When It Hurts

Part Twenty-One

I wake up at eleven in the next day, so fucking glad it’s Saturday. I roll over, seeing Mike hastily glance at the magazine in his lap, pretending he wasn’t looking at me. I don’t know why. He’s never had a problem with it before. His lips are . . . really fucking red.

“Are you wearing lipstick?” I ask, sitting up and swinging my legs over the bed so they’re dangling off the edge.

Mike blushes. Hard. “No.” he says in a small voice.

I fight my laughter, but it escapes me a little. “Myla’s going to fucking kill you for taking it.”

I guess that’s what does it, me not taking the situation seriously. I don’t know who could blame me though. It’s not like Mike sits around talking about drag or lipstick or any of that shit.

But it makes sense to him because he drops the magazine, moves across the room and kisses my cheek. Then he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and for once I know it’s not because I’m dirty. He pulls me up and drags me down the hall to the bathroom, shutting the door even though no one’s home and moving me so I’m in front of the mirror. He’s behind me, hands on my shoulders.

“Look.”

I bring my hand up to wipe away the lipstick print, still not sure what the fuck he’s getting at. “Mike—“

He pulls my hand back down. “Look.”

“I’m looking.”

He turns my head slightly, slowly, but his voice is that of a kid.. “I marked you. Mark on your face? See?”

My mouth forms an ‘O’ and I bring my hand to my cheek, fingertips coming away as red as blood when I look at them and just as real. “M-Mike.” I breathe, tears stinging my eyes. Could a five dollar tube of lipstick really be that powerful?

“Yeah?” It takes a moment for me to realize he’s not reading my mind. I feel his arms come up around me, his lips softly brush the side of my neck before his chin’s resting on my shoulder.

“H-How—“

I turn to look at him and he presses his lips softly against mine. “I don’t know.” is all he says.

It’s enough. Those three words are more powerful than ‘I love you’ could ever be.

I turn into him, my arms coming up around his neck as our lips meet, gentle at first and then more powerful, more desperate. My mouth opens to him.

We stumble through the house, not doing it nearly as well as they do in the movies. Mike stubs his toe and curses, I crack my hip against the counter and tears spring to my eyes from the pain, then I laugh.

We finally fall onto his bed, facing each other on our sides before Mike pulls me on top of him. The house is silent save the sound of him saving me.



Part Twenty-Two

I shake when Mike’s fingers slip under my shirt, tracing my sides, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t push, doesn’t apologize.

Because that’s what I need. Because the only way to start to forget is not to be reminded every second.

Mike’s lips trail to my neck and I gasp, feeling myself starting to grow hard against him. His hips grind against mine and it’s the first time I notice his erection, although after I feel it I wonder how I managed to miss it.

“M-Mike?” He looks at me, still not saying anything. “Go slow.” He says nothing, just kisses me hard and rolls over so he’s staring down at me. My breath hitches as he stares at me with those blue orbs, neither of us willing to close our eyes through the harsh and gentle kisses. “Go fast.” It falls out of my mouth and lands on the floor with a resounding clunk, followed quickly by the sound of a zipper and then another.

Cursing as fabric cascades to the floor, footsteps sounding on the wood, bottle opening.

It’s slow in all the right times, fast when it should be. Mike still says nothing and I’ll think back on it later realizing Mike was the only person in my mind.

Words, moans, cursing, heavy breathing. All coming from me. Mike’s in perfect control until I feel myself tighten around him.

“Fuck, Billie.” It comes out of him like a bullet from a gun that’s been waiting ages to shoot.

And he does.

And I cry.



Part Twenty-Three

It’s the end of the beginning. The first part is over, the next is up. Now I can start to forget and I can begin to feel again.

Now I can laugh and joke and kiss my boyfriend without fear, without worry, without anger at myself.

The park is forgotten, the shrink is left in the dust. Hey, I’m not a fucking saint. I’m not going to visit some nutjob who wants to fix what Mike already did. Minus the expensive and fancy piece of paper, I might add.

You know, I saw him in the club last week. And he saw me, started walking toward me. And I didn’t even flinch, just grabbed Mike and shoved my tongue into his mouth.

Now I’m just your normal spiteful teenager.

And loving every minute of it.