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TwistedA "Love Bites" Contest Honorable Mention
by Ché Mejean
You once told me that you wanted to cut off my skin so you could see my insides. It was such a sweet thing to say. We were in some greasy truck-stop diner when you said it. I made you meet me in the men’s restroom so we could screw. I wanted to buy you a knife for your birthday so you could cut me. We didn’t make it till your birthday, though, did we?
I swear, sometimes, I could look into your eyes and see the place that god lived. Sometimes, when you were mad, your gray eyes flashed and between the smudged eyeliner and clumped mascara I could see the souls of every evil that had ever existed. I could see the knowledge, the wisdom and passion of a trillion evil hearts fighting their way out. I could see the gates of hell in your gaze. I could see your demons – and everyone else’s.
I’m not sure what you saw in my eyes. I’m not certain you knew I had eyes. Did you ever look above my chest? Did you realize I had a face? I also had ankles and feet. You probably never saw them either.
Do you remember our last night? Tripping balls. Half naked outside in the alley. What were we thinking going outside like that? I guess we weren’t. We were just enamored with our own fluid actions and the way it looked when our hands moved. You were a madman that night. We were lunatics. It’s still funny to me. The ruckus we made out there, it’s still laughable.
I want you to know what really happened. You’ve probably read the newspapers. I’m assuming you get those in hell. But they didn’t get it right. They didn’t report the truth. And I let them - I let them lie. Sorry – but you would’ve done the same thing. I know you. It wasn’t easy for me. Pumpkin, they sent me to a loony bin! Said I was crazy. Tried to rehabilitate me. Make me normal. As if someone else can judge normal. As if the man who chooses to analyze everyone but himself is able to decide what my normal behavior should be.
Sorry, back to the point. So here’s what happened. Ready?
When we came back inside after the alleyway debacle. Your eyes were flashing that rage I like so much. I wanted you. You wanted to kick my ass. It seemed like such a good idea at the time. I let you strap my wrists together. But damn you and your fury – you pulled the thick leather of your belt too tight. It really hurt. Not just a little. You were so angry and it was so hot. But you bit me and you slapped me and you fucked me until I thought I would die. You pinched me so hard the bruises came to the surface within minutes. I was screaming for you to stop, but you wouldn’t. I didn’t really want you to. But I was livid that I had no control. It was all you.
When you were finished, you untied me. I cried like an idiot. Then, I spat at you. You tried to grab my wrists. They were torn and bruised from struggling against you. I was infuriated. When I picked up the empty tequila bottle from the dresser, I didn’t know I was going to hit you with it. I thought I’d just scare you off. I didn’t know you’d keep on trying to pin me back down. I didn’t know that my adrenaline or whatever was pulsing through me so hard and fast it made me strong. I didn’t know I could hit someone so viciously. I screamed so loud it scratched my throat. I felt feral. When I hit you with the bottle I felt your skull sink in a little bit. Like when you push on a ripe cantaloupe. Right near your temple. I heard your skull crackle a little bit. Not loud like smashing glass – but a quiet crunch. Like the sound someone else hears when you are eating a cookie. Muffled. And that was the end of us.
I was so beat up – it looked enough like self-defense to get out of it with only the aforementioned stay in my padded room. It wasn’t even a big deal, really. A few questions. They blamed you for it all. You had a criminal record – did you know that? You had never mentioned it. I was saving you, I guess. I was your reformation. Your normalcy. Sanity.
Anyway, you and I, we were of the same heart. Maybe it was black and a little shriveled up – but it was the same. Not that any of this matters now. I’m okay. I miss you sometimes. I’ve dated a couple of frat boys since your departure. Did you just roll over? They seem to run a little sadistic. Not like you, baby. No one is twisted like you.
© Mejean, 2007
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Ché Mejean is a previously unpublished author. She is a product of good Christian parents and the public school system of Hall County, GA. She lives with her cat, Zapper Louise in South Carolina.