Chapter 103
Mireya
Play - Black Friday by Tom Odell
Here with me
My fingertips splay around my neck as I look at myself in the mirror. Damien Caldwell, my professor, the man who haunts me, touched me. Several times.
I thought I was still angry with him.
I feel like I've found an excuse to fall back into my old ways. That lie... it was like he knew I was going to relapse. Maybe I resent him for being gentle with me. No one has ever tried to reassure or protect me or maybe I'm overthinking, especially since we just slept together for the first time.
I don't close the bathroom door completely. I turn on the tap, letting the water heat up. My cheeks are red, my skin marked with memories of his kisses. It's strange.
I'm used to one-night stands, I never felt shy about it.
When I was younger, I was very sexually active.
I never really understood why. I'd go out, drink, look for someone to use, and it didn't do anything for me, I wasn't really having fun.
I always felt guilty in the end, as if I was only trying to prove to myself that I was capable of more.
That I could find intimacy elsewhere. That being wanted is the same as healing. Sex and normalcy became the same thing in my head.
Because he made me believe I was broken for so many years.
My mind always arrives after my body when this happens, as if I'm already performing something before I've even agreed to it, and I remain there for a few seconds, barely aware of being in this bathroom, in this ritual my body knows all too well.
Cleanse yourself, then hurt yourself to always remember you’re in control.
There's this constant sound of the water hitting the ground that fills the space, enough to mask everything else.
Enough to leave me alone with what doesn't speak but insists nonetheless.
And I could stop there, remain standing, do nothing more, but my movements continue as if they've already decided for me, as if it ceased to be a matter of choice long ago.
My body has learned a logic that still eludes me, yet that it follows without hesitation.
It's always like this. Before or after.
This need to put things back in order. That certainty that water could re-establish a boundary between what happened and what must continue.
But tonight…it’s not the same. And that’s what troubles me most.
The absence of that thing that was always necessary. And it leaves me in a strange, almost unstable in-between, because I recognize everything, every movement, every automatic action, every passage already experienced dozens of times, but I can’t quite find what always accompanied it inside.
I remain motionless for a moment, my hands resting on the sink, and for the first time I truly see myself in the mirror, the disconnect between what I do and what I feel, the way my body repeats without asking, continuing without me.
It’s almost factual. That stupid and fucked lucidity that cuts more than it soothes, because I understand that this isn't a need that's disappearing.
This pathetic ritual is a reflex that survived for years, and it comes back even when it has no reason to do so. And yet, I stay here. Because I know I'm going to continue, because I've already done it too many times for my body to accept not doing it.
I step into the shower slowly. The water is hot right away, then it settles into a soft rhythm.
His shampoo is there, the scent of it is soothing now.
So, I use it, letting the fragrance trickle through my fingers, into my hair, as if I could blur the outlines of everything that happened earlier simply by staying under the water long enough.
And for a second, almost, it works.
Almost.
But thoughts don't just disappear because you close your eyes under the hot water. They shift, coming back in fragments. I try to focus on the sense of safety I felt with him, even though my brain is forcing me to recall times when that security didn't exist.
My hand stops against the shower wall, and I gently press my forehead against the tiles, letting the water run over me, and out of the corner of my eye, I see multiple razors. New ones mostly. He never used them here apparently…
I know I shouldn't, that I was supposed to stop, but I can't control it. My fingers slide, bringing one of them blades towards me. I barely open my legs and trace a line with it.
Blood flows along with the hot water.
One more and I'll feel better. I need to focus on this. Just one more…
I place the blade on my other thigh, and just as I start to press down, I hear a noise. Before I can react, his presence is already there, in the frame, in the steam, in the space that was occupied only by me a second before.
He says nothing at first, he doesn't move either. His gaze falls on the razor in my hand, and he follows the trail of blood running between my legs.
“Look at me,” he finally says.
I hesitate for a second, then I turn. The water continues to fall between us, but he doesn't look at me like someone who's judging me.
He approaches gently, and his hand finds my face, as if checking that he has the right to be there.
His other hand takes the razor from my hands before placing it behind me.
“You're here,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me. “I’m here.” His fingers brush against the fresh scars as he adds, “Feel me.”
And something inside me slows down without warning. He leans in, and his forehead touches mine, for a second, no more. Then he kisses me.
Gently, as if he's speaking to me with his lips.
It's going to be okay. A brush of his tongue against mine. You didn’t do anything wrong. A soft bite on my lip. Monsters can’t reach you here.
When he pulls back, he doesn't really move away. His arms go around me, and he holds me close. I remain still, then I stop holding back. And I breathe into him.
It’s going to be okay.