That was a lie. My face did hurt. . . from crying so much. . . from the blemish his brutal fingers caused on my cheek.
“Don’t. Please, don’t.” He pulled me in, and I let him, but only because my options were so limited. And my fight was gone.
Maybe the shower wasn’t such a good idea.
He shuffled me onto his lap, and I tried to shift away, fearing I’d feel the weapon between his legs digging into the abuse it had already caused, and igniting feelings that would have me vomiting all over him.
He gently placed his chin on my shoulder. Part of me wanted to nudge him and catch him in the throat, so he could feel some level of pain. But as his fingers spread over my back, his hands still trembling, I knew he felt some kind of pain. Pain, he wanted to soothe as he nuzzled into the thickness of my hair.
I reared back, but only enough to see the hurt on his face, to see if it was anything close to mine.
He blinked again. Pretty eyes—sad and teary—evicted tears from their home. “I am sorry. . . so sorry, Jolie.” He swallowed hard, his dry throat paining him.
He leaned over me, collapsing against the wall, pinning me to the tiles. His hands barricading me should have made me feel scared, but for the first time today, I wasn’t. Not as his forehead rested on my shoulder.
He pulled back quickly, pushing away from me,realizing it wasn’t his pain that was important.
It was mine.
My hands came up, touching his shoulders, fingers digging into his shoulders, preventing him from drifting away.
My touch dropped to his torso, spreading to the beat in his chest. To his heart, broken like my own.
My struggle in the past few minutes had undone another of my top buttons, allowing my small breast to peep out. But his morals—that he could only feel as his authentic self—had him tucking me in.
“I wasn’t ready,” I whispered.
“I know,” he said, almost silently.I wasn’t, either.
He dragged me forward, and I crashed into him. Our hearts raced against each other’s chests. My arms wrapped around his purple skin, and I squeezed too tightly, causing him pain that I felt guilty for. And, for that, I cried harder.
I sobbed into him, almost soundlessly. He stayed quiet, too, holding me as I fell apart, giving all my broken pieces to him.
“I’m sorry,” he told me, again.
“He hurt me, Woodrow,” I said, hidden by my hair, my head still against his body.
“I know he did, and I’m so sorry. I wish I could make it better.” His fingers moved, drawing small patterns on my back and arm that felt like love-hearts.
“I know you say it’s not you.”
“It isn’t. I don’t remember any of it. Jolie, I’m not him. I’d never hurt you.”
“But it was your body. Your touch. . . and I don’t know if I’ll ever feel it differently now.” My hand moved back to his chest, to the heaving rise and fall.
“Please. . . I’m not him.” His voice broke while trying to convince me. “You told me that I was worth it; let me show you, I can be.”
“But you can’t control him, so this could happen again, right?”
His silence answered.
“Let me show you that touches from me can feel good?” he asked, guiding us apart slightly for me to see his plea. “Let me make the pain go away.”
He didn’t touch me for as long as I didn’t answer.
My tongue moved around my mouth, grating against the dryness there. I needed a drink. I needed water. Leaning back and looking up, I opened wide, letting beads from the shower spray drop into my mouth.
I pushed myself from his lap, and without the dryness in my mouth, I said, “I think you should go.”
