Page 21 of Undertow

“Kissed someone?” I joke to lighten the mood.

“Lost control.”

My humor fades.

“There’s something about you,” she continues. “I don’t…” Her eyes search mine, pleading, before dropping back to my lips. She wets her own, as if tasting the remnants of our lust.

As she steps back, her reluctant fingers drag over my skin, like they need to steal every touch they can.

Once we’re separated, she presses the back of her hand to her hot cheek. “Ugh, what is wrong with me? I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not saying I didn’t like it,” I say with a playful smile. I can’t have her running away either. Her eyes venture to mine, and I reach for her hand. “Just, maybe we take it a little slower? Like, from the beginning?”

A smile slips over her pretty lips before she groans and leans her forehead against my shoulder. “Gah! I don’t even know. That was…”

When she straightens again, I’m blasted with perfection—her mouth curved up in a crooked smile, her eyes huge and saturated with evidence of her shy crush. Damn, she’s tempting. This is going to get very dangerous for me.

“Hey, um… I’m just gonna…” She nods to her right, and I follow her gaze to the small outbuilding with a rusted shower and doorless entryways labeled as restrooms.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll wait here.” I return a reassuring smile.

I meant it too.

Until I noticed her adorable expression drop just a fraction of a second too early when she turned. One second longer and I wouldn’t have known. I wouldn’t have secretly followed her to the public restroom. I wouldn’t have hovered just outside the door and heard a male voice say,

“Looks like it’s going well.”

I definitely wouldn’t have heard her reply.

“Really well. I think we got one.”

There’s a weight to this silence that terrifies the romantic in me.

The advantage of the predator is stealth, and I often wonder if I’m on the hunt or merely the prey.

It’s not within the natural world to condition your victim into comfort before bleeding them dry, but what about any of this feels natural? Should I have any reason to believe I’m not being led into the lions’ den, blinded by deprivation of my innate desire to be needed?

Should I have any reason to believe I don’t deserve this sort of ending?

I’ve been afraid of this all my life, caught somewhere between selfish and sick. What a difficult thing to navigate when you don’t know if you’re marching into your own demise or simply dragging someone to theirs, and how tragic it is to crave something in the middle.

Like a millstone on my neck, I think she and I both know where we’re headed, and the silent descent into the darkness is too familiar to disturb.

-JD August 12, Part 1

THEN: HIDING

The strangest thing about getting hit is that the worst of the pain comes later. The initial sting of impact quickly dissolves in the acid of survival, becoming forgotten trauma in the moment.

It’s later, often the next day, when the sting returns tenfold as a permanent ache. That’s when it tortures you in mundane tasks you never considered until they produce a sharp rush of agony.

Adjusting your body to sleep.

Kneeling on the floor.

Breathing.

“Call your family, anyone who would come looking for you,” Merrick says, holding out my phone. It’s no comfort having a name to match to the foot and fist that slammed into me for several hours last night. I can barely see him through my swollen eyes.

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