Wrote this in an hour before bed because I took a nap and I've gotta do big girl shit in the morning. Let the work crew and boss man know I'll have a funeral to attend like this week or some shit... anyway. Sleep tight y'all.
Review or don't. Stay lovely, have a lovely day, or go find some love in something. Just love. It doesn't always(often) solve (any)everything... But sometimes it makes things bearable.
You hate panic. More than anything else you hate, you hate mindless, baseless panic. You hate irrational fears and girlish tendencies to give in to them. There's very little you hate more than that, those particular weaknesses. So the fact that nightmares wake you in the night, bolting you out of your bed with sweat running down your brow and a scream tickling your tongue is something next to unacceptable.
And yet you are powerless to shake the sobs, tears and snot that starts up when your racing heart calms even just so. You hate fear. You hate irrational fear. You hate overly emotional outbursts. You hate that you are susceptible to them, just like everyone else. You try so hard to ignore your emotions.
That's what you've done since you were twelve years old. It's like, the only thing you know how to do easily. Because lies are like breathing but these days you find yourself to have trouble doing that properly. Breathing, that is. Not lying. God help you the day you have trouble lying.
And so you find yourself in a bit of a pickle, and then you're rolling over in bed, hands scrabbling across your nightstand, searching blindly frantically for your cellular device. And when you find it your fingers fumble and stumble and stutter out random numbers that are both use and meaningless until, finally, and at last you manage to make something of it.
You hit Send and the line starts to ring. You aren't religious. The kind of life you've led and the things you've seen, done, and had done to you have dried up the well of faith that may have possibly once existed within you. But you find that you can't help but to pray she picks up.
The snark that bites into your eardrums as soon as she does is so relieving you almost start crying again. But you resist the urge. In your head there's an image of yourself in a military uniform, disciplining your tear ducts. Demanding compliance and giving orders. A combination of what Anna says and that image curls your mouth into an easy smile. The panic still lurking and waiting to boil and bubble over is tamed so that when you laugh it sounds pleasantly sultry instead of obviously manic.
You play and you giggle and you change the subject away from yourself. And she tells you she's working. Which is a lie. Or maybe not, but you seriously doubt she's a Mack and what other jobs run such hours? She just doesn't seem the type, so her claims sound far fetched. Unless she was getting her dick wet, which, like, no judge. Gotta get your kicks somewhere and you will admit that as of late you've been an unfortunately annoying roller coaster ride of emotion.
But it's whatever. And Anna, the sweet fucking cherub that she is, manages to take a bit of invisible mud out of your immediate atmosphere. Makes breathing manageable until she brings the conversation back around to you and you get pissed. Sometimes you really can't decide if you want to kiss her or hug her or just fucking hit her.
Sadly - or not-so-sadly - you usually end up just fucking her. And in this instance, when she shows up at your door less than forty five minutes later, you do as such. You think of it as sexual healing. You probably have God awful PTSD, if the nightmares are anything to go by.
And your inability to sleep due to the nightmares...
And your dependence on alcohol...
And also your inability to, generally, carry out healthy relationships.
But when you're with her, and she's touching you and holding you, sweating and grunting against you... when she's pressing herself close and pulling you closer, sucking you in with her warmth and the feel of her inside of you... when you're with her you forget for a while what it's like to not just grit your teeth and bear it. You forget to feel like a soldier in the trenches, surrounded by enemies and with no way out.
You forget to feel disgust.
You forget that anguish and innocence that still rots away inside you.
You forget how angry and sad and scared your nightmares make you.
You forget to drink them away, because for once something soothes better than liquid fire sliding down your throat. She's hot. She makes you feel hot. Like you wear this mask, and it's your face your gorgeous fucking face, but it's still fake. And she burns that away. She burns it all away and what's left is this raw exposed lump of flesh. But she still makes that, makes you feel as beautiful as you pretend to be.
As beautiful as your mask. Beautifuller. Which, in all honesty, is a stupid choice of word. But you would swear she's used it before. Or that she should. And that makes it excellent. She makes you strange. She makes you...
Happy.
It's a realization that chokes you. It hits you after that last, God damn mind blowing orgasm. It hits you and you're curled against her side and you want to run and jump and scream. But instead you cry. Because. Because that's all you've ever wanted wasn't it? God, you sad pathetic little wretch.
Happiness is all you've wanted.
Since you were a little girl and daddy died. Since it was sucked out of your life so suddenly and you've never been able to find it since or hence out whatthefuckever. You've just wanted this. And you finally have it.
God, but fucking... You finally fucking have it.
And then she mentions the nightmares. It's like the bottom drops out from under you. The rug ripped from beneath your feet. Panic lurking striking choking you telling you to run run fucking RUN before it hits you and you ruin this like you ruin everything you stupid girl you stupid stupid ugly thing you-
"Don't you run from me," she growls into your ear as she pulls you back. And she forces her hand into yours but it isn't an affront. It's an anchor. You huff out a breathe, and hope she can't tell how upset you really are.
"I changed my mind," you tell her and it sounds angry and hisses between your lips almost dripping with venom. Because fear makes you lash out. "I don't want to talk about it anymore." You don't want to talk about it ever again.
Him.
You don't want to talk about Him.
And then... she's okay with that. Jesus Henry fucking Christ. She's okay with it. That you don't want to talk. And somehow in some way that makes your body and mind kick into overdrive and you almost start to babble then. You almost start to tell her and tell her everything. And she stops you. She stops you and allows you to know that you don't have to. Not now at least.
And when it comes right down to it you know she wouldn't force it out of you anyway. Because she's Anna. She's wearing masks too and playing some part in the complex game of existence, a part you don't yet understand. But you know that, you can trust that she won't... She won't. Do anything. That is, in the sense of hurting you intentionally.
You can't even put it in proper words. But that'll do for now. She promised pancakes. Bacon pancakes. And you think to yourself, as you drift off in her arms breathing against her neck and surrounded by her warmth and the scent of her, you think that tomorrow your going to tell her. And tell her everything.
And you're okay with that.