Page 6

Aisling

H e backs away slowly, palms open in a quiet offering, but something in his eyes tells me he would burn the world if I asked him to.

If it weren’t for the fact that I just got fucked in some grimy bathroom, I might have gone home with him.

He’s a sight to behold. Standing just a couple of inches taller than me, medium build, and caramel colored skin that looks like a shadow has kissed it. Dark hair falls around his face in lazy, middle-parted waves that brush his ears.

His glasses are slightly crooked on his nose, and his subtle facial hair frames his goofy grin just perfectly. He’s exactly the kind of guy that I’d see, smoke some weed with, then fuck. Maybe even keep his number in my phone for a little while, you know, in case I get bored.

Wrong place, wrong time, pretty boy. Story of my fucking life.

I roll my eyes at him as I turn to walk toward my car, and I feel his watchful gaze following me, tracking me, searing itself into my back.

Goosebumps erupt from my neck and arms. I recognize my body's reaction instantly. This isn’t just some skater boy at a park watching some pretty girl walking to her car.

This is a predator sizing up its prey.

Not this shit again.

I pull into my driveway, not remembering much of the ride home. It was one of those drives where you arrive at your destination but don't quite recall how you got there, an out-of-body experience without the second body.

My feet try to betray me multiple times as I walk through my doorway. Not having the usual energy to climb the steps ahead of me, I grasp the wall for some stability. The darkness is a calm embrace, wrapping around me like a blanket of safety.

The weight of my body drags heavily as I reach out and switch on the little mushroom lamp I strategically placed inside my front door to avoid having to turn on ‘the big light.’ We don’t use that light in this house. It’s ‘the devil,’ as Bobby Boucher’s momma from The Waterboy would say.

My exhausted hands start pulling at my dirt and blood-coated clothes. The weight of them finally became too much, too tight, too itchy. I leave them in a small pile in the hallway, knowing I’ll pick them up later. Besides, I live alone, so it’s not like it’ll piss anyone off.

I move down the hallway, flipping on a couple of lamps and LED lights as I go to create the cozy ambiance I love so much.

Maybe it’ll help me feel better.

Walking through my room, I grab the oversized Bad Omens tee and a pair of panties I left on my bed before I went out today, and head for the bathroom.

Getting into the shower isn’t the same internal struggle as it was less than twelve hours ago. The sound of the running water drowns out the thoughts of him in my head, creating a sanctuary I don't want to leave.

A safe space.

The feeling of freezing cold water brings me crashing back into an even colder reality. For years, I would play with men like they were my toys, taking advantage, but never once being taken advantage of. Then it hits me..

This is my karma.

Holy shit.

I deserve this.

I shut off the water, pull the curtain back, and reach for my fluffy towel.

I’m searching for some sort of comfort, but all I’m met with is the feeling of raw skin meeting fabric.

I don’t even look in the mirror. I’m not ready to face the emptiness staring back.

Instead, I hang my towel up, head to my bed, and curl up on my side, letting the warm tears fall from my face and silently soothe myself to sleep.