“Win… what,” Remy gasps. My lashes flutter, the fan blowing cool air on my soaked cockhead. I shiver, glancing down—
Red.
Trickling down pale skin.
FuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK.
The leg of my briefs has ridden up, revealing the edge of my most recent cut. It was lower than normal— mistake number one— and deeper. At the time, I’d been so caught up in the release of it, that I couldn’t help purging just a little more.
I scramble back, tucking my aching dick away. “It’s nothing.”
Remy hasn’t even blinked. Hasn’t moved.
“Y-you’re bleeding.”
“I cut myself shaving.”
Sharp eyes slash to mine. Narrowing.
“Shaving?”
I shrug. “The razor slipped. It’s nothing.”
He can see right through my bald-faced lies but doesn’t speak. Just purses his lips. For ages we sit like that: him waiting for me to admit the truth and me silently begging him to let it go.
While he didn’t push, the cracks of suspicion had already formed in his once trusting eyes. It was all the proof I needed. He wouldn’t understand. He’d blame himself and I’d have to feed him more lies. More and more until I was buried.
I’m not worth it.
It’s better this way.
It’s better I’m gone.
The blade meets my skin.
And I watch my lies seep out.
36
Remy
Green, worn fabric bunches beneath my thighs, my fingertips tracing the darker threads woven through the tweed. I vividly remember the first time I sat on this couch, hugging myself and shaking after getting shuffled in by Ma.
I was fucking terrified.
These days, I run through the door ready to unload. But for some reason, this afternoon I’ve erected a two-way mirror, essentially creating an interrogation room in my mind where my therapist has become the intimidating detective and I’m hiding crimes.
“You’re very quiet today,” Dr. Kat says from the leather chair across from me. Her black pump bobs to an unheard tune as she waits. And waits. And fucking waits.
I’ve wasted almost the entire session on trivial bullshit, carefully avoiding the monster perched on my chest. Massaging the bridge of my nose, I exhale slowly. What comes out isn’t what I intended, especially with only a few minutes left.
“Win was bullied.”
Those three words taste like acid and fill me with unfathomable rage. He’d answered my questions without elaborating. Short responses and feigned indifference. I’d almost punched through the wall after he’d driven off, promising, “I’m fine now, I was just caught off guard when she showed up.”
I want to believe him but I don’t; I know what I saw in his haunted grey eyes.
Soul-deep terror.
