The Man Who Liked to 'Touch'

Her kisses tasted like vinegar and her skin felt like sandpaper under his hands, but it was a compromise. He compromised beauty for compliance.

She cried when he hit her, but not too much and not too loud, and when he wrapped his hands around her throat as they were finishing she didn’t struggle and make it hard for him. Unless he asked her to. In return he paid her so she could buy what she wanted, and sometimes, when she was looking especially itchy, he would just flat out hand her a few ounces. It was a fair trade.

Some Like It Rough

When he had asked her if she liked it rough she had assumed he meant hard and fast, not long and tortuous. But what had she been expecting?

“Too damn much.” She sighed into her reflection, picking at the sores around her mouth.

She’s just too ugly for the gentle ones; it used to hurt to admit that and in a way it still did. At least she wasn’t running away from the truth, although she wished sometimes that she still had her shame, that she could still look away when she stuck the needle in, but she just can’t.

The Secrets We Keep

The bed is big enough to pretend. If she just avoids reaching over too far she can almost imagine him sleeping there next to her. Almost.

Sometimes he’ll make excuses, but usually he won’t. He knows she’ll never ask where he’s going, or who he’s going there with, because she’s afraid. Afraid of the shadows that appear behind his eyes when he holds her, afraid of those parts of him she just can’t understand.

So she just cries by herself those nights, knowing that she will never be able to know or love all of him.


She’s better off pretending.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 01.04.2012

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