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There has been about a month skipped since the last chapter. Just as a heads up. Also. This wasn't editted.
Jack is waiting for me in my bedroom. He’s sitting at my desk, scrolling through my shitty, old computer. His thick shoulders are bunched together and he doesn’t seem to notice me entering. Or he’s pretending. Jack’s been getting better and better at that over the past few weeks. Fucking asshole.
I dump the bag I was carrying onto the bed loudly, using both my hands to force as much energy as I can into the slam. He flinches, but he doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t stop scrolling through my computer. I stand, waiting for him to change his attitude and he glances over his shoulder. “That’s not your bag-” he informs me.
I stiffen and turn my grumpy expression to the bag on my bed. “Well, fucking good observation,” I snap, “But what does it matter?” I feel almost ashamed for having it now. I half lean down to reach for it, but suddenly Jack is up. A warm hand clasps around my wrist and yanks it back harshly. I can’t help but cry out, swearing and wondering if he’s gone far enough as to break my wrist. He’s broken fucking everything else about me.
“Jack- you shithole!” I snap, trying to tug my wrist free. I feel a sickening feeling creep over my stomach as his other hand pushes into my stomach. His palm is huge, fingers inclining inwards. It feels like he has the strength to reach inside and yank my guts out. His expression tells me that he’d like to be able to. “What?” I ask, wincing.
“It’s not your bag,” Jack informs me, his brown hair drifting into his eyes. He steps forward, pushing his knees into mine to force me back. I stumble unsurely and hurt my ankles on the skirting board- which should be impossible. “Did you steal it?” he asks, pushing harder onto my stomach. “That’s the sort of thing you’d like to think you’re capable of, right, Lawrie?” he hisses, pushing his mouth into my ear.
I become aware of two things. That feeling before, which has settled firmly now, is fear. I’m afraid of what Jack can do to me. I’ve already experienced it before. I’ve seen the way it should have been. I’m afraid he might bite off my ear because of this mood. And... I don’t want him to pull his mouth away, or his hands. I... want him to touch me everywhere, even if it might mean he’s hurting me.
I’m not a masochist. I hate being hurt. I cover up for it as much as I can. But if this is the only way I can get Jack to touch me without looking so disgusted... then a few bruises... they’ll fade.
Jack must be close enough to hear my heart beat- hear it quicken in fear and skip beats for love. I’m a cardiac arrest waiting to happen in his arms.
“You’d like to think you’re so tough,” Jack continues fiercely. His voice tunnels hard into my brain and down my spine. I bite my lip and lean my head to the side, thinking ‘...just a little further down. Kiss me there...please.’ He only moves his mouth to continue speaking. “But you’re not tough,” he says, “You’re just a little, shitty, spoilt kid, Lawrie. You think you can fuck people around- you think you can act like a slut.”
“What?” I gasp, shaking and trying to pull away from him. He’s pushed his leg between mine at some point and trapped me further. He didn’t need to. If he’d just give me eye-contact every now and then... I’d stop dead wherever I was.
Suddenly Jack moves back, his weight lifting off me suddenly. His large hands grab my upper arms and yank- before slamming me back into the wall. A sudden flash of constricted purple blares across my vision as pain fractures up from the back of my head. I cry out and feel my eyes sting uncontrollably. “Jack!” I cry, feeling my body jerk erratically to get away from him.
“You’ve fucked him, Lawrie!” Is Jack’s only reply, yanking me forward again. A fear more blinding than the previous jerks into my fingers and I grab Jack, clinging to my assaulter to be saved from another slam against the wall. I scrunch up my small arms and dig my nails in. I stare at the front of his shirt. He’s still wearing his football shirt from school. He must’ve been so eager to kick the shit out of me...
I laugh just once before I feel a sob blubber its way out past my lips. “I just wanted to feel... nice,” I shake, whispering, “Goth Boy... did it as a favour. I’m totally fucked, Jack. I’m fucked, and you weren’t doing anything about it. He did- he made it better. And he’s nicer than I thought he was... He likes me. He /likes/ me.”
Jack and I freeze in a lasting, painful embrace. Then he slams me back against the wall, forcing his mouth over mine as I cry out. His wet tongue chokes me as I experience another purple flash. I lose track of time, until Jack bites hard enough on my bottom lip to break the skin.
When he pulls back, I feel the blood on my chin, both my lips and my tongue. I can’t taste it- and it makes me feel more worthless than I thought possible. When Jack finally lets go, I slump back against the wall but I manage to stay on my feet. I dig my nails into the wall and wonder if there isn’t a place in my bedroom he won’t defile me in. I find it hard enough to sleep.
He steps back, grabs his own bag and leaves the room. I turn my head and watch him leave, my throat sore and the back of my head in agony. He looks back, once, pausing in the doorway, before he continues, slamming the door. And the thing is... I feel guilty. I feel fucking guilty for sleeping with Goth Boy- even though I deserved it. I deserve to have a friend who won’t screw me over! I deserve to be the person I want to be.
I want to sink back into the wall and disappear. Or just- wait out the time it will take my injuries to heal this time. I no longer find blood in my pants, but the lack of it makes me sad. There is no proof now. There isn’t proof of anything from that night. The only thing I have left is a love-bite, and it’s not from Jack.
I push the bag off of my bed and kneel down, pushing my face into the pillow and wincing at the pain in my mouth. I swear and grip at the sheets before I lift my head. I am inclined towards the computer and I get up on shaky legs. I get head rush and fall back down. My head aches... but I pull myself up again and slip into the chair Jack previously occupied. I stare at the screen and feel my lips waver. I bite my own lip and wince- forgetting it’s already ruined.
Jack has been going through my emails. I clutch the mouse hard, feeling the heat from his palm still lingering to the plastic. I feel confused, because I don’t hate him instantly for such an obvious, dickheaded display of mistrust. I feel ashamed. Opened in front of me are all my recent emails to Goth Boy. Most of them are innocent- or appear to be. Conversations about films and interests and plans for the weekend might as well be cyber sex when Jack looks at it.
And then there are the other emails. The apologies from Goth Boy about hurting me, about hoping I was okay. My responses. My fucking responses. My soul typed out and all the advice I’m asking from him. Ways to ignore, forget and move on. And we talk about Dreadlock Girl, about Emma, as well. All of the emails from him are signed ‘K’ and with a kiss. The only reason Jack knows it’s Goth Boy is because of what I’ve labelled the email address to make it easier...
I rest my forehead against the screen and feel the cold, pulsing light underneath my eyes. It takes a while for me to pull myself up, to wipe my mouth free of blood and get to typing. I send Goth Boy another email and I make it brief.
‘Come over as soon as you can’
Goth Boy hasn’t been in my room before and seems nervous. I don’t want to think about what they were doing together- although I know it can’t have been bad if he had time to answer my email... unless they have some weird fetishes.
Dreadlock Girl doesn’t notice my busted lip because I did make an effort to clean up, but Goth Boy notices almost instantly, which makes me want to burst out crying. I laugh instead. “What happened?” he asks, wincing and lifting my chin.
I lean back, not wanting to make his girlfriend jealous. I know we screwed, but even back then I knew it didn’t mean anything. The only thing I got from it was a friend, and fucking understanding. I got comfort. I got love, for the briefest moment of my life.
I actually got a lot... but not a boyfriend. That’s her territory.
When I don’t reply, Goth Boy makes assumptions. “Jack was here, wasn’t he?” he asks, then frowns. “What a fucking asshole. Lawrie- you’ve got to tell someone about him. He’s going to kill you.”
Dreadlock Girl perks up at the suggestion and I smile, wincing at the pain in my lip. “Calm down, Emma, it won’t happen.” I shake my head, rubbing the back of it. “Jack’s not that much of a psycho...”
Goth Boy shakes his head with a sigh, “You need to stop covering up for him, Lawrie.” He leans back against the desk near me and messes up my hair, “You need to stop being crazy.”
I don’t lean into the touch. Some things that Goth Boy does I still find stupid, inappropriate and weird. I don’t coddle him. So why the fuck do I make excuses for Jack? Oh, surely work and school and sports must stress him out? Fuck that. He doesn’t need to act like such a jerk.
I smile and then shut my eyes tightly, “It’s too hard-” I shake my head and can’t explain it properly. Having Jack close to me, even if it is to rape me, or hurt me, is something I’ve been having wet dreams about since I turned fourteen. My fears of rejection, or losing a friend, seem so insignificant now when compared to this homophobic, jealous, possessive monster I’ve woken up in my friend.
The taste of cigarettes on his tongue still lingers in the cracks of the cut on my lip.
Goth Boy sighs and wraps his arms around me, his black lips pressing to my temple. “Idiot,” he mumbles, attempting to rock me. Just the effort is enough, even though I stiffened when his arms came near.
Dreadlock Girl steps closer and looks down at me. She’s tall. “You think he likes you?” she asks, “You honestly think he’s a faggot? This isn’t some shitty shoujo-manga where he’s only hurting you to get your attention. This isn’t primary school.”
“I’m not a faggot,” I wince, pushing Goth Boy away slightly and standing up. I wish he hadn’t brought her. I don’t need her yelling at me about everything I already know. But fuck- shit like that has to be based on /something/. Even if it is a freak 1-in-1,000,000 chance. It’s still there.
Dreadlock Girl laughs, “You’re more of a faggot than Elton John,” she informs, “So shut up and phone the police, his mom, or the school.”
I frown and sit back against my window sill, resting my sore head against the cold glass and wondering what I hoped this visit would achieve.
Goth Boy shakes his head, “Emz, it’s not that easy,” he says, “Lawrie doesn’t want to hurt Jack. Even if he deserves it...”
There is silence in my room for a moment before the only one with a vagina (apparantly) sighs loudly and sits down on my bed with a thump. She twirls her dreads, “Well. I say, try once more to get him calmed down. Maybe he’s just freaking out that he slept with you- well, raped, whatever. Maybe he wanted to. You wanted to. It wasn’t rape, just rough.”
I glare at her. “Okay. I know you’ve broken me down a bit from the asshole I was, but Jesus. I’m not a girl. I was never raped.”
Dreadlock Girl smirks, “Hey, chill. Maybe looking like a girl will settle Jack down. Now you just need to grow a pussy and tits.”
Goth Boy makes a noise, “Emma- that’s not... appropriate.” He chips at black nail polish and then looks at me, “You know... I hope she’s right in a way. Maybe he’s confused about being gay... But I’d still ditch him, Lawrie. Someone who can do that is just going to do it again.”
I shrug. I’m torn between caring and not caring. I’ve already tried acting like just as much as an asshole as Jack, but that failed. And acting like a wimp isn’t helping. If I could talk to Jack... it’d be easier. If I just had the strength to fight him off, make him listen to me.
“Maybe I’ll just wait him out,” I mumble, tucking my hair back and turning to look out my window. Stuart is in the garden, reading a newspaper on a deckchair with his dogs and cats in various locations across the grass. A young woman in sunbathing half naked next to him, carelessly smoking a joint. Apparently during all this drama he’s gotten himself a girlfriend.
I’m almost one hundred percent sure she used to be a guy, or perhaps she still is one. Stuart always struck me more as a pervert than a decent guy.
But he’s gotten someone. Everyone else fucking has someone. And why am I the only one left in the shit? How am I supposed to get out of it? Write a dating ad in the local queer newspaper? How about, fuck no.
“Maybe,” Goth Boy replies, looking at me worriedly. “Just- whatever you do. Don’t get hurt again. Or I’m calling the police... seriously. I don’t want him killing you.”
Well, that’s one good thing out of everything, I guess.
I got a pretty decent friend...
Bra-Two
