Page 17 of The Intimacy of Skin

If everything happened for a reason, then why me?

People said that shit all the time as a way to gloss over terrible situations, like the excuse made it all magically easier to deal with.

When Mom died, that’s all anyone said to me.

Not an apology, or sympathy, or even a homemade casserole.

Living in the Bible Belt, everyone believed the cosmos aligned, and our lives played out the way they did to reach an invisible prize.

All the estranged family that pretended they cared fed me bullshit about it all happening for a reason, then smacked me on the shoulder as if they’d just cured the inescapable grief.

Spoiler alert: they didn’t.

When I thought back to the million brief encounters where that phrase was said to me, I only came up with more questions. What in the hell was the reason for me happening?

Mom swore up and down that I was the best thing to ever come into her life, and while I believed that, I also knew that not having me would’ve been easier. So far, I haven’t found the reason behind my existence.

The idea of needing a reason to live, of having a purpose in life other than to take up space, was so innately human that it made me cringe to think about it. I understood mid-life crisis, but what was it called when my entire life had been one huge crisis? I didn’t fit in anywhere.

My only reason for getting up in the mornings was that Willow would be crushed if I didn’t. I thought I’d find my place at school, and I didn’t.

I thought I’d find my place at Tiger Claw Camp, and though I thought I did for a while, I didn’t.

I thought I’d find my place when I started selling my body, camping out at the park in our shitty, small town, and I didn’t .

I thought I’d find my place on the street corners of New York, and wouldn’t you know—I didn’t.

What I wouldn’t give to belong somewhere. To feel needed. To feel wanted. All I wanted was to fit in. The streets were practically home to me, yet I was still an outcast.

Sure, I felt wanted when men picked me up for the night, but it never lasted for long. They only wanted me because they needed someone to want, and I got paid to be that person.

When Price looked at me, I could feel it. He wanted me so badly, his hands almost always reached for me, never quite touching my skin but close enough I could feel their raging heat. I could admit I wanted him, too. I just couldn’t have him. He’d break me in the gentlest way possible.

Price went against every instinct I learned to use for survival. If I gave in, I’d lose my control. I’d sink into the depths of treacherous waters—and I love the woman—but my mother never taught me how to swim. Who the hell didn’t know how to swim in the south?

I knew I’d done a poor job of hiding my emotions at work. Instead of keeping myself in check like I’d trained myself to do, my little facade of ease was slipping away left and right.

Price had taken notice, asking me every morning if I needed anything. I always said no, though I wasn’t sure I sounded convincing.

The sour, familiar scent of the streets called to me.

I longed to feel harsh winds against my face, my hands steadily turning into ice as I waited for the meanest, roughest man to proposition me.

My body ached to be sore, to sport ugly bruises that left lasting reminders of how much hate they could pour into me.

I had gotten more restless with each passing day, falling into sleepless nights plagued with nightmares of my past or infuriating wet dreams with Price front and center. The man had taken over my life, including my imagination.

My routine was so fucked up; I started craving Price’s smooth palms equally as much as I craved the blunt force of a brutally violent man’s slap. Aside from my sudden yearning for sweet missionary, none of this was unusual. It was the main reason I couldn’t hold any responsible jobs down.

I walked along one of my regular routes, traversing the sidewalk with confidence in my step.

I never stuck to one area for more than a few nights at a time, but this street was close to a bar where a lot of the hardcore Johns hung out.

It was easy for me to make a few hundred bucks here, even if it was slow.

The temperature had dropped drastically the closer winter approached.

I hugged my jacket tighter against my body, shivering from the cold.

Soon, we’d see snow packed along the ground, but prostitution didn’t stop for poor weather.

The demand would slow a bit, making it harder, though clients would never disappear completely.

Passing a few working guys, I continued down the street until I hit a spot that wasn’t directly in the light.

I let my back hit the wall of whatever building was behind me, the concrete cold enough to pierce through my layers.

Refusing to show vulnerability, I clenched my jaw shut and willed my body still.

I wasn’t here to work. I made a deal, and I was going to stick to it. But I was weak against the beckoning call my work had on me. The routine of it, the brutal nature that came with it, settled something deep within my chest.

It always had; it always would.

I just needed to feel the air around me. See the buzzing of the night, pretend I was a part of it, like I belonged here. I understood there wasn’t a point in trying to convince myself of that. I tried anyway.

My head rolled back, resting against the building behind me. I tugged the hood of my jacket, letting it cover most of my face. There was a high chance I’d be recognized by a John. If they saw me and offered enough money, I wasn’t confident in how easily I could say no to them.

Through all my attempts at a normal life, I had never made it this long without royally fucking something up or quitting whatever job I had at the time. Things had been too easy. I knew something would happen eventually.

Since I couldn’t feed the urge to be thrown around by some fifty-year-old married man with a secret love for abusing younger men, I tried to think about literally anything else. My sanity depended on how well I could distract myself.

Unfortunately, all I got was an overwhelming need to slice my skin.

My breath caught in my throat as the wave of urgency ran through me, trailing down my spine and making its rounds to the rest of me.

My chest burned, and the tips of my fingers went numb, the tip of my tongue following suit.

A rush of adrenaline kickstarted my heart, making it beat in time with my racing thoughts.

They weren’t even coherent at this point.

They were images. Hundreds of them, all bloody and horrible.

In each of them, a blade rested in my palm.

Balling my hands into fists, I squeezed my eyes shut as phantom pains crept over the skin on my arms. It traveled underneath my jeans and across my thighs, snaking down to the sensitive skin of my ankles.

Something dark yet comforting pounded in my chest. A pulling sensation, desperate to lead me to the hidden blade I had at home. Two options weighed themselves in my palms, both heavy with consequence and guilt alike.

Cut my skin open, letting my blood carry every secret and sin I kept inside with it.

Or sell my body to a man who would do it for me.

I’d ignored the urges for days now. Deep in the back of my mind, I knew this would happen. Without pain, how could I be punished? How else would I get rid of the ugly, cloudy ice trapped inside of me?

A frustrated growl rumbled from my chest, coming out raw and pained. The cold wind was doing nothing to distract me anymore. I thought the familiar walkway would bring a sense of peace. I was wrong.

Like every fucking thing else, I was wrong, and now there was a loop in my mind.

Over and fucking over, it wouldn’t stop. It was so loud, so deep, and so angry that it roared over the sound of my blood pumping in my ears. It wasn’t my voice—no, it was his. Speaking directly to me.

You need it.

You deserve it.

Come on, Crew.

I could hear the gravel in his tone, a plea traveling on a crescendo. Like every other time, my voice started to respond with it. No matter what, if he spoke, I responded.

I need it.

I need it.

I need it.

I had to get outta here.

Stray gravel crunched under the bottom of my heel as I lifted off the wall, hell-bent on hiking home and indulging in what my brain was screaming for. A calm washed over me, the feeling slowly returning to my fingers now that I’d caved in.

“Hey!” a deep voice I didn’t recognize called out. I paused mid-stride, briefly unsure if I should turn around or not. They could be a John looking to buy my time or a random citizen asking for trouble. Neither option was great.

“Hey, you! I know you heard me.”

I turned around, coming face-to-face with another worker.

It was hard to see him clearly from where I stood.

There wasn’t as much light, but I saw his midriff was exposed.

He wore some sort of cropped shirt with a pair of low-rise pants, which I was sure accentuated his hips. I didn’t recognize him otherwise.

I tried to play it cool, wary of where the conversation would go. “What’s up, man?”

Hand on his hip, he scoffed and walked closer. “Don’t try to act coy with me. The fuck is up with you? You get sick of the life?”

“I’m just taking a break, dude.”

“Oh, okay, yeah.” I tried to take a step back, but he moved closer. Just an inch or two more, and he’d be in my face. “Just run off home in your cozy house with the heat on. Did you only come here to laugh in our faces? Huh?”