I turn to her from my position on my back, and she shares Duggan between us. He does little for me outside the fact that he belongs to her, and I never feel alone when she’s nearby.
“Maybe you do. I can’t live like this. I can’t look at myself,” my lips move silently.
“They’re just scars.”
“They’re his marks,” I mouth. “All I see is him.”
She understands why I stiffen with hatred.
“No, nothing of you belongs to him. You belong to me. My friend, my brother, my person… my hero. Scarred to keep me safe. Scarred to survive, and I’m glad you did. And you will because I’m not done needing you yet. I love you.” She kisses the tip of my nose.
And I almost feel it in the here and now. Red fingers smear the blood on my face as I touch the spot.
Staring into the broken mirror, I look even fucking worse now. Rubbing my hands over my face, all my features turn red.
Running the water on my hands, I use a little soap and wash my face. I ignore the sting of cleanliness as I continue until each gash bubbles with tiny drops of fresh blood. I use a clean hand towel and gently pat the injuries dry.
I toss the towel in the hamper and walk through my bedroom.
Finally, after putting it off for days, I changed that flickering bulb this morning. I flick it on, revealing the room that looks exactly like it did when I was fifteen, and my parents tried to entice me back in here and out of Dollie’s room.
Needless to say, it didn’t work.
I chose her pink paradise over my black cave.
I’ll turn off the light again after grabbing a pair of shorts because all these new bulbs are too fucking bright for a guy who hates light.
Horror movie posters greet me as I approach my dresser with a towel hanging low on my hips.
I hate that I look like someone who should be in my favorite kind of movie to the point it makes me wanna rip all the posters down and throw even the signed ones away.
I step into my boxers, and the image of shorts and pants bunched around Shane’s thighs invades my mind again, and anger swirls inside me.
I don’t know why it bothers me, but it does.
The thought continues to pester me as I enter the bathroom, clean up my shit in the sink, and dispose of my towel.
My room is the only one with an adjoining bathroom. It would have made sense as children if Dollie had chosen it, given her illness. But as an adult, it suits me because I never get into bed without washing my hands or feet.
I don’t need the germs crawling over my skin beneath the sheets, breeding there.
A full-on scrub was warranted tonight, though, thanks to the local thugs.
My face still burns from my own abuse and the wash that followed. But it’s a teenager’s spit that I still feel there the most.
A door creaking down the hall snaps me from my trance. I step from the bathroom, my eyes on my bedroom door as another door creaks open… then another… and another. It’s getting closer.
Grabbing my phone from my preferred bedside table, I drift behind where my door will open.
A quick pull of the doorstop clicks open one of the many secret doors to my favorite parts of the house. The seams blendperfectly with all the posters, and no one would ever discover the tunnels lurking behind them.
I step inside and conceal myself just as my bedroom door squeals open.
Heavy footsteps move around my room, examining everything I once loved.
It isn’t Shane, whom I’d still like to beat with a stick. Thinking of him has my teeth grinding.
This person is heavier.
