by Nicola Haken
“Can I have your number?” he asked eagerly while I pulled my pants back on.
“No point. I won’t answer your calls.”
“Jesus. You’re an asshole!”
“I promised you nothing,” I shrugged, picking up his clothes from the floor and tossing them at him. “You need to leave. I got shit to do.”
Laughing sardonically in disbelief, the guy threw his clothes on quickly, hooked his jacket onto his finger and left, slamming the hotel room door harshly behind him. When I said I had shit to do, what I meant was I planned to spend the rest of the day in this room feeling sorry for myself.
I felt like shit. I looked like shit. I’d not wanted to score myself a bag so much in years, although I hadn’t given in.
Yet.
My head was so fucking screwed. I’d not felt so desolate since my late teens and I didn’t have a fucking clue what was wrong with me. All I could think about was him and what he’d taken away from me. He haunted my dreams, my every waking thought. Sometimes I could feel him. My body often itched to the point I would need to scrub my skin until it was raw under the steaming spray of the shower. There was only one thing that had changed in my life. One thing that could’ve sent me back to that dismal place.
Mason.
This was his fault. It had to be. He said this would happen. As he fucked me he mocked me, told me what love meant. Told me how much power it held. How weak it made me. I hated him, and because of him I hated Mason fucking George.
I don’t know what led me to do what I did next. I hadn’t done it in a long time, a couple of years at least. I wasn’t very good at it back then, the scars were barely visible now. You probably wouldn’t even notice them unless you were actively trying to seek them out. I knew there was a shaving razor in the bathroom because I saw it in the complimentary toiletry pack next to the basin.
After unwrapping it and picking apart the plastic casing I stared at it for a few long moments in my hand. I could almost hear it calling to me, I could feel the itch deep under my skin just waiting to be scratched. Silently, I asked myself why I was doing this. I used to do it because I needed to feel. Something. Anything.
Now? It seemed like the only thing that would numb the pain. The pain in my head. The ache in my heart. The physical pain would distract me, if only briefly. It would take away the hurt, help me forget without completely obliterating what little control of my life I had left. I couldn’t go down that path again. I wouldn’t. Living for my next fix again would destroy me at best, kill me at worst. This was my only option.
Rolling my sleeve up, I positioned the shiny blade against the flesh on the inside of my upper arm. It glistened under the ceiling halogens, enticing me. My eyes locked onto it as it glided smoothly through the soft skin – as effortless as a knife through butter. Seeing the blood pool and then trickle in fine curls down my arm made me sigh in contentment. I could feel the emotional pain, the memories, seeping from my body and soaking into my shirt.
As disturbing as it sounds I admired my work. The cut was deep, intense like the agony in my heart. Shallow enough to heal without stitches, but gaping enough to leave a scar. A scar which would remind me that what I felt was real. That I wasn’t crazy, I wasn’t imagining it. The torturous memories weren’t all in my head. They were right there on my arm for me to see.
When the blood started thickening I did it again. An inch higher, I made a fresh cut, feeling similar relief as the first time. The rich blood, filled with angst and sorrow, dribbled into the first wound, merging with the slowing redness there and creating a single shallow stream. I was about to do it one last time, already addicted to the satisfied warmth spreading through my veins, when my phone rang in my pocket.
The vibrations stopped me in my tracks and I tossed the blade to the floor, sickened with myself. The guilt only intensified when I reluctantly pulled out my phone and saw Elle’s I.D. flash up on the screen. I threw that on the floor too. I’d let her down. She’d helped me get better once before, she told me that I had a right to be happy and I vowed to her that’s all I would ever be from then on.
Sliding down the wall to the floor, my arm and my shirt covered in blood as it dripped slowly onto the marble floor, I put my head in my hands and I let go. I cried. I fucking wailed until my lungs burned and I couldn’t breathe. I brought my knees up to my chest, hugging them hard as I rocked back and forth. The pain in my chest was agonising – so severe I couldn’t even feel the cuts on my arm anymore. I was slipping. Losing myself. Each day that passed I forgot myself a little more. Soon I would just be a shell. An empty, worthless husk just like he said I would be. He robbed me of everything I could’ve been, of my dreams and possibilities. I may not have said ‘Yes’, but I allowed it. I let him ruin me then, and I’m letting him now.
I woke up what must’ve been a couple of hours later on the cold bathroom floor. I didn’t remember falling asleep. Maybe I passed out. Maybe I was so exhausted, physically and mentally, that my body shut down. I cupped my neck as I sat up from the floor, massaging the stiff ache. When I moved my other arm I winced from the pain of the dried blood peeling from my skin. Fuck. I’d usually have cleaned myself up right away. Now it would be harder and definitely more painful, but in a lot of ways that was a bonus. I inflicted the wounds myself therefore I deserved the sting cleaning them would bring. In fact, I craved it.
**********
One month later…
Jacob Phelps @Fitboy9266h
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Last night was the Silver Chain Awards – the industry’s biggest ceremony. Back Door studios won six awards in total, planting us firmly on the map as industry leaders. I went because I was expected to, and because I owed so much to Ivan. In many ways he was like a father to me. He helped me get set up here, found me a place to live and had supported me through everything.
Except this. In order for him to do that I’d have had to have told him.
I felt on edge throughout the evening, looking over my shoulder in case I saw Mason. I plastered the confident smile people were accustomed to on my face whenever a fan or a camera came my way. Everyone seemed appeased with my little act, even though I felt like I was slowly dying inside. Everyone except Ivan of course.
“He’s not here, kid.”
“Huh?” I said, purposely acting oblivious when Ivan pulled me into a corner.
“You can’t pull that shit on me, Ry. The two of you have been little more than walking ghosts for weeks now. You’ve lost your spark, on and off screen. What’s troubling you? Talk to me.”
“I just…I can’t be around him right now,” I confessed guiltily, my voice cracking.
“Did you two have a thing going on?”
“No,” I assured, shaking my head. “He just… I mean I just…”
“You’re in a bad place, kid. I can see it. I know what that’s like. To feel like you’re trapped in a giant maze. Every time you turn you bang into another wall.”
“Yeah,” I agreed weakly, taken aback by how accurately he described how I was feeling.
“But you know the thing about mazes? They’re almost impossible to get out of alone. The bigger they are the more guidance you need, otherwise by the time you find your own way, it might be too late.”
“I feel trapped, Ivan. I don’t know what to do.”
“Cut down on the pot and alcohol for one. It’s one thing using them to have a good time, chill out every now and then but, kid, I’ve not seen you sober in weeks. That shit fucks with your brain in those quantities.”
I rolled my eyes like a petulant child. I didn’t have the care
or the energy for a lecture right now.
“Have you talked to anyone?”
I shook my head.
“I think you need to. I know a good therapist. I could put you in touch if-”
“Hell no,” I said firmly, cutting him off. “I don’t need that shit.”
“Hey, babe, they want you over there for photos.” Seb appeared from nowhere, grinning wildly, high on pride. I saw his face when Ivan’s name was announced as Best Director. The love in his eyes made my dying heart swell, throbbing just slightly as if to remind me it was still there.
“I’ll be back soon,” Ivan said, giving me a one-armed hug. “I’m here for you, kid,” he whispered in my ear. The he patted my shoulder and followed Seb out towards the crowd of models, photographers and fans. I didn’t want to stay and see him again, I couldn’t face it. So, with a heavy heart I turned and weaved my way through the sea of excited bodies towards the exit before hailing a cab to take me home.
**********
One week later…
I made my way into the studio for the first time in just over a week. I wasn’t filming, instead modelling for a photo book Ivan and Mark were putting together. The focus was much less porn and much more art. We’d already held a couple of shoots over the last couple of months in various locations and the photos were what could only be described as stunning. Ivan had a vision. He wanted the emphasis on expressions, on capturing our souls as he put it, and so far he’d done an outstanding job of achieving that.
After throwing my rucksack into Ivan’s office I headed out into the hall. That’s when my heart stopped dead in my chest. So far, despite us working for the same studio, I’d done a damn good job of avoiding Mason, so when I looked up and his eyes were just inches from mine I became so paralysed I genuinely didn’t know if I was still standing.
“Ryder…” he breathed, the word breaking on his tongue. I stood there in silence, utterly frozen. I mentally told my eyes to look away, anywhere but at him, yet they refused to move - arrested by his intense gaze. “H-how are you?”
“You’re here for the shoot?”
“No, I, um….just came to talk to Ivan about something.”
The following silence was deafening. I stood nervously with my hands trapped in my pockets and my right foot tapping gently on the floor.
“Sooo, how are you?” I returned his question with a shaky voice, unsure what else I was supposed to say.
“Ryder I just want to talk to you. Please.”
“You are.”
“Not like this. Not idle niceties, and not here. Let me stop by your place later. When you’ve finished here.”
“Mason I don’t think that’s-”
“Please, Ry. Do you really hate me that much? I don’t even know what the fuck I’m supposed to have done!” His voice began soft and pleading, but steadily grew angrier with each word. The cord of guilt wrapped around my neck tightened, pulling taut as he spoke. It choked me, made me breathless, weakened the walls I’d built around myself.
“I’ll be home around five.”
“Thank you,” he said. It came out as a breathy whisper and then he sighed, holding a hand to his chest. “Please don’t change your mind.”
“I won’t.” And I meant it. I knew in my heart I’d been a selfish prick who’d treated him unnecessarily like shit, but it was the only way I could survive. He was getting too close. I was getting too close. I couldn’t risk that. I still couldn’t. “Here,” I added, handing him the key to my apartment from my pocket. He left his behind the day he took all his things. He didn’t even say goodbye, not that I deserved that much from him. “Wait for me there. I’ll wrap up here as soon as I can.”
“Sure,” he said, nodding as he plucked the key from my hand. Both too nervous, maybe even afraid, to say anything else, we parted in silence. I didn’t watch him walk away but I heard every step, felt every vibration of it in my heart, until I heard the door close at the end of the hall.
The shoot went laboriously slowly. I found it much harder than usual to put my game face on but according to Mark I was perfect. Apparently I gave him the ‘glimpse of my soul’ Ivan had been searching for. As usual, Mark pulled up some of the shots on the laptop afterwards and I couldn’t deny there were some good ones. All were naked but with no dicks on show. Tasteful. Intense. Powerful. I had no doubt this book was going to be a huge success.
I managed to keep the insides of my arm hidden and kept it close to my body throughout the shoot by saying I’d twisted a nerve there and it hurt to lift. With that arm stretched out towards the wheel on the drive home however, I used my free hand to apply slight pressure to the area. The ache was a welcome distraction as usual but the downside was I craved more. The wounds there were a couple of days old, the pain not nearly powerful enough to help me forget what I was going home to.
Mason.
My heart crawled up into my throat when I parked my car outside my apartment block. Trying to figure out why he had this effect on me had proved impossible over the last couple of months. Why wasn’t he just another friend? A close friend. A best friend. Why did he have to be something more. Something that I didn’t even understand.
The knot in my stomach almost made me turn around when I pressed the buzzer. Mason had my key so I was forced to wait outside the door with nothing to do but stress the fuck out until he answered. It felt like hours until the door started to creak open, though I’m sure in reality it was only twenty seconds or so.
“Hey,” Mason said, sounding as nervous as I felt.
“Hey.” Wordlessly he stepped aside and I walked gingerly past him, making sure to avoid even the briefest touch.
I found it difficult to breathe in the dense air as I made my way over to the couch. I went to sit down but stuttered and ran my anxious fingers through my hair instead.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I admitted, deflated and overcome with heavy guilt.
“I just want to know what I’ve done wrong,” Mason muttered solemnly. His words sliced into my heart and the rims of my eyes began to sting. “I…I miss you, Ry.”
“You’ve not done anything,” I mumbled remorsefully. “Not on purpose at least.”
“I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.”
Exhausted, I sank down onto the couch, resting my elbows on my knees. Mason followed suit, sitting down next to me.
“I was getting too close to you,” I confessed, forcing out a deep breath.
“I don’t understand.”
“I didn’t realise just how close until you started acting all weird with me. I didn’t like it. I missed what we had. Missed the late nights watching dumb TV, the food fights, the times we’d just sit and talk about anything and everything.” I shrugged, feeling pathetic and more than a little scared.
“I’m sorry,” Mason said sincerely, wiping his clammy forehead with the back of his hand. “I was just…worried about you.”
“Worried about me? Why the fuck would you be worried about me?”
“That night, the night you came home wasted and everything changed…”
“Yeah, I know. I pissed you off. That’s what I mean, I should’ve just laughed it off till you got over it but instead I worried about it. Couldn’t stop trying to remember what I’d done. I stopped drinking so it wouldn’t happen again. That’s what I didn’t understand – I still don’t. I piss people off all the damn time, so why did it bother me so much? Why did I feel so fucking bad about it? What is it about you that got so deep under my skin that I lost all sense of who I was? You were in my head, Mason. You still are and I…I can’t have that.”
“Why? Talk to me, Ry. Share something with me. Show me who you are.”
“I am talking. At least, I’m trying to.”
“No,” he dismissed, shaking his head. “Your body’s right here but your mind is so far away.”
“You don’t wanna know what goes on in my mind. Trust me.”
“Yes! Yes I do!” he snappe
d, growing frustrated. His expression softened almost immediately and he reached out and took hold of my hand. My breath caught in my throat from the contact and the muscles in my arm tensed, itching to pull away from him. “I don’t understand it either. I don’t know why I feel so drawn to you, all I know is that I do. When I look into your eyes there’s so much depth, like whatever’s behind them goes on forever. There’s bad stuff there, I know there is, and I find myself wanting to crawl inside and take it all out.”
“You can’t take it out. No one can.”
“How do you know if you won’t try? I can’t take it from you, but I can accept it if you give it to me.”
“Why would you do that? Why is it so important to you?”
“Because you’re important to me.”
“Why?”
“I can’t answer that. Why does anyone fall in love? I could list everything I like about you – that you’re fun, mysterious, compassionate, beautiful… but really it’s because you’re just… more. We have a connection and I know you feel it too.”
“I don’t love you,” I spat acidly.
“I don’t expect you to. I’m asking to get to know you, that’s all.”
“You do know me. You lived with me.”
“I know the Ryder everyone else knows, but I want more than that.”
“I can’t do that,” I protested weakly. My breath was coming out in short bursts and my chest tightened. I couldn’t do this anymore. He wanted too much. Huffing in frustration I went to jump up from the couch, but Mason grabbed the top of my arm and I winced.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice sharp with concern.
“Nothing. Just let go of me.”
“Did I hurt you?”
“No. I need you to leave now.”
Mason’s fingers were still wound firmly around my arm despite my protest and when I tried to shrug free I sucked in a gasp from the sting.
“You’re hurt. What happened?” he urged. I ignored him and wrenched my arm free, but he grabbed onto the sleeve of my t-shirt. He forced the material upwards without my permission and I knew the second he saw the mixture of fresh and healing scars because his eyes widened and his jaw dropped. “What are these?”
