Page 48 of Only the Small Bones
Burned!
Stab!
Cut!
Drugged!
Slave!
Cold!
Hungry!
Chained!
Floor!
Beat!
Broken!
He hadn’t written down rape, and I’d held onto that delusion. I’d convinced myself his aversion to physical contact stemmed from another form of abuse. I’d told myself the only abuse he’d endured was on that page. Any or all of those eleven words were the reason. I let myself believe that because I knew I’d never recover from the truth.
Ryan busied himself with righting his shirt and fastening the only remaining button. It was enough to cover his scars, the most vulnerable and revealing part of himself. I didn’t miss the look on his face before he lowered it.Shame.I knew firsthand how it made the eyes dull, how it made the mouth lax and the breath leave you on a heartbreaking exhale.
I paced away from him, punching my fists through the air, screaming, needing to expel my rage somehow. I charged over to the buffet, swiping the decor on top of it to the floor. I ripped the portrait of A Dying Man’s Melody hanging on the wall above it, breaking it over my knee before throwing the pieces aside.
Ryan stood still in his dark corner while I destroyed everything I could put my hands on, adding to the pile of rubble. Between the two of us, the room had become a war zone.
My throat was as dry as scorched earth by the time I was through, the air burning in my lungs felt hotter than lava. I paced a tight circle, kicking debris out of my way. The spots clouding my vision began to clear, and I laced my hands behind my sweaty neck as I gazed up at the chandelier.
“I don’t know what to do,” I said, utterly dejected. “I could say I’m sorry for what happened to you, because I am. I’m so fucking sorry, Ryan. But it won’t fix it. No matter how many times I say it, it’ll never be enough.”
Davidson’s words came back to me, highlighting how naive I’d been.
“What are you, a shrink now?”
“No, I’m not,” I muttered to myself.
I took a step in Ryan’s direction. I needed to get to him. To hug and protect him, even though it was too late for the latter. He shrank back, molding his shoulders to the wall.
Kicking a chunk of the portrait out of my way, I walked over to the table, righting it before leaning against it. I scanned my useless brain for something to say, for encouraging words aimed to soothe. I thought about what happened here tonight, thought about all the nights we kissed in spite of our fears and pain. Thought about what Ryan had been trying to do through those kisses. He’d been trying to repair himself. Trying to find the beauty in something that had only ever caused him pain.
Had he never been touched from a place of kindness after having been sold? Had he never experienced pleasure in his own body? Did he only associate sex and intimacy with brutality and non-consent? I’d hoped somewhere along the way, someone in the sick and twisted world he’d lived in handled him with care. But it seemed nothing but savagery had tarnished every corner of his life.
As I watched him curl in on himself with his hands drawn protectively to his chest, I decided to do something about it. To take a different route, one that hopefully led to his heart. To the damaged bits of it. I’d educate him.
“Sex can be stimulating,” I started through a scratchy throat, “invigorating, exhilarating, and about a dozen other things. When done right, and with the right person, the experience can even feel spiritual.” I checked to see if I was scaring him. His hands slowly drifted to his sides.
“Sometimes the right person isn’t always the person you’re in love with. It could mean someone who cares about you, someone who respects you. Someone who’s just as concerned with your pleasure as they are with theirs. Although, I hear sex with a soulmate can feel like you’ve died and gone to heaven. That the connection goes way beyond two bodies coming together. They say the experience can be so life affirming it reduces you to tears.” I huffed. “I read that in a magazine once. I’ll have to take their word for it. I’ve had plenty of sex, but I’ve never been in love. Sounds amazing though, doesn’t it? To feel that much for someone else? For the orgasm to be secondary to the strengthening of a bond?” Did he hear the wistfulness in my tone? The longing?
“Sex used to be my form of escapism. Something I used to take my mind off of my pain, or if I needed to shut down the voices haunting me.” I tapped a finger to my temple. “My first time wasn’t as romantic as the movies would have you believeit’ll be. It hurt a little at first. And sometimes, if I go too long without bottoming, it can feel like the first time all over again.”
I wasn’t sure if I was helping matters, or making it worse. I was rambling again, but I spoke from the heart. Hopefully that made sense through the mess I was making of things.
“But the pain of first-times gives way to a euphoric, all-consuming and spellbinding gratification. The touch of your own hand can do the same.” I scooted higher onto the table, leaning back on my palms. “Granted, jerking off can sometimes feel like you’re only taking the edge off your desire. Killing the flames but still choking on the smoke. I got that horrible metaphor from a magazine too. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel good, though. It has its own appeal.”
I couldn’t make out his face as it was hidden in the dark, but I could see everything from his neck down clearly. His feet shuffled a fraction closer.
