“You hugged me for the first time on my eighth birthday,” he whispers. “I don’t know if it was the moment I realized I needed to be more than your friend, but I know I never wanted to have anyone else’s arms around me.”
I remember bear-hugging him before I gave him his birthday present. He looked like he needed it and no one had hugged me since Ruby left, so I needed it too. Then my mother nipped me for making her look bad.
“The first time I came…” he whispers against my lips. “It was because of you, in a dream. Every memory is wrapped up in you, my pretty girl. First person to hold my hand, hug me, kiss me, get my dick hard, fuck. Everything. It’s all you, Delilah.Youare everything.”
After all the drugs, I don’t know who stole my firsts from me. I can’t lie to him though, not when it involves lying to myself. I’ve done that too much. I gently trace his features as I say, “You’re the first person I chose.”
His hand flexes against my cheek as his voice deepens. “I’m the last.”
I thought I’d always love Kane. No one ever matched up to him. I spent years being lonely partly due to fear of my parents infiltrating my life, but a larger part out of guilt he wasn’t living his life. His life was paused, so mine was too.
I still want to have love. It’s not something that will ever go away. I was born to a barren home, cold walls, and even colder hearts. All of the constant refusals for care made me want it more while teaching me I’m not worthy of it as I am. I became the whore, trading my body for a little warmth he could offer where we were protected.
I put him on a pedestal, never noticing he would’ve given me care without me using sex as currency. Now it’s too late. Wehaveto do it because if he doesn’t use me, I’m useless. I press against his chest until he lays on his back. A deep crease forms between his brows as I straddle him, getting even deeper when I reach for his zipper.
“There’s no one watching now,” he whispers, grabbing my wrists.
“Oh, yeah, sorry.” My skin heats as I look away.
Fucking idiot, obviously he doesn’t want to fuck me.
All the things Helene has said are true—I’m a whore. Dirty, filthy.
He gently holds my chin between his finger and thumb, slowly turning my head to face him as he says, “Don’t disappear on me. I never stopped you when you did it before, but that changes now.”
Externally, I’m a bitch, the cold one who hurt his feelings by being dismissive or disinterested. My lies, my secrets, all of it was only ever a tool to stop the one person I cared about from being hurt.
Strength doesn’t have to be physical. It can be something deeper, stopping me from firing my pain at other people like my parents did to me. They’re weaker due to their need to do so. They can’t cope with it or hold it back. I can. I held my pain, my anger, my frustration, and my violations to stop them from hurting Kane.
“I’m in awe of you, koukla mou,” he whispers against my temple. “Fucking strong and tenacious.”
I continue swallowing all the pain, anger, resentment—the urge to scream how unfair it all is—because deep down I don’t want to hurt him. He’s always been the person who was there for me. I’m stuck now that he’s wrapped up in the only good parts of myself. Without Kane, I’m a shitty person. A cheater who cheated for the thrill, a dumb bitch who was too weak to leave her shitty boyfriend, so she stayed.Istayed with Asher after he hit me, mocked me, belittled me.
I don’t want to be that person anymore, so I keep the caring version of Kane alive by telling myself the man sitting me outside is doing it because he cares. He closes the window, draws the drapes across, then walks away.
I grip the edge of the window ledge as I watch the waves slowly lap against the rocks. The isolated gate is in my periphery, but I avoid it because if this is real then what Helene said is too.
Tears cling to my lower lashes as I slowly sit back, staring at those gates leading nowhere. I was born a daughter withoutparents, became a sister without siblings, a mother without a child. Now I’m a wife without a husband.
Titles.
Roles.
Responsibilities.
They’re all supposed to be words to indicate my place in life, descriptors to show I have a community and support. Yet every single one is pain. A game. A tool to be used against me.
I slouch, resting my back against the glass as I cross my legs under me, blankly watching the sky.
The faint smellof paint wakes me as I open my eyes to the darkening sky. I blink up at Kane as he slides me onto his thigh with little flecks of paint on his face and lashes. “I didn’t realize the time,” he whispers, kissing the top of my head. “You need to eat something.”
I climb over him to go inside, where the smell of paint is even stronger. When I move the drape aside, I see why. The wall behind the bed is painted in different colors. All of them are varying shades of grey, black, and white—a faint pink vein through the drying marble pattern.
He gently pushes me forward, making space for himself to stand behind me before he climbs through the window. Wrapping his paint-splattered arm around my waist, he says, “Whenever you feel alone, remember I’m here with you, even if you can’t see me.”
“Because you put your blood, sweat, and tears into it?” I laugh weakly, attempting to find some normalcy in this evil world we’ve found ourselves in.
“Something like that,” he mutters into my crown. “I love you. You’re strong. Don’t forget who you are.”
