He is breathing hard, his jaw is clenched, his cock is so hard it is straining against his pants. The memory of his smooth, naked muscles against my skin comes back as does the smell of his arousal—strong, smoky. Between my legs it feels wet and hot. I reach for his zipper. My hands are sure, fast. He is out in an instant. I watch him rise up over me and peel off his shirt, trousers, and underwear. His skin glows in the candlelight.
He bends to retrieve his trousers, his hands searching for the pocket. I know what he is looking for. I hear the crinkle of the condom foil and cover his hand. He looks at me.
‘Are you sure?’
I nod.
The trousers slip from his fingers. His large hand rests a moment on my stomach. I watch his manhood. Beautifully decorated with ink it stands proud and thick. His knees come between my legs. Slowly he tries to nudge the apple head into me, but I must be so sore and swollen from the night before because it feels as if I am being split asunder. I swallow my scream of pain, but my eyes widen and my mouth gapes open in a shocked O.
He freezes.
My flesh feels raw and ripped, but I grab his shoulder. ‘No. Don’t stop,’ I urge.
He retreats gently, but it scorches all the way out.
‘Sweet Lily. I couldn’t hurt you even if you asked,’ he breathes. The burning eases. It is relief but at a price.
He moves lower and puts that hot, wet mouth on my swollen, bruised sex. I sigh with pleasure. He licks gently, with great dedication. It soothes me. I feel bright and shiny again. My fingers dig into the lustrous black hair and pull his mouth harder onto me.
I come quick and hard and gasping, my spread thighs shaking uncontrollably. The pleasure is so intense it is agonizing.
I try to rise. He puts one finger on my breastbone. ‘Stay. You look good when you are open and ready to be taken.’
‘Take me in the ass.’
And in this way, inch by inch, slowly, carefully, painfully he goes where no other man has gone. No matter what happens after this, this is my gift to him.
Afterwards, I lie on his chest and listen to his heartbeat pulsing—slow, definite. A sheltering sound. He deserves more than I can give. Something tears at my heart. He deserves much more.
Can he feel the beat of my treacherous heart? I shouldn’t have begun this. Too late. I just never dreamed someone like him would ever want me. I feel suddenly so lonely it hurts. Aching tears swell my eyelids. I stamp them down. He explores my hair, curling it around his fingers. I open my eyelids and the tears run out and smear between our skin. His hand stills. He takes my chin between his thumb and his fingers and lifts my face up.
‘Why?’
I realize I want to make him feel good. I want to pretend a little while longer. ‘I’m just happy.’
He stares at me for a moment longer. He is about to speak again so I smile. So easy to execute. So disarming. Such a lie.
I trace the cross over his heart. ‘When did you do this?’
‘I was fifteen. I built it over time. It is made of seventy-seven scratches.’
I lift my head higher and look at him curiously. ‘What does it stand for?’
‘Matthew 18:21. Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, “Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother when he sins against me? Up to seven times?” Jesus answered, “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times.” My seventy-seven times are up, Lily. No more forgiveness for me. Only hell awaits.’
He doesn’t know but I already know his story. I think of him as a fifteen-year-old boy. Lanky with long muscles. Arrogant on the outside, but fragile and broken inside. Scarring his own skin, filling it with ink, counting his sins, and I suddenly feel so sad I want to weep.
Life is so strange. So unfair. What has a starving child in Africa done to deserve its fate? Or a gypsy child who has to take over a criminal enterprise at the age of fifteen? I think of my brother bringing me an abandoned bird’s nest with the broken shells still inside. Doing handstands on Brighton Pier. Sweet, clueless Luke. Making lumpy pancakes on a Sunday morning. A knot forms in my throat. I swallow it. My throat aches. I will not cry in front of him.
‘Why didn’t you stop at seventy-seven?’
‘Because I couldn’t.’
‘Why?’
‘The more money I made, the more entitled I felt.’
The child is gone now. The man is impenetrable. He fucks. He comes. He doesn’t feel. He leaves. And yet he is different with me. As I am different with him. I nod. Yes, money. It makes the world go around. All of us little puppets in its thrall.
‘I found you a job,’ he says softly.
I feel tired. ‘Yeah? Where?’
‘You’ll work in my organization.’
‘As a drug mule?’
His face is serious. ‘I have legitimate business ventures.’
‘What will I be doing?’
He shrugs. ‘Alicia, my PA, will tell you all about it.’
‘You mean you created a job for me.’
‘Lily, Lily,’ he whispers.
THIRTEEN
‘Friends, we have a new member amongst us tonight. Let’s welcome Lily,’ announces William, the group leader of RSSSG (Relatives Surviving Suicide Support Group).
The introduction is for me, being that I am the only new one in the group and everyone has turned to stare at me, but I am unable to acknowledge it, since my mind and body have suddenly become blank. I stare ahead, unable to look at the faces searching me, unable even to speak.
My grief, a deep tattoo covering my heart, starts bleeding anew. Maybe this is a mistake—too early (that’s a laugh)—or maybe I’m simply not ready yet.
Just act normal.
Whatever that means in a place like this. I take a deep breath and forcing myself out of my paralysis nod a general greeting. A girl stands up and goes to get a chair from a stack in the corner of the room. The clanging noise is loud in the empty, uncarpeted space and I have to stop myself from jumping. Other participants are moving their chairs, widening the circle to accept me. The girl slides my chair into the newly created space.
‘Take a seat, Lily.’ William’s voice is firm, but in a reassuring, hypnotic kind of way. It struck me that way even on the phone. I walk to the vacant seat and gingerly perch myself on the edge of it. The woman sitting next to me turns my way and smiles warmly.
‘Relax, we’re all friends here,’ she says and presses her hand on mine.
‘Hi,’ I say, resisting the impulse to pull my hand away.
I first heard about this center when a friend suggested it four years ago. She said it kept her sane when her father took his own life. But I never wanted to come. Until a few days ago. I’m only going to observe, I told myself again and again. But now that I am here, I no longer know why I am even here at all.
‘So who wants to begin the session?’
It’s that time when someone gets up and bares their naked soul!
William looks directly at me. Oh no. I’m only here to observe. I’m not ready to reveal anything yet and certainly not to a room full of strangers. I realize then that it has taken a long time for me to stop putting flowers on the grave of my memories. I don’t want to talk about him now. Maybe not ever. I bow my head and hope he will take the blatant hint and give me a pass.
‘How about you, Lily? Would you like to share with us?’
Heads turn my way. I look at him reproachfully.
‘Tell us a little about why you’re here?’ he coaxes.
‘I’d rather not. Not just yet, anyway.’
He smiles gently. ‘That’s all right, you don’t have to participate yet, only when you feel ready.’
A weight suddenly escapes my body and I ease back in my chair. This man has a way that soothes and calms me. Someone else starts speaking. His voice drones on, becomes a buzz that I don’t listen to. I lose sense of time.
The next thing I know, I’m being awoken by a soft but insistent touch. My body involuntarily recoils. William is hovering above
me. My violent reaction causes him to back off with his hands raised.
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,’ I apologize and his face breaks into a kind smile.
‘Would you like to talk for a few moments, Lily?’
‘Everyone has gone,’ I note.
‘Yes, the session ended. You fell asleep quite early into it but you seemed so worn out and since you were reluctant to participate just yet, I let you rest.’
Inside I feel awful—I mean, who the hell comes to therapy and falls asleep on the very first session? ‘Thank you,’ I say shamefully.
‘Hey, that’s what we are all here for, Lily. Shoulder to cry on. Nobody here is going to judge you. It’s obvious you are very troubled and if there’s anything I can…’
‘No,’ I deny, instantly going into defensive mode, closing the door to any hint of pity. I get to my feet. ‘Really, I’m OK,’ I add, avoiding eye contact.
‘It won’t do you any good, locking it all away.’
‘Yeah, well maybe it won’t, but it was a mistake coming here,’ I respond sharply, and try to move past his large frame, but he moves directly in front of me.
‘It’s never a mistake to seek help, Lily. You need to find a way to deal with your pain or rage or perhaps your guilt. Bottling it up will only make things much worse, and believe me, you are hearing this from someone who has been there.’
Even though I try to resist the wisdom of his words, his gray eyes have a depth and knowledge that command my reluctant attention.
‘People come here because they’ve lost control of their lives and they want to heal—they’re tired of the grief, the tears, the immobilization. Promise me, even if you never come back, that you will focus on something positive. Take back the control you lost, Lily.’
Strangely, as I search his eyes, I feel calm. I’ve told him nothing of my problems yet there is some thread of connection between us. He has suffered himself, it’s clear he’s no fake.
‘I will.’
He steps aside and nods with approval. I start moving toward the exit.
‘You take care now.’ His words punctuate the empty silence.
I leave the strangely echoing, sad building and insert myself into the bustle of the real world, but something’s different about the way I feel now. I’m actually glad that I took this route, because I know.
I will never come back. The pain cannot be talked away, it has to be exorcised away. The destructive emotions buried deep inside me tear free, like a hand protruding from a grave.
I begin to sprint, blood rushing to the powerful muscles in my thighs, my movements long and sure. My pounding step accelerates until it jars on the pavement. The wind whistles by my ears. Sweat beads on my skin and makes my clothes cling to my back. My muscles start stinging, my chest heaving as if it will burst. But I don’t stop running.
Maybe I will never stop running.
FOURTEEN
My new job is in Jake’s import and export firm. I have been stuck in the administration department. The job is terribly legitimate and terribly, terribly boring, but I do get to keep my clothes on and the money is far better than I could have hoped for. Everybody is really nice to me and Ann, my co-worker, picks me up in the morning and drops me off after work. So no complaints.
That day I work till late and when I get out of the car the night air is warm and thick with an imminent storm brewing.
‘See you tomorrow,’ I call and wave as Ann drives away.
I fish my keys out of my bag and start walking up the path to my front door. I swear I never felt even the slightest premonition. When the man’s hands clamp down on me I am totally taken by surprise. My heart stops cold, but my brain works perfectly. The impressions are fleeting but clear. Caucasian. Skin gleaming sickly in the white glare of the fluorescent lighting from the adjacent building. Breath smelling of cigarette smoke. Wrists full of dark hair. Pale eyes: blank and empty like a reptile’s. Black shirt. Dark blue jeans. Five feet nine. A hundred and ninety pounds.
I know him.
From the club. He wanted me to touch him. I said no and walked away, but not before I had seen the flash of hatred.
My nerves scream for me to run, but he has the element of surprise. He jerks me toward him and drags me into the undergrowth. I try to lift my arms up to fight him off and he pushes me roughly to the ground. I stagger and crash backwards into the bushes. Branches scratch the sides of my face and neck.
He falls on me, his fingers digging into my shoulders. I lie underneath his weight, winded. Unable to move.
‘Refuse me, will you? You skanky, stone cold, cheap whore,’ he hisses, his jaw quivering with fury. Immobile I stare into his eyes. Whatever else he is, he is vicious. My heart thumps wildly with fear. Terrified, I know I cannot run.
He grins hatefully. ‘Still think you’re too good for me, slut?’
‘No,’ I say, shaking my head, and he punches me in the face.
The blow stuns me. Colored stars dance across my vision, blinding me and making me wobble, before my brain actually registers the explosion of fierce pain. Blood erupts from my nose, splatters his hand, and pours down the sides of my face. Sick fear spreads in my stomach. I want to vomit or piss myself.
He digs his knee into my chest and taking his mobile out of his pocket, starts taking pictures of me bleeding and pinned under him! Terror is like an enveloping coat of freezing cold leaves. This guy means to kill me. But it is a good thing he does that because it allows me to recover slightly. My brain starts rolling into action again. He is too big for me to push off and his position means I cannot even knee him or do any damage to him with my hands.
My only option is to pretend to become unconscious and find a way to open my purse, which is still hooked to my elbow. I let my head loll to the side. If I can just get inside my purse. He takes his knee off my chest and starts unzipping his pants. I do nothing. I keep my breathing even while my fingers are slowly moving into the flap of my bag. Suddenly he drops over me and like a rabid animal bites hard into my neck. So hard I am no longer able to pretend to be unconscious.
I scream. My hand searches frantically inside my bag. He slaps me hard. I feel a knife at my throat. I close my mouth. I have located my mace. Very stealthily I bring it out and in a flash I spray it into his face. He falls backwards, his hands clawing at his face. I seize the moment, pick myself up, and run screaming toward the building. A man—I have seen him before, he must live in the building too—runs to me. He wants to call the police but I say no. I tell him I am too frightened to call the police. I definitely do not want him to call the police.
‘You’ve been attacked. You must tell the police.’
I look at him. ‘It’s someone I know. An ex. I don’t want to call the police, OK?’
He shakes his head in a disgusted way. Together we go back and get my handbag. I thank him, find my keys and go into my apartment.
Melanie is on the phone ordering a Chinese takeout.
‘Fuck! What happened to you?’
‘One of the customers from the club. Remember that creep I told you about?’
‘That pervert Simon?’
I nod. ‘He took pictures of me with his mobile camera.’
‘What a nasty piece of work?’
I go to the mirror. My nose is bleeding copiously and one side of my face is starting to swell badly.
I hold my head tilted upwards while Melanie applies ice packs that she uses on her feet on my face. ‘It’ll be a bit smelly but you’ll survive,’ she tells me. Then she picks up her phone. ‘I’ve got to tell Brianna. Ban him and warn the other girls. You need to make a police report.’
‘No police. But yes, warn Brianna.’
She comes to sit beside me, her forehead creased with concern. ‘Why no police, Jewel?’
‘I’ve got history. Minor things, but I can’t go to the police.’
‘OK. No problems. No police.’
‘Thanks, Mel.’
Literally a minute after Melanie en
ds her call, my mobile goes.
‘Jake,’ I say, with a frown.
‘Wow! Brianna was fast,’ Melanie comments.
‘Are you all right?’ Jake barks urgently into my ear.
‘Yeah, minor bruises.’
‘Are you sure it was him?’
‘Yeah, I got a good look at him.’
‘Right. I’ll be there soon. I got something to take care of first. And, Lily…’
‘Yeah?’
‘Don’t go anywhere until I get there, OK?’
‘OK.’
FIFTEEN
Jake
I ring on the little cunt’s bell and wait, nausea clawing at my guts. He put his filthy hands on my woman.
His disembodied voice comes through the intercom. ‘Yeah?’
‘You hurt one of my employees this evening. I’d like to come up and talk to you about it. Discuss some compensation.’ Jesus, I sound calm.
‘What? You’ve got the wrong guy, mate. I’ve been in all day.’ He does offended and indignant very well.
‘Or if you prefer I can go to the police and let them sort it out. You decide.’ I do rational and threatening very well.
For a moment there is silence and I think the coward is going to take his chances with the police, but then the buzzer sounds. First mistake, Motherfucker. I push open the door and run up two flights of stairs to his door. I lean the baseball bat against the wall next to his door, ring his bell, and affect a relaxed pose. He looks at me through the spy hole, then takes his time about opening the door. But he does.
‘I’m telling you, you’ve got the wrong guy,’ he says strongly.
I shove him hard and he flies backwards and lands sprawled in his corridor. His eyes widen with terror as he sees me casually retrieve the baseball bat from its place. I come in and kick the door closed. Shame. He has cream carpets.
He starts moving backwards. ‘It wasn’t me. You’re making a big mistake,’ he whimpers like a fucking pussy.
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