Anaphylactic Shock
By L. M. Boulevardes
Don't part with your illusions.
When they are gone you may still exist –
But you have ceased to live.
- Mark Twain
She never should have said it.
From the moment he looked at her though, she knew she was lost. She was drowning in those big blue eyes, drowning in her own hopelessness and hurt and anger. It was perfect – it was exactly the wrong moment. She was vulnerable, her delicate pale skin pulled back to reveal her soft bones and viscera, hoping that the world wouldn't hurt her, but of course it did. That was how things were. Of course. And she didn't know how this happened, but now she had tripped into Alice-in-Wonder land gotten everything all so mixed up.
She would lay awake at nights, blue-eyed images flitting through her head and making her gasp and shoot straight up, hoping against hope that her pounding heart would not wake Chase. She would get up, pulling on her soft sweatshirt and tucking her blond notice-me hair back into a ponytail.
Then she would slowly (softly!) tiptoe downstairs and sit at the piano, running her fingers over the smooth plastic keys and not playing a single note. Sometimes she would stay there all night, and watch breaking day when the sun finally decided to grace her with its blessed light. She didn't tell Chase. Never, ever tell Chase. It was would hurt him. And all she did was hurt him anyway.
"Come here." She leaned back into the wrong arms, letting them come around her like snakes. One pawing a breast, one heading for the juncture of her legs. She leaned back and let her long hair fall down his chest, choking slightly on her tears.
This was her world now. This was lies, and secrets, and taking when she shouldn't even be wanting. This was anaphylactic shock, killing her from the inside out because she was too stupid to get away from her allergen. A stupid little girl, never learning as always.
She never should have said it.
She curled up into a ball, burying her face in his chest. He smelled like cigarettes and alcohol, and she could be having cologne and detergent. But instead she was here, in sheets that were probably unwashed in a house that was too cold and hands that were colder. He pressed his lips against her neck and she squeezed her eyes shut, because logic taught her that if she couldn't see him that he couldn't see her.
She could imagine this all away, pretend things were good and bright and correct. If she didn't believe it in, it didn't exist. None of this is real . . . and she arched her back into his hand and twisted her head to bite his shoulder and stifle her scream.
"Why are you doing this?" he hissed, thrusting harder even as she choked on repressed tears. She smiled bit harder.
"You know, don't you?" she laughed, looking up at him through dark wet eyelashes and slit eyes.
"Do I?" He was holding her in place, his arm grid locking her waist so she couldn't move, couldn't escape him.
"I always come back to you." He was biting her shoulder now, now as she peaked against his hand with a mourning shriek and it hurt but god you couldn't buy sex like this.
She never should have said it.
But she did.