Trigger Warning: ALL THE THINGS! It can't get better until it's way, way worse. But we promise we have a plan.

Part III, Chapter 6: Should I Stay

They had the next night off, in Hamburg. The girls, on their separate buses, rejected

many attempts by the boys and their crew to take them out somewhere to get their minds off of things. Both of them spent most of the day sleeping, or lying in bed wishing for sleep. In the early evening, Tegan went off to wander the streets alone, and came upon a little theatre. She bought a ticket for a movie that had started thirty minutes before. It was nearly dark; she sat at the back, watching but not watching, sometimes crying into her sleeve. Eventually, mercifully, she fell asleep.

While Tegan slept at the back of the empty theatre, Sara sat in a booth in the back corner of a dark little bar with sticky wooden tables. She ordered Glenlivet, neat, and kept her face in her book, trying to drown out reality and everyone in it. She did not pace herself; by the time the first guy approached her, she was already on her third glass. He started smoothly in German and half-way through his introductory gambit she said, simply, no, without looking up. Offended, he said something harsh-sounding in German that she ignored and he left. The second guy would have received the same cold dismissal if he hadn't chosen such a surprising opener.

"Franny is my favourite," he said, before she had a chance to dismiss him; she looked up, momentarily surprised, as he sat uninvited across from her and smiled. She collected herself, and frowned as he gestured towards the cover of her book, thousands of pages thick. "Fall on Your Knees. I've read it twice," he carried on, oblivious to her dubious, uninviting glare. "I majored in Canadian Lit in uni."

"Why would you do that?" she asked, suspicious. Why would a Scottish guy major in Canadian literature? Even Canadians didn't do that. She quickly scanned over his features; he was pleasant-looking. Innocuous. Non-threatening. He was probably too nice.

"Robertson Davies-"

"Never mind," Sara said flatly with a dismissive wave of her hand. "It doesn't matter." She looked back to her book and hoped he'd leave. He didn't.

"So what brings you here?" he continued, nonplussed. "Hamburg, I mean." She paused, irritated, her eyes fixed on her page but taking nothing in.

"Work," she said with a sigh.

"Me too. I'm with Reuters here. Yourself?" She looked up at him, his earnest smile.

"Um. . . what's your name?" she asked, deflecting.

"Mark," he said, extending a hand. "You?"

"Sara."

"Pleasure. So. . . you here with your boyfriend?" he asked, probing. She looked back at him, unsmiling.

"No." She wondered how he could still be sitting there smiling when she gave him absolutely no encouragement.

"Girlfriend then?" he asked brightly, as Sara sipped her whiskey, shook her head.

"No."

"Am I getting closer?" he asked with a cocked eyebrow, and she snorted with very little amusement.

"Yeah. But still no."

"Ah, well, all the better for me then."

"I'm gay," she said. Mark shrugged.

"And I'm right-handed," he said, nonchalant. Sara raised her eyebrows.

"How is that the same?"

"Well, I once broke my wrist playing rugby. Had to use my left hand for six weeks." He smiled broadly.

"Interesting analogy."

"We work with what we have. What are we drinking tonight?" he asked, and for a moment Sara felt like she might be willing to smile at Mark if she weren't feeling like she'd never be happy again.

"Glenlivet," she said and he nodded his approval.

"Brilliant. My grandmother used to rub it on my gums when I was teething. Warms the cockles of my heart." Sara finished her glass and glanced around for a waitress. He was too nice, and if he got much nicer he would be of no use to her. She did not want to continue this pleasant, slightly charming banter with him. She was going to need to cut that short before she started to like him.

"Listen, Mark. Tell me. Why did you sit down with me?" He leaned back, surprised.

"Um, I. . . well, you're sitting all alone and-"

"Be real," she said. He laughed.

"I guess I saw a cute girl alone, reading a book I know, and. . . so. . ." he was getting a little nervous under her unwavering gaze.

"Do you want to fuck me?" she asked bluntly; his mouth opened, closed. Eyebrows raised.

"No. I mean-"

"No?" she asked.

"I mean. . . well. . . yes. I mean, ultimately. . ."

"Ultimately?" she repeated, frowning.

"I. . . well, one doesn't simply say-"

"Listen, Mark. You seem like a nice guy. But time is a factor here. Let's just be straight. Do you or do you not want to fuck me?" She regarded him coolly. He reddened, a little, scratched his head and shrugged.

"Yeah," he said. Sara looked at her watch.

"We have two hours. Come on."

. . . . . . . . . . .

He follows me back to the bus, a mixture of disbelief, amusement, and possibly fear. Yeah, there's a little fear mixed in there, I'm almost amused to notice, but just almost. I'm moderately drunk now. I'm past the point of being warmly buzzed to the point of finding it difficult to walk in a straight line. He is perhaps only slightly buzzed and tries to put his arm around me to help me, but I shrug it off. No. No sweetness. No gentleness. No kindness. That just won't work, won't hurt enough. I can feel his consternation when I step a little away from him but he keeps walking, keeps talking and I don't respond. I should have drunk more at the bar, I think, because even if I want to hurt myself I don't know if I'm drunk enough to do it. There's probably something in the bus. . .

We get to the lot behind the venue where our two buses are parked and I unlock the door to the smaller bus and realize I don't much care if it's empty or not. For all I know, Tegan could be there. What would she be doing if she were? She wouldn't be on the bus with anyone, that's for sure. Jamie's gone and Tegan is not the type to pick up a meaningless guy at a bar and take him home. Thinking about her makes me feel like my heart is collapsing, that I'm drowning.

"What the. . . this is your bus?" he asks, in amazement. His accent makes him charming so I want him to stop talking. I glance at him briefly before stepping up into the bus. He's thin, not very tall but probably a foot taller than me. His hair colour suggests to me that he was a redhead as a child. He smiles but there is something kind of contemptuous about his look that makes me feel better.

"You're. . . oh Jesus, I just figured out who you are!" he exclaims, following me into the kitchen area where I look through the cupboards for a bottle of anything.

"Oh yeah?" I say, and I know I sound completely uninterested but the effort that would be required to try to make him feel like I give a fuck about what he is saying is just too much to contemplate. I can't even fake a smile. Heaviness settles in my heart at the sound of his surprise, his interest. Why couldn't I just be anonymous to him like he was to me?

"You're in that band! You and another girl. . ."

"My sister," I reply and Tegan's eyes are before me, my eyes with her warmth, flooded with the pain of rejection as I jerk away from her. She is hurting and wants to be with me, wants to comfort me. . . wants me to comfort her. . . and that will make it better. I'm hurting too so I want to hurt her, hurt myself, because nothing will ever make it better.

"Yeah, your sister! And you're both lesbians!" God, he's so engaged in all of this right now that I either need to send him away or get him drunker. I find a bottle of Bombay Sapphire and force myself to pour some into a glass rather than swigging from the bottle. I hand him the glass without asking him if he wants any, or if he maybe wants tonic with it, because I can't fucking be bothered. "What are the odds of both of you being lesbians?" he muses, taking a sip as I swallow a large quantity of it in one go and pour more. I try not to sigh.

"Well, we're twins, so. . ."

"Twins!" he exclaims. God, fucking goddamn it, why is it so amazing? Our fucking egg split in two! Who cares? It happens!

I finish the gin and walk back towards the bedroom, Tegan's bedroom now, and he hesitates and then follows.

"Identical twins?" he asks and how can I make him understand that the last fucking thing in the world I want to do right now is talk about my identical twin sister? Where is she? Is she okay? I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I can't be like you and we can't just curl up together and cry together and hope our lives are miraculously fixed. We are fucked and that's it. Our mother is probably watching the video right now, her heart broken, holy fuck. I can't even imagine it. It makes me want to cut myself.

But he is here and I can use that. All this pain in my chest. . . I need to move it somewhere else. Maybe I should just go out and find a dark, secluded park. Maybe someone would attack me.

He is still going on about twins and I want to tell him that identical twins and pure, true redheads are equally prevalent in the human genome but I don't. And then he's talking again.

"My ex-girlfriend was a huge fan of yours. And then she left me for a motorcycle mechanic named Alice," he said.

"It happens," I mutter, and he goes on, obliviously.

"So are you sure you're gay?" he asks, and I give him a look because what question could be more presumptuous?

"Are you sure you're straight?" I ask him, testily, crouching to untie my shoes.

"Maybe you just haven't met the right man yet," he says, and for one surreal moment, I wonder if he's for real. I glare up at him, untie my other shoe.

"Maybe you haven't," I shoot back, and he scoffs, but his smirk twitches at the end, transforming itself into a sneer in a way that gives me a chill. But it's gone as quickly as it formed, and he's all affable again.

"No, thank you. If I were a bugger I'd-"

"Look," I start, and now we are in the bedroom next to Tegan's big, empty bed. "You can either keep talking, or you can take your pants off. But you can't do both."

He is stunned, his eyes wide. He looks like he is going to say something again but I guess when I unbutton my jeans he sees that I'm serious. So then he steps towards me and leans in like he's going to kiss me but that can't happen.

"No," I hear my mouth say, "there can't be any. . . like. . . gentle bullshit. Okay? Just fucking. That's all it is. You are going to fuck me and then leave." I drank the gin fast. My head is spinning and I half-wonder whether I am being too cold and he'll just leave and then I'll have to find someone else or go out into the streets and maybe get raped and murdered. I'm almost ready to think that's a better plan when his face gets serious and he starts to take off his jeans. Good, he looks a little mad. I've made him a little mad, or I've offended him, and maybe now he will do it right but even so, I'm surprised when he grips my waist in both hands and kind of pushes me down onto the bed. Then he's above me and he's tugging at my pants and then I let him and they're off and then so are my underwear and then I'm half-naked. He is above me and then on top of me and he pulls his shirt off himself and I am instantly reminded of the time I got drunk and had sex with the bass player of one of the bands that we opened for and not because I wanted to, but because what I did want made me deserve it. And it worked because my heart hurt and then the inside of me hurt and I felt like throwing up because I was just a thing that he fucked and that's how I felt and I could see Tegan's face and all my heart could say was I love you more than I can even understand and then my brain reminded me you're repulsive and someday everyone will know it and to shut up that voice in my head I pulled him into me and let him do whatever he wanted. So that bass player fucked me in an equipment trailer and then I made him leave and nobody knew and his big hands and hard body and the sweat from his stomach on me all made me feel lost and I just cried.

And so that voice in my head was right and now everyone knows exactly what I am and I deserve it even more now than I did then. So he's on me but I can see him, see his face and this is not going to work. I see that angry look, the one I saw when I made the joke about him not having met the right man yet, the look that made my stomach drop a little, but before I can say or do anything he is grabbing me and turning me over and I think I nearly gasp because it's that easy, it's so easy for him to just turn me like that and then I'm on my knees and he's behind me and I can't see him, good, and I feel him press against me and the end of it and then he pushes into me and nothing is wet and nothing is ready so there is a kind of tearing pain and I press my face into Tegan's pillow to suffocate the sound I make. He's behind me, his hands grasping my hips, pulling me back into him as he thrusts into me and it hurts like it did the last time in the equipment trailer only this time, the smell of Tegan is all around me and it stabs me, stabs my heart. He is leaning over me, I can hear him, his breathing, raspy, with quiet kind of grunting moans as one of his hands moves from my hip, slides under my body and grabs one of my breasts. He keeps going and it's burning and I wonder if I'm bleeding or if that is something else and the way he is touching me, it repulses me, and I remember Tegan, her mouth on my mouth as her soft hand moved over my breast and I shivered. Gentle Tegan, my sister, why? It's unfair and I'm sick, and you're sick. We're identical so we are identically sick. Why can't I want the things that I am allowed to have? Why do I need the things that I can't? Why do I need the thing whose wanting makes me a sick fucking monstrosity? It's because of all of this that I need this stranger to ram himself into me because how, why do I want you like that? And knowing that I'm fucking sick, why can't I push you away? I can't, and it's not okay, and that is why all of this is happening.

And I see that fucking little pineapple pillow on the edge of the bed and for a second I think of Jamie and I hate her because this is all her fault, but no, I remind myself, it's your fault for every time you fucked your sister, just like this. And I repeat that in my head as he is pushing inside of me and his rhythm is getting faster, he's pulling me back against him, his hips slapping against my ass, and his grunts follow those slaps like commas, and it feels big, like the strap-on must have felt when Tegan woke up underneath me and the gin and whiskey are making me feel like throwing up now, a little, because of the jarring movement, the way he is kind of pounding me, but that's what I wanted. So now, my shredded heart is mirrored by the tearing pain inside of me, his hand on my breast, and then sliding down my back, what now? He must be getting close, but now he is stopping, shifting. He pulls out and I bite my tongue but he's turning me again, onto my back, and he pushes my legs open again and he is on top of me and one hand goes down to guide it and he's inside again and I shut my eyes because I don't need to see his red face, which is close to me as he starts thrusting again as I continue to let him punish me. And now it is his stomach slapping against me, rubbing against mine as he pushes my shirt up, his hands on my breasts again, and he catches my eye, although I try to avoid it, he catches it because he wants to look me in the eye while he rams me. It freezes me for a second, his look, a suggestion of a sneer, only around his mouth, not his eyes, and I turn my face away. He pulls one side of my bra down and his mouth is on my breast as his hips grind into me, faster. I'm very sore now and he sucks on my nipple and then he's moaning, his face gets close to mine and I turn my head as far away as I can. His breath on my neck, then his hot mouth, oh fuck he says against my neck, thrusting a few more times, oh God he says and I can smell Tegan's hair, like aloe and cucumber and I feel something rising up in my throat as he thrusts again, again, one more time, and with a long kind of groan, he comes inside me, pushes into me again, moans again, and then goes limp on top of me. He's hot, his weight on me, his sweat, I want him gone. He's still inside and I want him out. His body on top of me is making me feel trapped and I push at his shoulder a little and he pulls out, which hurts too, and rolls off of me, his breath heavy and shallow. He lays next to me, catching his breath for a moment and now there is the pain and the hollowness, and then he gets up and I see him for a second, still flushed, and I see he's a little bloody and he looks and sees it too and I turn away on my side.

"Jesus, are you. . . uh. . ."

"You can use the bathroom and then go," I say and he only pauses for a second and then he goes and I hear water and I tentatively lower my hand and feel the sticky warm wetness. I pull the blanket over me and then he's back. I hear him shuffle around, pull on his clothes.

"I'm. . . uh-"

"Just go," I say as my throat starts to swell. He says nothing else; I hear him make his way up the hallway and then the click of the door and he's gone. I bite my tongue until I taste blood but it's not enough. I press my face into Tegan's pillow, even though I'm alone, and nobody can hear me. So there it is. My soul is rotten; my heart, a black cancer. I've destroyed everything. I put my fingers inside of my sister and tasted her mouth as she came under me and everyone in the world knows, our mother knows, she made us and fed us and loved us and kept us warm and clean and safe and taught us how to cross the road and how to tie our shoes and put our crayon drawings up on the fridge. And then we grew up and we fucked each other and broke her heart and now everything is black, everything is gone, and I have nothing. I almost hope she comes and finds me, in her bed, bloody sheets, half-naked, sobbing into her pillow until I choke.