Page 33 of Flog Me, Sir

I followed the doctor on half-numb legs, wishing for a cup of coffee no matter how burnt.

Tubes stuck out of my mom, her face shaded a darker purple than when I’d first seen her, and bandages wrapped around her head, all trace of dirty blond hair gone. Shaved off, I expected.

I sat on the chair beside her, the beeps and air conditioning overhead loud in the stillness.

Her thin, wrinkled hand lay on the blanket, and I forced myself to wrap mine around hers. She’d hardly ever offered a gentle touch, and as much as I hated her for that fact, I refused to be like her.

I also refused to live a life of addiction. I refused to get caught up with men who hurt me for shits and giggles.

I wanted a kind man. One who wouldn’t do to me what had been done to my mom. I wouldn’t settle for anything less than a man who would cherish me.

Thoughts of Garret flashed through my head, but I pushed against the longing swelling up inside me. He’d been beyond intriguing, his lifestyle a naughty fantasy, but it was not the life for me.

I wanted him like an addict wanted a hit, but I refused to go down that path. Besides, he would eventually realize I wasn’t good enough for him and would leave me with a broken heart—then yet another temptation would arise for me to seek out similar men. Chances were with my genetics, I’d end up a sex/pain junkie trying to fill the void Garret would leave behind.

A heavy sigh slouched me in the chair, and I rested my forehead on Mom’s hospital bed. Another hour or so passed before sleep twisted that damn crick in my neck.

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