Page 27 of Creep
I lay on top of her as I pant, attempting to catch my breath. After I come back down after losing my mind, I mutter, “Fuck, baby doll,” as I slowly withdraw from her. As I pull out, I feel her pussy still pulsing.
I roll next to her and glance over to her. She has mascara smeared across her face, tears long since dried, creating a crazy trail of black and her lashes are clumped together. Her hair is a knotted mess against the side of her head and her dress somehow got torn throughout the whole ordeal, but I have never seen a girl look so fucking desirable.
Even though I just came, my dick grows hard again just staring at her. Her eyes are closed, and her chest rises and falls with even breathing. She must have fallen asleep—knocked out from everything I put her through.
Completely satiated, my eyes slowly drift shut.
11
Essa
The next morning,I wake in my own bed, completely covered and curled into a ball. When I realize I’m no longer bound by any restraints, I instantly stretch my limbs, pain and stiffness radiating throughout my entire body. Groaning, I roll onto my side carefully to avoid brushing my ass against the mattress and grab my iPod off of the stand.
I search through my playlist until I find “Ghost” by Badflower. Hitting the repeat button, I shove the earbuds in my ears and drop it to the bed next to me as I stare out of the window. Agonizing pain consumes me as flashbacks of last night pummel through my mind at a million miles a minute, each memory feeling like someone is hitting me over the head repeatedly.
I have no idea what the fuck came over me when I decided to stop fighting him. I hate Vincent with every fiber of my being. He took me to cover a debt and treats me like I’m some spoiled little brat who doesn’t listen, expecting me to obey to his every command like I’m a fucking robot. But what’s worse, is the fact I’m fucking attracted to him.
I imagine his tattoos covering his body, only enhancing his muscular, but lean, build.
His hand wrapped around my throat as he shoved me against the wall.
The scruff on his face burning against my neck as he whispered in my ear, his deep voice crawling across my skin like the smoothest, but strongest whiskey.
His veiny arms holding me down as he pounded into me, his cock hitting every fucking nerve inside of me.
His tongue swirling through my blood, igniting more heat in my core when I felt his muffled moans against my skin.
My face burns with the memories, liquidating my anger into something much more desirable. As deeply as I despise him, I fucking want him. I love how he makes me feel. Not only the pleasure he brings me, but how he knows to give me the pain I need.
But more than my anger for him, is my anger at my parents. I haven’t talked to them, or even heard from them since I left, but I did speak to Holl last night after my graduation. It was nice to hear her voice after the shit I’ve been dealing with since she left—more bullshit than the usual. She told me she’s enrolled in classes which start this fall and she’s finally all settled in her apartment and starting her job at a coffee shop. I’m happy for her, I truly am, but I can’t help the jealousy which pulls through my veins thinking about her being all the way in Rhode Island, away from all of this bullshit.
The true source of my anger lies with them though. They couldn’t even fucking show up to my graduation—though I’m not fucking surprised. They are the reason behind every single bad thing that has ever happened in my fucking life. The drugs, abuse, fear, toxicity,all of it. Because of them.They threw me away like piece of fucking gum stuck to the bottom of their shoe—a mere inconvenience taken care of by ripping it off and throwing it away. They blame all of their problems on everyone else, never taking responsibility for a thing—even their own fucking children.
I throw myself out of bed—ignoring the fact I’m naked because I somehow lost my fucking clothes—the blood and dried cum coating my thighs makes my legs stick together as I walk to the chair in the corner of my room. I grab my bag that's sitting on the cushion and walk into the bathroom. I rummage through it for a few minutes before I remember he took my fucking knife. Heaving a sigh of frustration, I ransack the cupboards in search of something sharp enough to fucking cut. At this point, cutting is not something I do because I need it, but because it’s a fucking habit. I’ve been doing it so long, it feels like second nature.
Feelings too much to deal with? Cut.
Don’t feel well? Cut.
Have a headache? Cut.
Self-loathing? Cut.
Everything that happens, I use it as a reason to cut, to detach myself from it all. No feelings, equal norealpain—the emotional kind anyway.
I heave a sigh of relief when I find a razor stuffed in the back of the cupboard under the sink. With it in hand, I step into the giant shower and turn the knob to the hottest possible temperature, steam rising into the air. The second the water hits my skin, I hiss at the contact but welcome the sting. My ass is beyond raw from last night and the water running over it feels like flames licking against me.
I bring the razor to my arm, like always, when an idea hits me. I’ve always cut on my arm, my right to be exact, because it always had the easiest access for instances I needed the pain quickly. Because of it, I never thought to cut in other places, but Vincent taking his knife across my legs last night is giving me ideas.
I push the razor against the skin of my upper right inner thigh. With my head bent over, water drips down my face and into my eyes, distorting my vision. My eyes burn with the need to wipe the water from them and I try to ignore it but it’s distracting me from the task at hand. I bring my hand up to wipe my eyes so I can see what the fuck I’m doing, but of course the hand I use is the very same one holding the razor, so in the process the small blades glide across my cheek bone, nicking me.
Blood drips down my cheek, falling to the shower floor. I regard the first drop splattering at my feet below me, mixing with the water and swirling down. The water begins to turn a murky pink color the longer I’m under the stream and I’m confused until I remember it’s last night’s blood. It slips down my body in bloody water droplets, disappearing down the drain.
I take the razor to my thigh again and began making nicks on my skin. The razor can’t do much more other than nick me. The sting is better than nothing at all, but it’s not enough. It’s never fucking enough. When deep down inside you want to die, is anything ever truly enough? The answer is no, so you take what you can get to help yourself try to feel a little more alive, towantto live, if even for the day.
I continue to cut my leg, until every drop of water splattering against my thigh has me hissing in annoyance, bringing nothing but enough pain to keep me satiated.
Pain.
