This is why you can't choose Lochlan, is it? Because he'll self-destruct or die. That's how it works, isn't it, Bridget? You fall in love with them and they fall apart the moment things are good, or at least almost okay. You need to keep him safe. If you focus all of your energies on him he won't make it.
His lips trace skin just under my nose, as his hands slide around my waist, pulling me in. I don't fight him, never do at first. Not until later when I've had enough and he is just beginning. He thinks we're equal and it makes me laugh. Or rather, it makes me cry.
He is pleased. I wore a dress, stockings, heels and a bright red slip for that extra special touch of defiance. I pinned my hair up. I wore seven thousand metric tons of mascara for him to smear and lipstick that he can drag across my cheek or scrub off his skin later but it won't stain his heavenly monogrammed sheets.
It did anyway.
I wasn't scared though, I'm too sick but I played my role. Indifferent, cold at first, then fearful, obedient. On my knees, mascara running followed by worshipped, washed and wanted. Ruined? One hundred percent all the way. But I still put my arms around his neck and asked for more, harder, longer, meaner, everything he's got.
No one bothers to admonish me anymore because they know. Lochlan knows but he shouts anyways and paces and shakes in fear and anger. Ben knows in his quiet, resigned voice over the phone because he fucked up so big time we don't see the way home anymore. Caleb has the map for my soul and directs my movements through this emotional landscape, packed with mines to step on, making sure I don't blow myself to pieces in order to destroy me slowly instead.
I keep hoping I will change, that my luck will shift, that I will age and find grace and be smarter and feel better and then I remember this way everything is easier because everyone is equal and no one will be singled out for oblivion except for me.
I can't save myself anymore but maybe I can save you.
