably picking out new carpet to replace the one I’d ruined. I climbed the stairs past the stains gone brown on the rug, and I’d put my hand to the door of my room when I heard the thunk.
I turned in horror-movie slow motion to face the door to the bathroom at the end of the hall. I wasn’t alone, after all. I heard another thump and, ignoring everything that told me not to, I went to the door and I opened it.
He’d sliced deeper, both wrists. Made more of a mess. Blood had arced up in splashes on the walls, the ceiling, the sides of the tub. It dripped off the mirror and the shower curtain. It puddled on the floor. The smell of it, meaty, fresh, made me put a hand to my mouth to quell a gag.
He was in the tub with all his clothes on. Water enough to keep the wounds from clotting and closing covered him. He must have gotten in after the cutting. The razor glittered on the tiles.
He opened his eyes when I opened the door and he said my name. I didn’t think, I just went to him. I skidded in the blood, went to my knees, opened the wound I’d given myself a week before and it began to weep again.
I took his hand. His blood covered my fingers, made roses on my skin and on the white fabric of my blouse. He’d gone cold, though the water in the tub was still hot enough to steam.
He was alive when I found him, but I didn’t call for help. I looked into my brother’s eyes and saw nothing in them, and I sat with him and held his hand while his blood leaked out of him and he died.
That was the story I told Dan, and all of it is true. Much happened after that. I went away to school. I met Matthew. I learned I could love someone and make love with someone, and I learned that fucking and drinking could replace counting, and I learned to be careful about who I trusted with my secrets.And then I met Dan.
He didn’t say much during the tale, just let me talk. His hand moved in soothing circles on my back when I got to the rough parts, and he held my hand tight through others.
When it was over, I took a deep breath, then deeper. I looked at him. I felt as if I’d just vomited up something that had made me sick or cut away a scab that had been festering or dropped a load of stone I’d been carrying on my shoulders.
I felt lighter. Cleaned out. Exhausted and a little numb but…satisfied. Relieved.
“There’s not much more to say,” I told him. “That’s the way it was.”
I had never told anyone the entire story. I couldn’t do more than that. I couldn’t be more than what I was.
But I’d learned I could not be less, either.
He didn’t say anything for another moment. Then he asked me simply, “Would it be all right if I hugged you?”
When I nodded, he put his arms around me and held me for a long time in silence. His breath stirred tendrils of my hair, and I timed mine to his. In. Out.
I put my hand to his chest and felt for the beat of his heart. The steady thump-thump, strong, unfaltering, soothed me. His hands on my back soothed me. His lips brushed my hair.
I kissed him first, and he let me do it. Let me lead. I nudged his mouth open with mine and swept my tongue inside to taste him. I took his hands and put them on my breasts. I unbuttoned his shirt and slipped my hand inside to brush the curling sandy hair with my knuckles.
He whispered my name against my mouth. His thumb rubbed my nipple to aching tightness while his other hand slid down to cup my ass and pull me closer. He stroked my tongue. Our teeth clashed, lips slurped and nibbled. Hands groped.
I got to my feet, pulled him by the hand, took him to my bedroom where I pulled down the blankets and let him lay me down on crisp white sheets. My hair fanned out around us; his stood on end when he pulled his shirt off over his head. He bent to kiss me again as my fingers worked his belt, the button and zip, the denim waistband of his jeans and the smoother elastic of his boxers.
He got naked faster than I did with my complication of buttons, snaps and hooks, and, naked, he bent over me to smooth each button of my blouse apart, revealing my skin inch by inch and following with a kiss.
He spread the cloth open and traced the line of my bra with his fingertip, his eyes following his actions but glancing up to mine every so often. He paid attention to me, to my every detail, but he didn’t immerse himself in me. He kept me connected, aware. Kept us together so it wasn’t him just doing to me or me to him, but mutual exploration and admiration.
“I love the way your skin changes color here.” His fingertip drew a light line along the curve of my breasts. “Just above your bra.”
I knew my body well enough to understand how the skin went from pale to paler there. He unhooked the front clasp and parted the wisps of lace and elastic. I drew in a breath when he did, and my breasts rose under his hands.
Dan circled my nipples with his finger. “And pink, here.”
They went tight and hard under his touch. He smiled. He bent his head to take one in his mouth, suckling gently, and my clit throbbed in response. He moved to the other, kissing and sucking, and I put my hand on the back of his head.
He kissed between my breasts, then held them close together to kiss the plumped flesh, both at the same time. He helped me sit long enough to push the shirt and bra off and then laid me back down. The sheets were cool on my skin.
He kissed his way down my body, making murmuring sounds of appreciation, his hands as busy as his lips and teeth and tongue. He unbuttoned my skirt and eased it off, but did nothing with my panties for the moment but stare. They were nothing special. No sexy thong or revealing lacey bikinis. I hadn’t been expecting anyone to see them. Plain white cotton with high cut legs that revealed enough thigh for him to kiss my bare skin over my hip bones.
He stroked a finger along the small jutting bump of my clitoris through the soft cotton, and I jumped. He kissed my belly just above the waistband of the panties, his finger continuing its motion.
This was all that lay between us now. A thin layer of white cotton. He rubbed me through it again, then fastened his mouth against me and blew hot, damp breath through it. The fabric barrier was enough to keep the sensation dull but delicious, anyway. A tease. Tantalizing.
He did it again, and I felt the wiggle of his tongue against my clit. It was pressure rather than direct stimulation, and I parted my thighs to lift myself harder against him.
He hooked his fingers in the edge of my panties and pulled them down, following their path over my thighs and knees with his hands and mouth. He kissed my ankle and moved up my shin to my knee.
“Fuzzy,” he murmured, and I laughed.
“I didn’t shave today.”
“I like it.” He rubbed the stubble of hairs on my kneecap and kissed the part of my body I’d always foun
d the ugliest. “Au naturel.”
My thighs were fuzzy, too, the hair there softer. He gave each of them the same attention. His mouth left wet trails on my skin, heat that cooled in the air.
He parted my legs and settled between them. He looked up at me, but I didn’t balk him. He kissed me, soft mouth on soft skin. His tongue slid out to flick my clit, the motion gentle but not tentative. He caressed me, kissed me. I swelled for him. Responded. My body opened and he slid a finger inside, then another, as he licked me.
I gave myself up to it, his lips and tongue. The slickness of his spit mingled with my own fluids, easing the motion of his fingers, and he added a third. I rocked against his mouth, helping him find the rhythm and motion that best suited me.
His moans aroused me. Hearing his pleasure in what he was doing, listening to him murmur my name and words of love as he licked me, sent me higher and higher.
My belly jumped as I rocked my hips, pushing my cunt against his mouth and his fingers. Stars burst behind my closed eyelids, and I remembered to take a breath. With the air came a new level of excitement. Threads of pleasure slid down my legs, into every toe. In my arms and every finger. It suffused me, carried and lifted me. Swept me away.
I came under his tongue and he held me close as my body bucked and jumped. I cried out, his name like candy on my lips. Sweet and fragrant, licorice and whiskey. His name. Dan. Who had listened when I wanted to speak. Who had cared about why I didn’t smile.
He nuzzled me for a second before kissing my throbbing clit. He moved up my body to bury his face in my neck, his hand on my heart. I put my hand over his, our fingers laced.
His body radiated heat. His erection pressed my thigh, and I reached between us to stroke him wherever I could reach. His sigh was muffled on my neck, but he didn’t otherwise move.
“Dan,” I whispered. “You want to make love to me.”
He looked up then, his familiar smile speeding up my heart again though it had just started to slow. “You want me to make love to you.”
“I do.”
He kissed me. I was already so wet he slid inside too fast, stabbing me. We both winced, but I held him tight and didn’t let him pull out. I hooked my heels around his calves and put my hands on his rear, cementing him to me.
