Wounds
Part Seven
Another night, just like the many before it, I sit in his room and watch him bring a person in. This has been an ongoing situation since I laid down my claim; and I've complied with it to the best of my abilities. The way he smiles hollowly and runs his fingers over another man's skin makes my blood pump through my arteries until I'm afraid I'm going to bust a blood vessel. He's so determined, so hell bent…even though he's well aware of what will happen next. He's waiting for me to slip, because he wants to prove me wrong. Not only does he want to prove me wrong, but he wants to nullify my claims of his misery.
Every night I whisper the same things in his ear, while I'm thrusting myself on him. And every night it finishes with his angry scream and subsequent release that I force him to have. The last thing he wants is the pleasure that I force him to feel. He doesn't want to enjoy it, because that means he's separated me from the other faceless people that he loathes. It's a complicated place he sits in. There is no way for him to admit to one thing without bringing another thing to light, so he says nothing and he just takes it.
If he admits that he hates every moment of every experience with those people, then he's lost to every tantalizingly cruel whisper I leave buzzing in his brain. If he admits that he likes it, then he's submitting to having no control over his situation. If he bypasses the face-less stranger and gives in to sleeping with just me—then I have become a special case and he's adamant that I'm no one and nothing that can stop him.
Even though he says these things, he's yet to prove that I am nothing; because almost every night I am there waiting and I cut him off before he can seduce another person into his stained bed. It's strange, I think, because the way he lets me is leading me to think that he's just going through the motions until I step in and stop the misery that follows—even though he claims I am his misery more than most.
Sure, I hurt him. I pull his hair until it burns and leave bruises on his neck when he won't stop snapping his mouth off at me. I've held him face down and ruined his body. Yet, I feel like he's biding his time between me and the person I'm prepared to throw out.
His fingers are slender and inviting, tracing lines across this new man's face and I see the dark glitter in Kanda's eyes as they flick to me. I hate that look, because it's mocking me in a way. It's mocking me because I've become a predictable thing, haven't I? He knows what I feel and my intentions; he's playing me as much as I'm slowly winding him up and trapping him.
Somewhere, I have to concede defeat first before he crumbles after me. My choice of timing is hard for me to stomach, because this charade has gone on for a while now and now I'm recoiling from the idea of another man's body violating his. Along the way, I have become possessive and protective. It was not the intention, but it has happened nonetheless and I want to lock him in the room and refuse to let him leave until he understands the damage he's doing.
He's ruining himself and he's not even aware. I want so badly to make him see. This is not self control. This is not a choice. This has become an addiction he can't break himself from-even if he loathes it. It's like he's become addicted to convincing himself he has no worth otherwise. But he is not one to be spoken to; he's not one to listen to a lecture and that's all I have at my disposal—angry words aimed at making him realize. Yet, even with the harsh actions I put on him, he still seems to take it better than with the strangers I've saved him from. I finally think I'm starting to see, but it's still too confusing.
Why would someone like him fall to this level? I've seen brothel whores with more self-esteem than this man.
Tonight, I decide as I watch him soliciting a complete stranger for this self destructive act, I will not save him.
I remain silent and I don't move from my place in the chair. One leg crosses over the other and I lean back on the window sill and watch—painting a mask of unaffected boredom even though I'm dying inside. This is everything my body screams against, but this is what I've chosen.
It's clawing at my morals, because suddenly he's realized I'm not going to stop him and the way his face contorts makes me see everything he feels that he's pretending isn't there. It's like he's collapsing and I'm not picking him up because he has to admit he's falling first.
As the man drops him back on the bed, my fist tightens; but I don't break my resolve. Even the harrowing glare of those dark eyes boring into me is not enough to shake this. I want him to remember the difference.
And see just how in control he isn't.
A/N: I'm sorry for lack of updating, editing is a bit of a pain on this. This particular story has 13 chapters, and there's two longer sequels. So it's quite a bit!