Page 118 of Damnation
I don’t know how, much less when, but I find myself lying down on the sofa with Logan stretched out on top of me, his hands creeping up under my shirt, approaching my bra.
This disgusts me.
Horribly.
But I don’t stop him. I keep kissing him. I keep hurting myself. I throw myself into it, hoping that the disgust will overcome the hurt. Or maybe I’ll just get to the point where I can’t feel anything at all anymore, and then the pain will vanish too. That’s what I want—what I need.
A tear dribbles down my face, and my stomach twists as Logan undoes his belt, whispering against my lips, “You want to do this?” Even now, I don’t stop kissing him. I don’t answer him. And he apparently reads my silence as an invitation to keep going, because he unzips his pants and pushes them down his thighs. Then he begins to pull mine down as well.
His groin, covered only by the thin fabric of his boxers, presses against me, and I feel my gorge rising. In an instant, that small flicker of lucidity that I have been trying to extinguish roars back to life and forces a reaction. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want him. I want him to go away. Right now.
“Logan, wait, stop it,” I murmur, but he doesn’t seem to hear me. He continues to kiss and bite at my neck forcefully.
“L-Logan, stop, I don’t want to.”
He moves to kiss me again, but I turn my face away. I try to push him away, pressing my palms against his chest, but it doesn’t work. Panic seizes me as he tries to stick his hand inside my panties. I summon all my strength and shove him as hard as I can, making him tumble off the sofa. I stand up immediately, pulling up my pants, adjusting my shirt, and hugging myself protectively, as though the clothes I’m wearing aren’t enough to cover everything he was about to take. And which I was about to give him.
“What is wrong with you?” He gets to his feet, hair disheveled, cheekbones reddened, and lips swollen from kissing.
Another retch prevents me from answering and forces me to rush to the bathroom, where I vomit. Logan comes after me, trying to pull back my hair, but I push him away roughly. I want to yell at him that he shouldn’t have gotten so close to me, he shouldn’t have touched me like that on the sofa. The sofa where, just a few days ago, I was lying with Thomas. But I know that I let him. I let him because I wanted to feel empty inside. So empty that I no longer felt anything else.
“Please go away,” I sob.
“Vanessa, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… I thought that… I mean…you…” He gestures vaguely, out of breath.
“I said get out!” I scream, and I don’t care right now if I hurt him or used him or made him mad. I don’t care about anyone anymore. Not even about myself. Especially about myself.
I sit on the bathroom floor with my back against the wall until I feel an urgent need to get under the boiling jet of the showerhead and scrub every trace of his touch from my body, as though the water could somehow wash away the memory of what just happened. I lather up my bath puff and scrub every inch of skin in an almost obsessive fashion until it hurts. Then I crouch down, hugging my knees to my chest, resting my cheek on top of them, and letting the water pound down on me.
Was I really about to make that kind of mistake? Having sex with Logan in a futile attempt to stop thinking about Thomas, if only for a second? To forget…? I shake my head, disappointed in myself, because apparently this is just what I do. Throw myself into the arms of the first man who comes along every time I get my heart broken. Though even as I think it, I know. I know that it was different with Thomas. Because I wanted him; I wanted him more than I’ve ever wanted anything. It’s always been like this with us, and that’s exactly why I can’t pick up the pieces of my shattered heart now.
***
When I wake up, I have no idea what time it is or what the weather is like outside. My blinds are shut, and darkness swallows me. I just lie there with my hands on my stomach, unmoving, staring up at the ceiling. Although I have lost the will to do just about anything, I do feel that one more step has to be taken before I can put a definitive end to this whole story.
I get out of bed with a certain reluctance. I take out my phone, and the lock screen informs me that that it’s three o’clock on Sunday afternoon. I call Matt, and after a few rings, he answers with a concerned tone. “Tell me you’re okay!”
I walk to the kitchen, where I turn on the tap and fill a glass to the brim with water. “I’ve been better,” I answer in a monotone. “But that’s not why I called you. I want to know if Thomas is at the frat house or not.”
“Right now?”
“Yeah, now. Some of my things are still there. I need to come get them, but I don’t want to see him.”
I hear him let out a long sigh, and I imagine him scrubbing a hand over his face. “No, he’s not. But you two need to—” I hang up on him because I don’t want to hear anything else.
I drain the glass of water and get dressed, throwing on the first wrinkled sweat suit I can find in my closet. Then I grab one of the boxes left over from my last move. I put on my shoes, pull up the hood of my sweatshirt, and decide to also slip on a pair of sunglasses to hide my swollen red eyes from the world.
When I get to the frat house, Matt opens the door and lets me in. I don’t miss the worried look he gives me when I take off my sunglasses and lower my hood.
“You look terrible.”
I glare at him. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to look at me for long. I’ll be out of here in a hurry. This place makes me sick.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you, sorry. I just…I don’t like seeing you this way.”
“Yeah, well, me neither. Did you tell Thomas I was coming?”
“No.”
