The first time he took my virginity—rough, rushed, still fully clothed while I lay naked—I wondered through the pain if I should tell Jean.
Would she even believe me? I doubted it. To her, David was a perfectly devoted and loving husband who insisted they foster an unfortunate, troubled soul.
Even as I later cleaned the blood from the bedspread in my bathroom sink so she wouldn’t know, I played out all the scenarios. Best case, he would get arrested and put away, but Jean wouldn’t keep me in the house. It would be too painful to live with the girl your husband sexually abused.
No, it was best to let her continue to live in her own little fantasy world, but that didn’t mean I had to play into it.
"We could talk about boys," Jean offers. "Or… girls. Whatever you like." She stumbles to correct herself, trying to be open.
Again, I feel a wave of sickness pulse inside me. The boys at my school are grotesque. I don’t care for the sea of hormones I swim through in the halls every day. I ignore the flirting couples, those who make out with thick, sloppy tongues until the teachers tell them to cut it out. It’s always followed by histrionics and resentments as teenagers cheat on each other, turn cruel, or simply lose interest.
It’s then I notice David has looked up from his laptop. His eyes press into me. I’m not sure if he is the jealous type. Not that I think he sees me as his girlfriend. But maybe he doesn’t want anyone else playing with his toys. Or maybe he wants to watch. Wants me to record it. Maybe he’d jerk off to my play-by-play like it’s his favorite show.
Still trying to find a way to escape this conversation, my nails tap nervously on the can. "I’m not into any of them," I say truthfully.
Jean finally nods with a weak smile, dismissing me. David turns back to his laptop, giving me no further hints on his opinion on the matter.
Grateful, I slink to my bedroom, where I pick up one of my horror books about a girl who gets possessed. I find it terribly romantic, and read until night falls.
Then he comes.
With scratching claws, Shadow emerges from under my bed.
Instead of using my bedside lamp, I use a flashlight. I like it dark in my room. The only other light is the silver threads of moonlight filtering through the window, catching on the smoke that starts to fill the space.
It’s one a.m. David already took Jean out to dinner downtown and returned. They went to bed an hour ago.
When Shadow finishes materializing, it’s like I can finally breathe. Like my heart knows how to beat again.
"Walk?" he asks.
"Walk," I confirm, throwing back my blankets and jumping out of bed.
It takes no time to pull on heavy boots and a thick jacket. I grab a pair of gloves, though I hate the feel of them covering my hands. Fall nights have gotten bitterly cold, but I find them irresistible.
Instead of using the front door, I open my window and Shadow helps me out so I don’t trip on the sharp rose bushes. My foot slips on the ledge, but he catches me, holding me tightly to him.
I swallow hard. Enveloped in his hold, feelings rise in me—ones that have been slowly building. He’s still my protector, but my mouth goes dry while other parts of me make up for the moisture. An achy heat spreads through my body that isn’t wholly unpleasant.
Jean’s question returns to me about whether I’m into boys or girls.
Neither.
I want Shadow to do the things to me that David does. I wonder if he even has those kinds of parts. But why wouldn’t he? He has two eyes, a mouth, strong arms, and a torso. Despite his monstrous form, he’s humanoid. Though wheneverI try to steal a glance at where his junk should be, it’s like staring into the blackest of nights. The corner of my bedroom that I could stare into endlessly and still never find a wall.
I slide down his hard muscles until my feet touch the ground.
"Did you get pricked?"
I jerk, wondering if he can read my mind.
"From the rose bushes?"
I shake my head, my throat suddenly dry.
Shadow lets me go. We take our usual route, out to the city streets and then a path that leads to a playground. The cold night air stings my lungs and I break down, pulling on the gloves before settling into a swing.
Sometimes I tell him about school. A lot of the time we don’t talk at all. But today, I don’t feel like either.
