Derek won't fuck me in his bedroom so we're fucking on the busted up old sofa in the living room of his house, and he tells me I taste like pizza. "Stop talking. Please don't ruin this," I'm begging, clawing into him, frenzied, on the verge, leaving no marks like he's made of that weird plastic stuff they use to make stress balls. It hits me then that he's my stress ball, and I'm just pulling and tearing to see if he'll fall apart under the weight of all my weird emotional shit. He doesn't and I hate myself.
"Tell me how attractive I am," I beg, pushing and pulling simultaneously, "tell me how much you want me." I'm showing everything, every fucking thing and later I'll regret this but right now, I can't hold it in at all. I'm basically naked in every way and it feels kind of okay, right now.
"A lot. A fucking lot," he says with his head in my shoulder, pounding into me, but he's lying and I have to turn away, almost in tears. The sofa is an old, dirty grey colour with a black trim.
Today is my birthday, I tell him, so you have to do what I say and he just nods, bites me softly in the shoulder. I just want to bleed for a while and zone out and not have to think about anything; about how much of a joke I am to Lydia, and how much of myself I'd actually sacrifice for her; school, exams, fucking Jackson; the two packets of Doritos I ate today and how guilty I felt after. He bites into me and it all just ceases to exist and it's like I'm high.
The fangs are down, eyes black, and a great geyser of blood that looks black is flowing in rivers over me, into him, on the sofa – basically everywhere, and everything feels fine, until: "I, uh, I got you something." I'm paralysed. No. Fuck, shit, no. No no no. I close my eyes and don't say anything. "Stop talking," I murmur, and I'm almost there, just a few more seconds, we're gonna make it, just please, don't say anything.
He's licking at the wound he made on my shoulder. I'm panicked; inside my head I'm screaming for him to shut up, to just fuck me, please stop fucking talking. From nowhere, he asks: "What do you wanna be when you grow up?" Jesus. This guy.
"Buffy the fucking vampire slayer," I say, and I'm biting hard into my lower lip because I'm almost there, just one more second. He kisses the wound on my shoulder and I just want to gag, flee. And where would I go? Who would take me, dirty and punished and bloody? From the computer Deadbeat Summer plays over the tragic scene, and this used to be one of my favourite songs but I know I'll never listen to it again because it's him now.
"Happy birthday," he says, but it's static and barely there, and it somehow feels like a little victory because he's broken a little bit, and I did that.
"I lied," I whisper into the room, and maybe probably he'll never look at me the same way again, and maybe that's for the best. I'm not leaving anything behind and I'm never looking back, and this will never happen again is what I tell myself, but it's a lie.