Not mine. Obviously. Except for Nicky, whoever she is.
When the sun rises.
He has the face of an angel when he's sleeping. I forget about all the horrible words his mouth is capable of speaking and about that callous smirk his lips pull as he's saying them. Right now he looks too pure of heart for the things that he does, his soft looking lips that kiss so rough and his brow so smooth. I reach my hand out to tuck away a stray blonde hair back from his face and stop midway. I recoil in my moment of clarity 'he hates it when you touch him' and I physically force myself to pull my lingering fingers away from his peaceful face. 'He's not yours to touch'.
He begins to squirm as though he's having a dream but his eyes snap open, he sees me watching him. It doesn't take long for the serenity leave him and his eyes harden as they come to focus on mine. I instantly feel sheepish- embarrassed for wanting more of him in that last second. I can't even look at him now and my cheeks burn in shame.
"You're still here?" He mumbles while rolling over and turning his back to me.
I pull his sheets over me in an attempt to hide the sudden nervousness but he doesn't notice. A light snore escapes his throat signalling that he's drifted off to sleep again.
Two sides of my emotions argue- "Get out of here, Nicky, he doesn't like it when you stay."
And a meek voice argues,"But he's so sweet when he wants to be. He just woke up, give him some time."
I know the first voice was right- she is always right. I ignore her every time though, just waiting for a miracle that I still vaguely believe in.
Then I daydream that he'll turn around to see me lying next to him, that he'll want me to stay and that things will be different from every other time. He'll realise that he's in love with me- that he can't get enough of me and he'll want me to stay for breakfast or at least offer me a coffee.
But it's always the same. Over and over again it's the same outcome and I don't know why it still disappoints me.
I pick my clothes up off the floor and scramble to dress myself suddenly ashamed to be so vulnerable with him.
He hasn't noticed me moving around his bedroom, darting to and from his bedroom to the bathroom and I don't even try to be quiet. I want him to notice me, to see that I'm still here- I still exist the morning after our deeds were done.
I pick up my handbag from the dresser and catch a glimpse of my reflection at the corner of my eye. I recoil from the dresser, I can't bear to see myself.
'I've become one of them!' I tell myself.
And it wasn't hard to do, to fall for a Cobra's charms and to give in to the sweet talk because for a moment, he had me believing I was different. We all thought we were different. You can tell from the moment someone in town knows you're involved with a Cobra, you become the victim of sympathy. Girls treat you differently too and men keep their distance.
With one final glance at Ace Merrill naked and tangled in his sheets I mouth 'Goodbye' and turn to leave.
"Hey, Nicky?" His voice rumbles, murky like distant thunder- so masculine and sleepy.
My heart flickers. Hope igniting in my chest, 'he wants me to stay, he wants me to stay?'
"Yes?" I reply a little too quickly sounding too eager. 'Stop it!' My brain- the logical part of it argues with me.
I step back towards the bed and the grip on my bag loosens, ready to let it fall to the floor. My legs jiggle underneath my weight, ready to fall back into bed on his command.
"Shut the screen door behind ya this time, will ya?"
A part of me is not surprised but I feel the tightness in my chest linger. This man kills me every time I leave.
"Sure." And I shut the screen door behind me like the obedient puppy I am.
"Next time, Nicky," I tell myself, "You won't let this happen. You know he doesn't love you."
But I know I'll ignore those thoughts the next time I see his face and walk these same steps again.
The walk of shame has become my weekend ritual. I walk home in the dawn of the morning like a dirty secret. The farmers setting up their market stalls probably recognise my face every time my boots echo in solace on the empty path home and they offer me those similar sympathetic smiles and tight nods of their heads.
I'm the filler. I fill the space between now and the next girl that strikes his fancy. No girl in town can resist that smooth talking, blue eyed, powerful charm that he can turn on and off as he pleases and us girls are left to suffer the consequence of what it could be like to fall in love with a boy as bad and as cruel as Ace Merrill.
Fin.