Cam. He is what protects me, even now, even as my body is abused and pummeled against my will by someone who claims to love me.
I think of when Cam and I were eight years old. His father had passed away suddenly just a few months earlier, and I'd spent every waking moment with him since it happened. I'd been sleeping over in his bed with him for months when I finally convinced him to go out to the Memorial Day street fair. We'd walked through the park that starts at the end of our block, and Cam was finally having a good day. He was smiling, laughing. We'd just gotten ice cream when a wasp started buzzing around me. I was never afraid of them, being a tomboy and all, I'd subscribed to the notion that it wouldn't bother me if I didn't bother it. But I was holding an ice cream cone, and the wasp had its own agenda.
I got stung. It was the first time I'd ever been stung, and God how it hurt. But I gritted my teeth and choked back my tears. I was desperate for Cam not to realize what'd happened - desperate not to ruin the first day he'd seemed to be having any kind of fun since his dad died. An hour passed before he started questioning how quiet I was being, how unlike myself. Eventually he caught me swiping at a rogue tear when I thought he wasn't looking, and demanded I tell him what was wrong.
So I did.
Cam was horrified I'd tried to hide it. He grabbed my uninjured hand and led me back to his house, where he held an ice pack to my affected wrist, all the while distracting me with some story he'd made up. He was always making up stories. He still is. He writes them down in his journal, and sometimes he lets me read them. He wants to be a writer, and he will. He'll be a great writer. I tease him about being a football player, tell him he's going to be stuck playing wide receiver for the Dolphins, but while he may ride football through school, I've no doubt he'll end up writing the next great American novel.
Cam's story distracted me from my pain that day. And he took care of me, when I'd been the one trying to take care of him. And the truth is, he's been doing it ever since.
I curl my right hand - the hand that was stung by that damned wasp all those years ago - and dig my nails into my palm as hard as I can. I must be drawing blood, but it's all I can think of to do to distract from the scorching pain between my legs.
I've lost all concept of time, and though it's felt like hours, it may have only been a few minutes. But eventually Robin stills and his mantra ends. All that is left is his dead weight on top of me, and the sound of his panting breath as he starts to calm.
Before I even realize he's moved again, Robin is on his back, hauling me into his side. He curls an arm around me until I'm lying on his chest, limp and wordless and breathless. He strokes my back with a tenderness that belies the act that preceded it, still oblivious to the endless flow of my tears. I feel wetness seeping out of me elsewhere, too. I know what it is, and it makes my stomach roll with nausea and dread.He didn't use protection.
Minutes crawl by, until eventually Robin sighs and kisses my hair. "That was so good, sweetheart. So damn good," he murmurs.
I whimper and choke back a sob, causing him to finally look at my face.
"Oh, darlin', no," he whispers, brushing my tears away with his knuckles. He rolls me onto my back, and part of me worries he might just do it again, but I'm boneless. I have no fight left in me. None.
Supporting himself on one elbow, he settles on his side and looks down at me. He pulls my tee shirt back down to cover me, but I don't lift to help him, and the hem bunches around my hips. I no longer care. I close my eyes as he wipes away more tears. I can't bring myself to meet his gaze.
"I know, sweetheart. I know," he says soothingly, like he's trying to console me.
What the hell is it he knows?
"It's supposed to hurt your first time, you know that, right? I tried to go easy, but you're so hot, darlin', you feel so damn good. You have no idea. So good," he says again. "I got carried away, but it's impossible not to with you, you know?"
I don't reply. I don't make a sound other than my sniffling.
"But it woulda hurt no matter what. Your first time. It'll hurt less next time, I promise. I'll make you feel real good, sweetheart."
He must register my horror at his reference to "next time", because he shakes his head with a chuckle. A fuckingchuckle!
"Not now, darlin'. Don't worry, I know you need some recovery time. You'll feel sore, but don't worry, that's normal."
Normal.
None of what just happened feels normal. I'm so confused. What Robin just did was awful, so why is he acting like it's all okay? Like we're a normal couple who just had sex for the first time?Are we?
Robin kisses me softly on my lips. I just stare at him as he smiles down at me.
"Let me get you cleaned up." He hops out of bed, grinning like he's just won the lottery as he practically skips into the en-suite bathroom. He's pulled his pajama pants back up, and I realize he never fully removed them at all.
I hear him run the sink, and before I can gather even a single rational thought, he's back with a warm, wet, washcloth and he's running it gently between my thighs. And I let him.
"There, all better." He gives me another kiss and heads back to the bathroom to dispose of the washcloth.
All better?I think incredulously.
Robin climbs into bed behind me and gathers me in his arms. "You okay, sweetheart?"
Somehow, with my back to him, avoiding his eyes, I'm finally able to form words. "It... hurt," I breathe.
Robin presses a kiss to my shoulder. "I know, sweetheart. It's supposed to your first time," he repeats.
