The Emancipation of Love

by Mary E. Palmerin

  I let my fingers entangle themselves effortlessly around his soft strands as I move my hips closer to his hot lips. He better be open, willing, and able to suck me off like I demanded. If not, there are consequences for those who don’t listen and I am more than willing to let him know what those entail.

  Kenji’s hands wrap themselves around my naked hips and I thrust forward, making my cock enter his wet mouth. His lips envelope around me perfectly, sealing themselves and letting me move my hips back and forth quickly. I feel my cock hit the back of his throat and he gags, but doesn’t relent. To be honest, it wouldn’t matter if he did… I don’t think I could be stopped.

  “Yes, oh!” I pant, fucking his mouth harder.

  The feeling is euphoric, the embracement of being a ghost tied to my past is almost forgotten. His hand clasps my ass as I feel his finger probe my entrance. I feel violated, but it is a turn on. Being desecrated is all that I know. I have come to react and agree to its ways no matter what.

  I have become one of them.

  A master at manipulation as I shatter the only kindhearted, genuine person that I have in Portland. But, oh, how glorious it feels as he sucks me off flawlessly.

  “More,” I muster, pushing him away.

  I want to yell orders to him like I did before, but that is too tiresome. My mind is sucking every ounce of life that I have left out of me. I am existing on the guttural need for deviance as my body goes about on auto-pilot mode, allowing me to bask in the aberration that has been my only friend for so long.

  My dick pops free from his mouth and I take a moment to admire the trail of saliva running from the corner of his mouth, tickling its way into the crevice of his cleft chin. As much as I was wanting to inflict aching on him, it is now that I understand that I need to be treated like I deserve. I have to revert back into nothingness, broken and worthless. I need to repeat my mantra.

  “Fuck me like I deserve, Kenji. Hard. Make me yours.”

  I don’t give him a second to think about my request. The thought of a warm, throbbing dick in my ass makes me lose control. I yank his pants down, everything happening so quickly I don’t even have time to make the most of the situation. I am only giving my cold soul what it has to have. I have lost the only part of what matters to me and until I can figure out how to fight for it, I can’t go on like a famished beast. I must feed the need.

  I take his thick cock into my mouth, wetting it just enough so he can fuck me. I stand quickly and let my lips collide with his as my hand grips onto his dick. He grasps onto mine as we moan in unblemished synchrony into one another’s mouths. I feel a dysfunctional connection to him, but I will never be enough. I don’t feel anything except hunger. Nothing more can be explained.

  My hands find his still clothed chest and I push him away so our lips part. I cannot wait much longer. I am starved and he is my prey. If I do not get my way soon, it is sure to yield bad results. The look on his face is full of so much emotion, I cannot bear to look at him anymore. Those eyes speak to my heart and I don’t care to know their story. Deep down at this fleeting second, I understand I am killing Kenji.

  I am a devil in the flesh because I won’t stop.

  My hands make their way to his red shirt, and once again the color flashes into my mind with beautiful reminders of my girl and the bloody memories that we made. I tear his shirt open, allowing the buttons to pop free, seeing his olive, inked and smooth skin before me. I want so badly to place kisses on his chest, but I can’t crack him open further than I already am. This is nothing more than a hated, frenzied fuck for me.

  “Jesus Christ!” he calls out as my fingers tingle the surface of his chest.

  I disregard his statement and push him to the side, arranging myself over his work station in front of the mirror, a clear indication for him to take me.

  “Now. Fuck me. Don’t touch me, just fuck me.”

  He grabs onto my hips as his foot nudges my legs wider apart. I gasp aloud, waiting to feel him probe into my already throbbing asshole.

  I hear him moving and I want to look, but I am scared that I will see his eyes. It’s like a train wreck, you can’t help but look. My eyes move forward to the reflection and it is one of the most incredible, erotic things I have ever seen. Kenji is graceful and confident with his motions, bringing his fingers up to his mouth as they enter. I sigh once more, sure that I can take no more waiting.

  His wet fingers find my asshole and he pushes into me hard. I scream out loud from the pain, still sore from the begging abuse from Isabel. He jabs forward again, making sure his hard cock can accommodate my tight opening. His quick motions fill me up with so much, slowly feeding the starvation that I have longed for. But it just a matter of time before even this will not be enough. I am a ticking time bomb before I find the courage to fight for my love. Will I even have the bravery to continue on?

  I feel the head of his cock push towards me, meeting resistance. Our eyes meet in the mirror and I push back, letting him tear through me, breaking me and making me his. I thought that I was killing him, I was dead wrong.

  Right now, with each thrust of his hips and piercing gaze of his dark eyes, Kenji is killing me.

  I let Kenji fuck me with veracity and ferociousness. I must be lying to myself thinking that the fucked up sex sessions are what I need. They are just screwing with my already half dead brain, making me understand that I am forever tormented by my past. I am held prisoner by the six-year-old boy who was ripped to shards by the man that I begged to love me.

  Daddy, will you love me?

  Why are you kicking me, Daddy?

  I thought monsters weren’t real.

  Why are you growling like a mean, old doggy, Daddy?

  Instead, I was greeted by smacks, blows, punches, kicks, and unwanted thrusts. At a very early age, I understood that nightmares didn’t only exist when you slept. The darkness didn’t solely laze around beneath the moon in the vast starry sky. No. Obscurity evades the weak, vulnerable, hungry ones that crave love. The undeserving ones that lie cradled on their torn and tattered makeshift beds, shivering as they look out the window on sunny days, counting the puffy snowflakes falling from the winter sky while hearing the creaking from the hallway. The same sounds that prepped them for the abuse that they would soon sustain.

  I know about the deplorable ones all too well.

  As I wallow in self-pity, I decide to stop by a liquor store on my way home. The once bright afternoon sky is dark as I make my way down 12th Avenue, heading home to Buckman in the Hawthorne District of Portland. My entire body aches and I just want to drink a lot and forget today. What a massive shit storm it was. I cringe at how I responded to the single most important moment in my life. I had been waiting for her for years, yet still I stood.

  I am tarnished and unable to make amends. I know I want to fight for her, but trying to figure out exactly what that means is a whole other story.

  The cold rain droplets land on my skin, waking me up from my lethargic state. I open the door to D’s Liquor Locker as a rush of warmth rolls over my skin. The store smells strongly of patchouli and marijuana smoke. A 30-something year old woman comes from the back hallway, pushing 1970s wooden beads away so she can greet me at the counter.

  “Good evening. Anything I can help you with?”

  I look through heavy eyes at the lady and instantly feel at ease. Something radiates comfort from her. She has long, curly brown hair that is in disarray. I gather that she is the kind of person that doesn’t give a fuck. I find myself grinning. Her soft brown eyes sparkle and once again scream safe.

  Her bohemian like wardrobe with long, flowy skirt graces over the old, wooden floor elegantly. She is a woman that is confident in what she does. For the first time in a long while, I don’t find myself fantasizing about hurting or fucking a woman. Perhaps the world is still full of some good people or maybe I am not completely fucked up.

  “Name’s Di. Can I help you find anything? Looks like you’ve had a rough one,
sweetie.”

  I nod my head yes and proffer her a smile, sticking my hands in my jean pockets.

  Rough is a goddamn understatement.

  Letting the love of my life run away from me is the epitome of a catastrophic event.

  “Let’s just go with a classic. Jim, Jack, Captain, you name it…” I say looking around the small area to find something that will satisfy me.

  Anxiety is plaguing me once again. I feel like my feet are leaving the ground. The tug of war between Wonderful William and Worthless William is up and running once more.

  I feel a touch on my elbow. I’m startled as I jump back slightly. I’m jolted back to the now as I look into Di’s eyes, seeing the security that I have so long wanted. An almost motherly like persona emits from her kind orbs, though she is far too young to be my mother. I have the urge to cry. I haven’t missed my mom in a long time and right now, I just want to know that I am not that broken and that I can be loved again. Maybe someone wants to find my scattered pieces and put them back together no matter how tedious the task may be.

  “Seems like you need it. What’s your name?” Di asks, eyeing me pensively with a half grin.

  “William.”

  “Well, William. I have the perfect concoction for you. Follow me over here,” she says, walking over to the front cashier station.

  Her skirt billows behind her and I follow as she walks over to a glass shelf housing various fifths of liquor behind the cashier’s desk that are begging to be taken. Her dainty hand picks up a bottle of amber colored liquid and a smile graces her face as her eyes sparkle at mine.

  “This should do the trick,” she says, handing me the bottle.

  I look at it unfamiliar with the name of the whiskey.

  Lost Prophet 22 Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey.

  “I haven’t heard of this before,” I smirk.

  “That’s because it’s one helluva a bourbon and it ain’t cheap, William. Straight from Kentucky. I keep it behind the counter for that reason. $200 bucks for a bottle.”

  I scrunch my eyebrows as my jaw hangs open.

  “Thank you so much for the recommendation, Di, but I can’t afford this. I think I will just go with a bottle of Jim Beam or something,” I respond, trying to hand the bottle back to her.

  She gives me a warm smile as she crosses her arms before her. Her stance is everything but intimidating.

  “William, consider it a gift.”

  I take a small step back, completely bewildered.

  “Why?” is all I can return.

  “There are some things that don’t need to be explained, William. Sometimes, all someone needs is a little bourbon and a good smile from a helpless hippie.”

  She winks at me and I can’t help but smile. Maybe the faith I thought died in humanity is still alive. Perhaps part of the problem is my clouded vision. I need to open my eyes to see the good.

  “Thank you so much. I’ll be back and next time I will pay for a bottle,” I say, tucking it under my arm.

  She gives me a friendly nod. I walk out of the liquor store, thankful that the patchouli has masked the smell of the man who I was recently with, the same one who used to be my friend. With those thoughts, the dimness seeps into my pores as I break into an obligatory sweat. I count my steps until I arrive at my apartment on southeast 12th Avenue.

  Home sweet home. I can almost taste the bourbon on my tongue. God knows this night is doomed before it has even started…

  I look down at the bottle and no longer see one. Double vision has become my friend as two empty fifths float around in my hand. My head is pounding and the trace of the strong whiskey sticks around on my dry taste buds. The haunting sensation that typically surrounds me returns with vigor, resulting in an inability to tolerate things. I abhor everything that is living and breathing and the only thing that will absolve my attitude is proper sleep. Too bad I am stuck between a rock and a hard place. I don’t normally sleep well because I don’t like the past to find me. When it does, each time its grisly talons dig their way deeper inside of me, staining me with its nasty effects. But, unfortunately for me, I have had too much to drink and my piss poor demeanor will only get worse.

  Sleep is the only remedy.

  I strip myself from my shirt and jeans, leaving myself in my underwear as I stagger down the hallway and into my bedroom. I run into my nightstand, knocking over the tiny plastic box of razorblades that jars me back to before with Isabel; how she fileted me just like I asked, making me remember the bloodiness that I yearned for.

  I shake my head free from the never ending battle and trip once again. My double vision has turned to triple. Before I have the chance to think anymore, my body lands on top of my bed and I pass out hard.

  Just me and my pencil. That’s all I will ever need. And maybe a knife to my wrists when I decide that it’s too much. Being a 16-year-old kid stuck in this shit hole is too goddamn much. Victoria’s cries are overwhelming and Claude and Helen are going to the extreme with each passing day.

  I want to tell Victoria that it’s okay, but I would be lying if I did. She is gone. Lost. Too far away. I am beginning to think that I am on that same path. I look over to her half naked body curled up on the bare mattress. She is in nothing but a pair of pink, ripped underwear as she desperately tries to cover her body with her arms. Her ivory skin is covered in black and blue bruises, cuts, and scrapes. I turn my head briefly to admire them, then snap my head back to the moment, wondering why I had such a disgusting thought. I hate the bastards that beat us and treat us the way they do.

  Instead, I draw. My hands tell stories that my tongue and brain won’t. The lines, shading, and darkness relate my feelings, fears, and tales that I have gone through. Some days I don’t even know the purpose of it other than me clinging onto a part of sanity. I can’t help but still want to grasp onto a little bit of faith that something good is coming my way.

  With that, I continue to gaze at Victoria, so skinny and beaten as she cries louder and louder. She hasn’t been eating much, but I can’t blame her. The punishment of dog food and Spam isn’t appealing to even the animals that they feed. What human would eat it? Her spine sticks out and I often worry when I see her naked how her sharp bones don’t poke through her paper thin skin.

  As she continues to cry, I know the result will be Helen and Claude barging in at any given moment, so I let my peaceful thoughts swim about in my abnormal 16-year-old brain until the tormenting begins.

  Soon enough, the pounding of heavy footsteps starts down the hallway. It’s sad that I have gotten used to it. My heart rate doesn’t speed up anymore. I swear that I don’t feel it when I get punched. Sometimes when days pass without it, I feel myself going through an unknown withdrawal, which confuses me a lot.

  The door swings open violently, then Claude rushes in. He’s clothed in nothing more than dirty white briefs that are too tight on his large belly. His gray hair is matted and his glasses, like usual, are smudged. I often do not understand how he can see out of them they are so gross. Victoria yells out again while I stay seated in the same spot. I should react, to protect her, but what for when the same thing will likely occur? I am nothing more than a scrawny 16-year-old up against an almost 300 pound tall, grown man. What would fighting do, except cause more damage?

  Claude clenches his jaw as his lips curl over his rotting teeth. His scraggly beard holds evidence of the dinner he recently ate, the same one that Victoria and I were refused. My stomach grumbles with the thought of a decent meal.

  My eyes make their way down to the art I was working on to make one last stroke with my pencil. If I make it out of this alive and unharmed, or normal if that is possible, maybe I will have a paper trail of reminders. Little pieces of tragic beauty that I captured all along the way.

  “Shut the fuck up you stupid bitch!” Claude barks down at Victoria.

  Her hands are hugging her tiny body as tight as they can, the knuckles of her hands as white as snow that falls on a perfect wi
nter’s day. I know I am fucked up as I do nothing except acknowledge every minor detail while moving my hand along the notebook paper. But, they are the only blissful moments that I have. The art that I create is the only goodness that I am. Why not share that?

  Then, goodness is lost. Minutes of decency are gone down a tunnel of never-ending horror. The oxygen is cut off just as quickly as I remember taking my last breath. The space between where Claude and I were is gone as his hand is wrapped snugly around my neck. My hands lose their grip and I allow him to have his way with me like I am playing the lead role of Worthless William. That is who I was born to be.

  Pain. I count to myself; one, two, three, usually by five is when I see stars.

  Four, five.

  There are the stars.

  Six, ahhhh, the tunnel vision has started. If I am lucky, he will keep choking me until I pass out and he can do whatever he pleases so I don’t have to remember.

  Seven…

  His fat hand lets go of my neck. By reflex, I gasp for air while bringing both hands to my throat. I cough while trying to swallow for air.

  “You bastards aren’t worth a shit. No one would even know if you died.”

  Claude erupts into a fit of laughter. I regain my self-control, hearing Victoria’s sobs in the background while seeing Claude’s large belly move up and down in perfect unison with his evil cackles.

  “How’s that feel, little shit? I could kill ya now and no one would care. Worthless fucking William!”

  Claude spits on my face. I know better than to try to wipe it away. Again, I am a well-mannered boy who is obeying his sick master. If I don’t, I am in for a world more of hurt.

  His hard fist meets my face. I should be thinking about the jolt of pain that is sent to my jaw, but instead I am coming up with stories to tell to my teachers in case they ask what happened to my face once it starts to bruise. I know all the different shades and staging of bruises. Sad but true. It’s just part of my life.

  The thing is, telling the truth won’t work. I will only be dumped to another set of Claudes. They will see me as a tattle tale. The cycle will only end up worse for me in the end. I have a few years before I am of age to leave and be on my own.