A month after we started dating, I handed over my virginity. That first time wasn’t gentle. It didn’t make butterflies swoop in my stomach with gentle wings or make the emotion of contentment fog my head and tighten my chest in those beautiful ways like it should.
It was rough.
Hard in a way that, at first, I got no pleasure from.
But the following praises that spilled from his mouth at how well I was doing in response to the mix of pain and pleasure he was giving me somehow made me validate his actions as being normal. That he was a man with experience, and therefore, since I had none, I needed to be everything he needed. Now, I can’t get off without the euphoria blending with a mixture of pain.
Believe me when I say I wish I could. Even when I stir my own pleasure, my fingertips twist my nipples to haul me closer to the brink. And when I shatter, the guilt that follows is like that one grain of sand in the bag tied to my ankles that I can’t fight anymore. It lugs me to the depths, leaving a lingering self-loathing that never truly vanishes.
He trained my body.
It wasn’t until the blade came out to play and he’d drag his fingers through my blood that I realized how truly unhinged he was.
Often, I wonder if I’ll ever find the shelter that my heart craves. The peace that never feels within reach when I’m constantly looking over my shoulder.
Healing is difficult when your demons aren’t dead.
Maybe that’s why I wanted to run yesterday when that jaw-dropping and panty-wetting god on the dock knocked me off center with his aura alone.
The vibes radiating off him weren’t good ones, but I couldn’t ignore the way his presence branded my memory.
A man who dresses like that isn’t meant to be forgotten.
I shut my locker and turn around, taking in the minimal break room: nothing more than a small round wooden table with four matching chairs in the center, and a small kitchenette against the wall with a fridge. On the other wall is a door that leads to a little cleaning closet.
This room is small and confined with no windows, so whenever I’m on my lunch break, I usually settle onto one of the outdoor picnic tables near the food court section of the park. Today, my brain craved silence. The ride may have a repeating song every day, but so does every other area on the property. It may be a soundtrack, but I still know every instrumental and gleeful song on that list.
I press my back against the lockers, closing my eyes for a brief second to reset. When they pop open, I gasp. Before, the closet was closed. Now, the door is propped open with a body lurking in the shadows on the other side. Vincent’s face is void of any expression as it usually is, the hardness in his wrinkled features and narrow eyes making a lump form in my throat. Faded tattoos have bled across his muscular, age-marked skin, making the ink on his neck difficult to distinguish. I can recognize it as a script; however, I’m unsure what language it is.
He's standing in the doorway, in dark gray pants and a button-down that looks like a solid-color flannel, the closet completely dark behind him. An ominous void that infuses an extra dose of unease into my veins. I am just about to finish my lunch break and have been enjoying my sandwich alone forthirty minutes, which means he’s been enclosed in that small space the entire time I’ve been in the break room.
I can’t help myself. “How long have you been in there?”
His eyes hold mine. “Doesn’t matter.”
It’s supposed to be a dismissal, but I ignore it. Noisily, I push harder. “I’ve been in here for thirty minutes. Which means you’ve been hanging out in there—alone.” I eye the light switch on the outside of the closet. “In the dark.” I fold my arms over my chest to cover the unexpected gooseflesh that peppers my skin in response to his callous presence.
He moves out of the small closet, shutting the door behind him. “If I were you, I’d return to work and mind your own business, girl.”
His advancing steps have me backing toward the exit. I almost don’t want to move and hold my ground since he has no authority to tell me what to do, but I think better of it and escape the room, hastily walking back to finish the last part of my shift.
A slow, antagonizing four hours later, I rest my chin on my hand, my arm propped up on the control panel table as I watch the four video blocks on each of the three screens roll by and switch to other views. A family unloads off the cart, the father pushing his two young kids through the exit gate in front of me as Jeremy ushers two teenage girls onto the cart next, who were at the back of the evening rush line.
Through the large, open, garage-like doors, with rope weaving through to navigate the line, rosy pink and dusty orange pastels paint the seascape over the carousel across from the haunted mine building. Its vibrant, rainbow-flickering lights pierce the oncoming darkness, looking like something out of a fairy tale.
When the cart disappears through the cave entrance with the two teenage girls, Jeremy hops onto the top of the rotating turnstile, which lets guests pass after they scan their tickets. Hefolds his arms over his chest, looking like he’s ready to be done with this day as much as I am.
“Hey.” Jeremy looks up at me, curiously waiting for me to continue. “Have you ever seen Vincent hanging out in the cleaning closet by himself…in the dark?”
His bushy brows knit together at my question. “I mean, I saw him come out of there once with a duffel bag. It was strange, but then I thought that maybe he was changing or something.”
“Changing in the closet?” I say it out loud, more so to process it myself, since we have access to staff bathrooms and showers in several parts of the park.
He shrugs. “I guess. Why?”
I purse my lips, shaking my head. “Never mind.”
“Yeah, he’s fucking strange. Doesn’t really talk to anyone, and I’ve worked here for the last several summers.”
