Last night was different. The shadows were darker. The terror was stronger. The noises louder.
It was the first time that I had allowed the idea of leaving Yoss and running home feel like a very real possibility.
That’s what fear did. It destroyed hope.
And when Yoss was gone it was all too easy to lose it.
I loved Yoss.
But I hated the things he did. I wanted to hit Manny every time he came for him. He would wait with his arms crossed, a look of barely concealed impatience on his fleshy features.
“Come on, Yoss, we’re going to be late,” he would say, giving me a smile that would have been kind. But I knew better.
Manny was the worst kind of evil. The kind that preyed on the desperate. The kind that smiled all the while he killed you.
He was killing Yoss. By making him believe that to sell his body was his only option.
“You don’t have to go, Yoss. We don’t need that money,” I allowed myself to whisper as I watched my boyfriend put on cologne for men who didn’t care what he smelled like.
I felt sick.
So damn sick.
Yoss wouldn’t look at me. He never did when Manny came. I saw his shame so clearly.
“I’ll be back later. We can get breakfast in the morning,” he had said.
“I don’t want breakfast! I don’t want you to go!” I had shouted. Manny heard me. He frowned, looking annoyed.
“Yoss. We’ve got to go now. Ray and Dean are waiting,” Manny all but snarled.
“Yoss,” I begged. I pleaded. I would get on my hands and knees if it would mean he’d stay.
Yoss’s eyes were wet but they would never meet mine. “I love you, Imi,” was all he said.
Then he left.
And I began to question his promises. His love. His devotion to our future.
I found myself being jealous of the anonymous men in forgotten corners who stole parts of my Yoss that I had yet to know. It was ridiculous to feel that way. Disturbed that I could desire anything he shared with those faceless monsters.
I loathed myself for hating Yoss for how he had chosen to survive.
But in the end, the love was so much stronger.
And I didn’t leave.
Of course I couldn’t.
I was tied to him in ways my seventeen-year-old heart didn’t understand.
Later when he finally crawled under the blankets, I could feel him trembling as he took me in his arms. I hated myself all over again for the reprehensible thoughts that had consumed me only hours earlier.
Lightning had flickered in the distance. We didn’t speak. There was no need too. His face had been streaked with dirt and tears.
I wiped the blood away from his busted lip. I didn’t ask him what happened. His ghosts were his own.
I knew he’d never share them anyway.
