Page 337 of Vicious Saint
I have no strength left in me to care about any of it.
“You have to eat.” Saint implores when my mother’s guilt wins and she exits the room.
“I’m not hungry.”
He holds out a piece of bacon. “That’s because your stomach is shrinking.”
“Some would say that’s a good thing.”
“First the fuck off, baby, I was referring to youractualstomach. And second the fuck off…yes…losing over forty pounds starving yourself is a really bad thing.”
He’s got a point, yet still, I push the plate away, stand, then zombie over to the bed and fall on my side.
Saint follows suit, nestling behind me, throwing an arm over my waist. I shudder a sigh as his citrus cologne and the warmth of his bare chest surrounds me like a blanket. Allowing me to let go, breathe freely for the first time since he left the room.
Our love is the only part of me I care about, so without Saint around, even for a few minutes, my insides shut down.
He’s become my anchor. My last beacon of hope.
I’ve grown completely dependent on him.
Not my mom. My aunt. Even my best friends. Saint is the only person left in this world able to lessen my guilt for being alive.
“How about a shower then?” he suggests, brushing the untamed hairs out of my face.
It’s day four since my last one, and I’m pretty sure I started smelling on day two, so a good cleaning is definitely in order. But rationale is no longer steering the wheel of my decisions.
Only the emptiness.
And the emptiness doesn’t want to leave this spot.
“Alright, let’s go.” Saint rolls off the bed after a long stretch of silence, rounding it to scoop me up in his strong arms. Something he’s done with little effort many times in the past, but absolutely none now.
He carries me to the bathroom, where I don’t fight, because that involves energy, none of which I have enough of to withstand his muscles or determination.
Saint places me down on the toilet, ordering me to stay put, then strides over to the bathtub to turn on the water. After fussing a bit with the temperature, he picks up two bottles of bath salts, and I watch in a mix of awe and sadness as he deliberates which to use.
“Lavender please.” I make the decision for him since helping Saint help me is the least I can do.
Shooting me a wink, Saint twists open the cap, pouring the entire contents into the tub, swooshing the salts around in the water before returning to me. Kneeling down he lifts my T-Shirt over my head, then removes my flannels, panties, and socks, until I’m standing stark naked in front of him.
“You ready?” he asks, casting a single glance down my body, nothing more.
As much as I appreciate Saint’s patience, how long I’ve been depriving him of a vital part of our relationship sits bitter on my tongue.
Especially with how insatiable his appetite is for sex.
I nod and he picks me up again, as if I’m incapable of walking.
By now my brain is no longer swollen, bruises are mostly healed, burns gone. Physically, I have no reason to keep allowing this man to wait on me. But emotionally, Saint is the only thing standing between me and the edge of falling apart. So, if surrendering myself to him is what it takes to ease his worries and mine, I’ll never ask for me back.
The therapist I ignore three times a week would say it’s not a healthy decision, but Saint’s proven tenfold how much I can trust him. Even with my grief.
So fuck that know-it-all guy.
Saint plants me feet first in the tub, and the warm water feels like heaven as I sink into the center of it.
“Hmmmm…” I sigh, hugging my knees to my chest, basking in the calming scent of lavender.
