Page 19 of Brutal for It
“Miss your thighs around me.”
“You still got that crow tattoo on your hip?”
“You were my favorite. None of the others compared.”
Each word is a knife.
I try blocking, but new numbers keep popping up. I try ignoring, but the voicemail pings, filled with silence and breath or words of filth that makes bile rise in my throat.
By mid-afternoon, my hands are shaking so bad I can’t hold the broom. I lean against the wall, knees weak, air stuck in my chest.
It’s like I’m back there. Back in that body that wasn’t mine, not really, because men like him took it like it belonged to them.
I thought I’d buried it. I thought these years of sobriety, years of Tommy’s steady hands and steady love, had built a wall high enough to keep the past out.
Turns out the past knows how to dial a phone.
I barely make it home. Every buzz of my phone rattles me, even after I turn it off and bury it at the bottom of my bag. My chest feels tight. My skin crawls. The mole under my breast burns, the tattoo I got in a haze of high feels like a mark of a time I can’t escape. It’s like his words branded me all over again.
Rushing to the shower I try to wash all the pain and memories down the drain. I can’t breathe. I can’t scrub hard enough.
The shower runs hot, steam filling the room, water pounding my skin. I sit on the tile floor of the shower space, knees to my chest, scalding spray beating down on me. I dig my nails into my arms, rub at my skin until it’s raw, whispering, “Get it off, get it off, get it off.”
But it doesn’t come off. I can’t wash it away.
When Tommy gets home, I don’t even hear the door. I don’t hear his boots, don’t hear the jingle of his keys.
What I hear is the curtain pull back and his voice, rough with panic.
“Jami. Baby, what the hell?—”
I look up, water running down my face with the tears I can’t stop. “I can’t—” My voice breaks. “I can’t get them off me.”
He’s down on the tile before I can blink, jeans soaking, shirt sticking, his big hands catching my face. “Hey. Hey. Look at me. Who?”
“The calls.” I choke, the words ripping out like glass. “They know. They talked about… moles, tattoos. They said they miss my taste. Tommy, I thought I was clean, I thought I was free, but I feel dirty all over again.”
His jaw clenches. His eyes go storm-dark. “Jesus Christ.”
I sob, burying my face in his chest. “I can’t do it. I can’t fight them. They’re still in me. I’ll never be clean.”
“Bullshit,” he growls, so fierce it makes me flinch. But then he kisses my hair, gentler. “You hear me, Jami? Bullshit. The past doesn’t get a vote. Not in this house. Not in your body.”
I shake my head, broken. “I can’t believe that right now.” This is the part of recovery that taunts addicts. The parts where soberly I have to face the things I did, the choices I made, all for the sake of chasing a temporary high.
“Then I’ll believe it for both of us.” He tilts my chin, presses his mouth to mine—soft, steady, not asking for anything but giving everything.
We move to the bedroom, clothes wet and clinging, skin damp with steam and tears. It’s not like other nights. Not frantic. Not playful. Not even the slow burn we’ve perfected.
This is different.
Tommy touches me like he’s drawing lines over a map, like he’s reclaiming territory from an enemy who trespassed too long. His lips on my collarbone, whispering, “Mine.” His hand over the mole on my breast, whispering, “Beautiful.” His mouth on the crow tattoo, whispering, “Fly free.”
Every place they named, every piece of me they tried to stain, he blesses with his touch.
By the time he’s inside me, the tears on my cheeks aren’t all from grief. Some are from relief. From the way he looks at me, like I’m the only thing that’s ever mattered.
“I need you to hear me,” he says against my lips, thrusts slow and deep, anchoring me. “The past can’t touch you anymore. Not while I’m here. Not while we’re us.”
