This and my thoughts were all I had. So I explored every deviant dream. Every lustful desire that grew inside my head.
I stroked myself slowly savouring the touch and worked my fist up from the base to the tip and back down again. With my free hand I pushed my sweats down till they sat under my ass and pulled my hoodie up until it was tucked just beneath my chin.
My body came alive as I spat into my hand before wrapping it back around my shaft making it feel silky smooth. Images of Anthony on his knees looking up at me with lust filled eyes flashed through my mind.
My thumb wiped over my head on the next stroke adding precum to the mix as I started to fuck my hand like it was the only thing keeping me here. I could feel the heat radiating off his body as his hands worked up my chest and tweaked my nipples.
My balls drew up tight, heavy and full. I could feel my heartbeat throbbing in my length as blood pooled into my shaft. My release barreled toward me.
Short, sharp pants left my mouth. My hips flexed as my rhythm started to falter. Sweat beaded in my hairline and down the back of my neck. My orgasm was almost upon me, but something was holding it back.
I shifted enough so I could lift my knees and spread my legs. The fingers of my free hand crept past my balls and teased the sensitive skin of my entrance. Oh how I wished it was Anthony’s finger pushing through that first ring of muscle.
“Daddy!” I cried as my vision went white. My cock pulsed in my hand as thick ropes of cum splashed over my chest.
Empty, I collapsed back onto my bed. Spent. Body basking in the afterglow. My fingers trailed through the cum on my chest, scooping it up. I brought them to my mouth and sucked them clean. And wondered if his cum would taste salty or sweet.
A few moments was all I was allowed before it all faded into darkness again. Shame hit me. Hard. Immediate. Like a wave slamming into my chest. Like something ugly blooming under my skin.
I felt disgusting. Exposed. Like I’d been caught doing something unforgivable even though I was alone. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. The words fell out of me without direction.
“I’m sorry, Mom.” My throat tightened around her name. “I can’t stop wanting what hurts.”
I lay there for a long time after that, breathing into the hollow in my chest. Feeling the weight of myself. Feeling too much. Feeling wrong for feeling anything at all. Once I was cleaned up, the walls started to close in around me. The only thing I could do was run. I righted my clothes, threw my journals into my bag and left.
The house felt like it was watching me. Like the walls knew. Like I had failed at something I hadn’t even been given a chance to choose.
So I left. Barefoot. The back deck was cold wood and splinters under my feet as I crossed it. The night air was sharp and wet and smelled like salt. But it did nothing to dampen the feeling crawling over my skin.
The ocean was loud enough to drown out my thoughts. That was why I went. Not to be comforted. But to be erased.
The sand was cold and damp where I collapsed near the shoreline. I curled in on myself, knees to chest, arms wrapped tight around my ribs like I was trying to hold my organs in place.
The wind tugged at my hoodie. The waves crashed and retreated. Crashed. Retreated. Like breathing. Like a heart. Like the world was reminding me I was small.
I stared out at the dark water until my eyes burned. Until my chest felt too tight to take a breath. That's when I reached into my bag and pulled out the penknife I’d acquired the other day.
Was it wrong for me to use it to silence the noise? To make the world stop spinning out of control around me? Definitely. But would that stop me? No. I flicked it open, pushed back my sleeve and catalogued the raised red scabs that ran from wrist to elbow.
There were so many now it was hard to find a fresh piece of skin. But I managed, and as the blade cut through that first layer of skin it was like the world had been switched off. The volume muted. My lungs finally filled with oxygen and I was finally able to breathe.
But like most things that free feeling didn’t last. The static that drowned out the chaos was only fleeting. It wasn’t long before the grief and self-loathing crept back in. A dark cloud swallowing me whole.
Tears burned as they filled my eyes, but I couldn’t blink them away fast enough. That's when I imagined her there. My mom.
Not as she was when she died—blood stained and broken. But as she was when she laughed. Whole. Standing just beyondthe waterline. Watching me with that quiet sadness she always had when she couldn’t fix something.
“I didn’t mean for it to be like this,” I whispered. “I didn’t mean to want him.” My voice sounded thin against the ocean. Insignificant. “I didn’t mean to fail you.”
Empathy shone in her eyes. She wasn’t judging me. She never did. Hours passed as I waited for her to answer. Nothing but the wind and the water to hear my pain as I purged everything I couldn’t say to him. Every naïve hope I’d had of a future. Every dream he smashed with his quiet words. His cold rejection.
I cried myself hoarse until I was just an empty shell waiting to be swept out by the coming tides. To be washed away like I’d never existed. That was when I felt something behind me. Not footsteps. Not a sound. Just the unmistakable awareness of someone else being there.
My spine went hot. My breath caught. I knew who it was without turning. The pull in my chest told me. I didn’t look. I couldn’t. Because if I did, I would reach. And if I reached, I wouldn’t stop.
So I stayed folded into myself like something broken the tide had dragged in. Blood dripping down my hand. Letting the guilt burn. Letting the need ache. Letting his presence sit behind me like gravity.
Because I didn’t trust myself to survive wanting him and seeing him at the same time. I wanted him the way drowning people want to breathe. Not beautifully. Not tenderly. Desperately.
