Snap,and it’s ready. The print slides out warm, and I shake it, set it aside on the bed, and grab the wet washcloth.
Again, being careful not to wake her, I slide the washcloth over her stomach. I sneak glances at her face. Not a muscle moves.
On its own, my chest constricts the longer she stays sound asleep. She’s not just exhausted, she’s worn out by months and maybe years of stretching herself thin.
Shaking it off, I focus on my task. Thick streaks of red dissolve into pink. Droplets of water drip down Elowyn’s stomach, soaking her dress.
She still doesn’t stir.
The more paint I gather on the cloth, the harder it is to wipe away whatever’s left on her stomach. My movements slow, the circles tighten, but they’re no less gentle.
I can’t half-ass this. Have to remove everything in order to get my message across.
That’s how she’ll feel the pain I did in my gallery, when she was on all fours before me. When her eyes locked on mine.
Need poured out of Elowyn as she begged, despite herself, to be claimed.
It turned me on.
It broke me just as much, to realize how easy it was for her. Our closeness felt almost natural. As if nothing had happened between the moment when I kissed her and now. As if she forgot how long we’d been apart.
That’s why I wipe my mark from her skin. Why I’ll leave the photograph hanging on the wall. To hold a metaphorical mirror in front of her.
Maybe when she wakes up, she’ll understand what it’s like. To be haunted by the proof that something happened. To live with the emptiness it leaves behind.
Eventually, theUdisappears, drenching the last clean spot on my washcloth in red.
I resist the urge to climb into bed with her.
Instead, I pluck the Polaroid picture off the bed. Going back to my destroyed collage, I use one pushpin to press the new photo into the wall.
Once done, I step away from the wall to pull the covers up her body. To an outsider, it might seem like I’m taking care of her.
I’m not.
Elowyn’s no use to me if she catches a cold.
That’s all this is.
Liar.
13
ELOWYN
Warm light filters through my closed eyelids. My limbs are sinking into the bed.
My breath turns shallow; my lungs refuse to draw air in.
My mouth is sore from…
“Fuck.” The word slips out in a whisper, filthy and wrong. Everything my family raised me not to say.
But that’s the smallest of my sins.
I’m ruined. Tainted. In love with the devil. With a fallen angel.
Who might be here in this room. Now.
