Page 17 of Written in Scars

Johan didn’t look up from his phone as Sam entered, his fingers moved fast over the screen, obviously sending a message to his next intended hook-up. Sam opened his drawer of the large pine dresser they shared and took out a pile of underpants. He didn’t count, but it looked enough for a week. He took them to the case in the spare room before going back for socks.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Johan sneered, phone on his chest, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“What I should have done a long time ago. I told you: I’m leaving.” Sam returned to the other room. He threw the socks into the case before heading to the bathroom to collect his toiletries.

Johan stumbled in behind him. Naked, still clutching his phone, his white cock was a flaccid slug between his over-developed, hairless thighs. “The amateur dramatics don’t work on me, so you might as well drop the act.”

Sam threw deodorant, toothpaste, moisturiser, shower gel and his toothbrush into a bag and shoved past Johan, back onto the landing. Now he’d decided to leave, he could barely bring himself to look at the cheating bastard. Putting the bag into the case, he closed the zipper.

“Oh, yeah, brilliant,” Johan mocked from the doorway. “Round of applause for a good show. I always knew you were a drama queen, but this – this is worthy of a bloody Oscar. Jesus, what a cunt you are.”

Sam barged past him, avoiding eye contact and lugged the case down the stairs. He left it at the front door and went back into the living room where he’d left his jacket. Johan stumbled after him, still bare-arsed naked. He grabbed Sam’s arm.

“Get off,” Sam jerked back.

“All right,” Johan said, holding both hands in the air. “You win. Give me the fucking lecture and get it over with, then you can drop this pathetic charade.”

Finally, Sam looked him in the eyes, seeing fear and uncertainly in their bleary depths. “I’m leaving you,” he said calmly. “No drama, no pleas, no more asking you to be faithful. I’m going. That’s it. You can sleep with as many whores as you like because I won’t be here to care.”

Johan’s eyes flicked quickly over him, panicked. “You’re joking. Right? If you’re trying to scare me, it worked okay. I’m sorry about last night.”

“No, you’re not,” Sam said quietly. “You’re only sorry that your selfish little life is about to change. You shit in your own bed, Johan. Now you have to sleep in it. Alone.”

Sam pushed past him again, pulling on his jacket, heading for the door.

“Hold on. Hold on.” Johan stumbled after him. “This is stupid. You don’t want to leave. I don’t want you to go. Please don’t.” His voice cracked.

Sam was hardened to any tears. Johan could turn them on and use them to his advantage. He’d done it plenty of times before. He’d beg forgiveness and insist he would change. And he would, but not for long. Sam wouldn’t fall for it again.

“It’s over,” he insisted. “You know that more than I do. You’ve done your best to drive me away all these years.”

“And where the hell are you going to go?” he demanded, anger returning. When he’d been using drugs, his emotions were always erratic and unpredictable. “Run back to your mother. You won’t last long there. You won’t be able to stand it, then you’ll be begging me to let you back here. And I won’t. I’m telling you that. If you go now, you’re not coming back.”

Anger rose inside Sam, filling his stomach, threatening to choke him. And suddenly he lashed out in the only way he could, a verbal blow more devastating and painful than any physical attack.

“I’ve met someone else,” he said, watching the impact of his words play across Johan’s face. “I spent the night with him. Last night. He’s gorgeous. Intelligent. Rich. Maybe it will lead to something. Maybe nothing. I don’t know if he’s Mr. Right.” Though Sam had a strong feeling Logan was, he wouldn’t tell Johan that. “But he made me realize that you’re Mr. Wrong, Johan. And I deserve a lot better than you. Our marriage is a sham. You made it that way, not me. But I’m the one who’ll end it.”

Sam opened the front door, picked up his suitcase and walked away. He didn’t say goodbye.

****

Mr. Wrong. Mr. Fucking Wrong.

Johan stared at the closed front door, barely believing what he’d just heard. If he didn’t know better, he’d put it down to the drugs he’d taken – last night had turned into some big session – but he wasn’t high. Not anymore. Sam, meek little Sam who crossed the street to avoid confrontation, had actually said all that shit.

I was Mr. Right when he married me. Mr. Right when I looked after him. Put up with all that PTSD crap he went through. And now this. What a cunt.

Worst of all, Johan had taken it. Had stood there with his dick hanging limp and let him say all that shit. Cock-sucking bastard.

Suddenly conscious of his nakedness, he stomped upstairs to retrieve his robe from the bedroom.

What did Sam mean? He’d met someone else. Who? He’d shown no interest in other men before. Never shown much interest in sex at all. If he had, they’d be getting on a lot better than they were. If Sam would only loosen up a little they’d have a ball. There were loads of hot guys looking to have threesomes with other couples. Last night could have turned into quite a party if he hadn’t been such a prissy bitch. Those guys were well up for it.

He’ll be back. There is no other man. He spent last night on a sofa. Probably one of the fag-hags he hangs about with at work. He won’t know what to do if a guy came onto him, other than run away. He wouldn’t know where to start with a big hard dick.

Chuckling to himself, Johan headed downstairs.

The living room looked like a bomb had hit it. No wonder Sam had a shit-fit when he walked into this. Johan laughed again. Big deal, there was nothing broken. He’d tidy this mess up in no time.

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