Page 5 of Dirty Monsters

My frustration overflowed, and I growled at him. “Fuck me or get the fuck off me so I can find someone who will.”

“I own you, sweets. Now, shut the fuck up and let me break you,” he said while finally rolling on the condom.

His first thrust was devoid of tenderness. There was no caution. No second check to make sure I was ready for him. It was intense, demanding, needy. There was a tinge of pain from the initial force, but it slowly worked its way out.

I liked the burn. I needed it to make me feel alive.

Something I never felt.

I don't even remember how long it lasted before he was unloading and passing out on top of me. All I knew was he made me think I could let myself feel something and came before actually delivering.

Pathetic, I thought to myself.

His loud snores filled up the room, and I shoved him off me, slowly climbing from the bed. I grabbed my clothes and the coke from the table, then searched through his pockets for more.

He fucking owed me.

In his living room, I dressed and grabbed the rest of my crap. Slipping out the front door, I closed it slowly so I wouldn't wake him.

The feelings of guilt and shame started to creep in by the time I walked back to my own place. Luckily, I had just the thing to chase them away.

More, even.

Unlocking the door, I let myself in and found my way to the coffee table. Sitting down, I dropped the contents of the baggie—and the two extras—onto the table and used my credit card to line it up.

It was all going down tonight.

"You didn't have to bail on me, ya know."

Yes, I did.

"You always thought you were better than me."

No, I didn't.

But I sure as fuck wanted to be. My brother was a dick, at best. Always had been. He was the guy most people hated, yet you wanted in your corner if shit went down.

I usually gave him a pass because our first few years of life were hard. Even at three years old, we knew we had it bad. My earliest memory was of my brother and me climbing on each other's backs to find food on the countertops when no one else was around.

We couldn't even remember much about our birth parents. Even when we were there, they weren't. They were off feeding into their habits and forgetting about the world.

We found ourselves in the foster care system for a while. Someone had finally called and reported my parents to child protective services. Maybe they’d finally heard enough of the screams coming from our house and decided to do something about it.

After two years, we were adopted by a seemingly nice couple who were told they couldn't have kids of their own. For a whole year, we lived a good life. We might not have been given the attention we needed, but we had everything we could possibly want.

It was probably their biggest mistake because the material things they offered couldn’t raise kids. We needed attention and love, but we were never shown much affection.

Then our parents ended up with a miracle child. One of their own flesh and blood. My brother and I were once again a forgotten duo, somehow managing to keep a roof over our heads and food in our stomachs. We were never able to measure up to the "miracle" our sister was.

We managed to make it halfway through high school before we were kicked out and sent back into the system. Did you know you could un-adopt your adopted child? Wasn’t that a fucked-up pile of shit?

I sure as fuck learned the hard way, and I blamed my brother for the scars it left us.

Despite how much I knew I was equally to blame, it was his sick mind that laid the foundation for our quick exit. I held on to my victim card as long as I could and played it each time I needed the upper hand. I didn't pull it too often because what I truly blamed was our shitty start to life.

We were both victims—of drug-addicted parents, of the system, of the environment we were forced into from an early age.

If I could excuse his behavior because of our past, then surely, I could excuse my own behavior. Right?

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