Page 2 of Fragments
He’s keyed up tight, holding firm. He doesn’t do this as often as John Doe, that much is clear.
Something vulnerable flashes in his dark eyes as his head cocks to the right. He assesses my face closely, like he’s looking for something. I can’t help but wonder what he’s seeing when he’s looking at me.
The image… Theportrayal. That’s all they ever see.
The shell of Warren Xavier.
No one knows what’s hidden underneath.
Uncharacteristically, Stranger’s hand travels up, his fingers dancing tenderly on my jaw. He remains silent while his thumb grazes my bottom lip. His softness, the gentle way he’s touching me, is a resuscitation to my dead heart. It tickles in the pit of my stomach… like an itchy frisson I can’t shake.
It feels so strange…affection. But I don’t… I don’t think I hate it.
Unfortunately, before I can even process what I’m feeling, Stranger shoves his thumb into my mouth.
Things become fast and foggy after that.
He pushes me onto my knees, spearing my throat with his long dick while his friend snorts coke off my ass and jerks off in the background. I’m in a haze when he drags me back to the couch, and they sit, side by side, passing me back and forth. Using me like nothing but a sex toy.
But this is what I’m used to. Thismakes sense.
Being fucked hard, aggressively, by men who see me as an object. Their angry fists in my hair, pushing my skull in the dark.
The whirlwind of drugs and cum. Growling and bruises and control… The give and take.
They give. I take.
By the end of it, I’m numb. I know I’ve gotten off. I usually do, but I can’t even remember the orgasms after a few seconds, and I’m not sure what that means.
They leave me with my wrists bound by their expensive ties, covered in cum, and a little blood, surrounded by a pile of sweaty cash.
Typical Friday night.
Once I’m cleaned up and dressed, the sun is rising slowly over this island we call New York. I leave the club, fighting the urge to limp and trying like hell to leave the cut on my lip alone. The black Town Car is parked along the curb, as usual. But I don’t take it.
I never do.
In fact, I flip it off, walking the two blocks to the nearest subway station. The ride is sobering, as usual. I put in my headphones and listen to my favorite playlist, zoning out amongst Manhattan’s walk-of-shamers and people who work at this ungodly hour, even on weekends. The city is broken, and lonely, just like the rest of us.
When I arrive at home, I can’t help but gaze upward, eyeing the giant Upper East Side townhouse with a sigh.
I would love to watch it all burn…
Inside, the house is still quiet, shy of the staff who are already up, cooking and cleaning as quietly as possible. Not that it would matter… My parents are in their wing, which feels like miles away from this side of the house.
I ignore the looks they’re giving me while I climb the stairs and go directly to my bedroom.This is only a transitional period, I tell myself while I strip down and go for the shower. My reflection in the mirror catches my eye, all the bruises covering my flesh sticking out amongst my scattered ink.
I like them. Bruises remind me that I’m alive and susceptible to hurt. Like when I was twelve and I used to cut myself.
Just tofeel.
While I shower, my mind flicks through images. Memories of tonight, with John Doe. I’m contractually obligated to pretend I don’t know who he is, although I definitely do. My parents donated to his congressional campaign. And the new stranger… he also looked familiar.
They always do.If I gave up the names of all the high-powered men I’ve bent over for, I could take down the city of New York singlehandedly.
I enjoy it, I do. I can’t act like I don’t, but that teeny, weakened little voice inside tries shouting up to my brain.I don’t want to be here anymore.
Get me out.
