Page 49 of Misery
This is the drowning I choose.
Suffocation that feels like salvation.
"Elfe." He pulls back. We're both panting like we've run miles. "You just had a panic attack."
"I know."
"This isn't—we shouldn't?—"
"I need to feel something else." I frame his face with my hands.
His stubble is rough against my palms. Real. Present. "Please. Make me feel something that isn't fear."
"You don't know what you're asking for."
"I know I'm tired of being scared. Tired of flinching when people move too fast. Tired of feeling like my body isn't mine because they touched it." My voice cracks like ice under weight. "I want to choose. I want towant. And I want you."
Something breaks in his expression. All his careful control crumbling. "You have me. Always have."
This time when we kiss, it's different. Deliberate.
A claim and a gift wrapped together.
He stands, pulls me up with him.
I'm unsteady, but he's solid.
Walks me backward out of the bathroom.
Toward the bed.
My legs hit the mattress.
"If you want to stop?—"
"I won't."
"But if you do?—"
"Oskar." I pull his shirt off.
I need to see him.
Need to touch his skin. "Stop talking."
His chest is a masterpiece of damage.
Scars and ink telling stories I want to learn with my tongue.
I trace a particularly nasty one over his ribs, raised tissue that speaks of times he probably barely survived.
"Knife fight," he says. His voice is rough. "Guy thought he was faster."
"Was he?"
"No."
I turn and push him to sit on the bed.
