Page 18 of Beneath Cherry Blossom Memories

“Wait.”

He does, head turned to see me out of the corner of his eye. “What?”

“Don’t go.”

I don’t want him to go. I want him to fucking fight me. Scream at me. Beg me to take him back—anything. But I also pray that he does go. That he doesn’t feed into me anymore. I almost ruined his life. I could havekilledhim. It’s better this way. If only my mind would work right. If only it would just shut up and let me think. He breathes hard, fingers slowly curling into a fist as he faces forward.

Go. Don’t go. Forgive me. Hate me. Take mehome.

“I’m not doing this with you. I…can’t.” His voice cracks, so he clears his throat to disguise it.

“Sit with me. Just for a few minutes. Then you can leave and forget this happened.” The muscles in his lean back flex. I trail my eyes down its length to his long legs. “It’s quiet when you’re here,” I whisper.

“Call Leon. Call an ambulance. Just don’t call me.” And he walks out the door, the next one slamming shut.

For the next two weeks, I live on antacids and whatever I can get my hands on. My stomach hurts constantly, so I double up on my pain meds. I can’t sleep. I can barely hold down food. I’m floating through this tour, half the time unaware I’m initiating sex until my dick is in Leon. But I make it to every show to watch Phoenix. I stand as close as possible to the stage even when I feel like passing out. My followers are pissed that I’m not posting, but I don’t feel like it. I got paid yesterday, and there’s a significant decrease.

I don’t care.

It hurts to breathe, hurts to be awake. I could leave at any point, go home, and get my meds right, but I don’t. I’m not sure what I’m waiting for, only that Iamwaiting.

Scrolling through TikTok while Leon naps on my shoulder, I almost shove him off. How can he be so clueless? How can he not see the fucking flags I’m waving here? I suppose he can’t—wouldn’t see them. Not with how I am. Not with how I let him have me anytime he wants.

That’s all I’m good for, though. Sex. I’ve known that since my balls dropped. But I did something right this time. I was upfront from the beginning. He knows there is an expiration date with me. As I'm scrolling, I come across a video of a girl dancing. A sting somewhere in the back of my psyche almost has me swiping up, but my thumb hovers. She spins so gracefully, her body like moving art. Flickers of long-forgotten memories rush to the surface.

“Boys can’t do ballet,” my aunt tells me, cigarette dangling from her fingers as she makes my macaroni.

I clutch the bright orange paper to my chest. All the kids got one at school, and my teacher didn’t say that boys weren’t allowed. “It’s free, though,” I say, my voice small.

Aunt Tracy doesn’t like to spend money. Mrs. Johnson said the school would give us shoes. All I need is something to dance in. I think I can borrow tights from Kristen…

“It doesn’t matter if it’s free. You’re a boy. Ballet is for girls and gays.” She dumps in the packet of cheese powder.

I blink hard and swipe the video away.

This shit I’m getting off random dealers isn’t helping. I keep remembering. The voices keep talking. Looking out the window, I watch the world pass by me. Not the world, I guess, just Illinois. If I got off the bus right now, all it would take is an Uber to get me home. Not that I'll be doing that anytime soon, but I don’t know if that’d even help at this point. Besides, I’m not an addict. I don’tneedmy medicine. Okay, I need it, but I can manage with what I believe is Ritalin—that’s what the dealer said anyway.

I first started the stuff in middle school. My aunt took me to the doctor, said I had ADHD, and they wrote out a prescription. I don’t know if I have it, but I guess I did better than before I started taking it. In high school, one of my girlfriends snorted the stuff. She said it worked better, so I went home, smashed up my dose, and tried it out. I danced in my room the entire night, did all my homework, and baked a fucking cake for my aunt. She didn’t eat it, but still.

I feltgreat.

In school, I only snorted it when I needed to quiet my thoughts and get shit done like tests or big projects—that kind of thing. After high school, my head got worse, and when I started making porn, I needed it more often. Doctors give it to me, so I know it’s not the same as what I’m doing now. I’mactuallybuying drugs. It’s temporary, though. It's just something to get me through until I figure out what I’m doing. Leon shifts beside me, waking up from his nap.

“Hey,” he says sleepily and yawns. “Can’t sleep?”

It’s 1 pm. “I’m not tired.”

He reaches up to my face, fingering the circles under my eyes that won’t cover up no matter how much concealer I put over them. “You are tired.” He straightens and looks me in the eye. “Talk to me.”

“I need to post more content. The people are pissed.”

“Haven’t you been? You recorded last night.”

Did I? I don’t even remember. “Weird angle and lighting. I’ll have to jerk off later or something.”

“Want help?” His attempt at flirting is lost on me.

“Nah. It’s alright. Don’t want anyone seeing it’s you.” I force a smile, and he chuckles and blushes.

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