35. Win
35
Win
Five Years and Eleven Months Ago
My Sunshine,
I shouldn’t have left you.
I’m a coward.
I should’ve shown you off. Held your hand. Kissed you every chance I got. I should’ve taken you out and told the world how lucky I was to call you mine. I should’ve given you everything. I should’ve kept our promise.
And I should’ve told you.
I should’ve fucking told you.
I should’ve told you a hundred thousand times.
I love you.
But if I did, leaving would’ve been impossible. And maybe I didn’t want to hear you say it back. I need to hear it. It’d be a lie— one I’d devour and demand more of. It wouldn’t have been fair to you. You’re so much stronger than me, even if you don’t believe it. So much braver for feeling all of those big, terrifying, overwhelming emotions rather than smothering them in hopes they’ll disappear. Because they don’t and there’s only so much room inside us to house the festering darkness… I’ve reached my limit, baby. I’m spilling over, infecting everyone.
Infecting you .
I couldn’t take you down with me.
So I had to hurt you after trying my fucking hardest to protect you. I had to destroy the only thing worth living for us because you’d never let me go otherwise. And I hate myself for it. I hate myself so fucking much.
I hope you hate me too.
Hate me.
Please love hate me forever.
Your Starlight
Your biggest mistake.
I crumble the letter splotched with tears, grinding my teeth as I squeeze it into a tiny ball. Rough edges bite into my trembling palms but it’s not enough. I deserve more pain.
The phone on my desk sits dead. I can’t bear to turn it on for fear of seeing his unread messages and missed calls. Or lack of them. It's been a month. Has he forgotten me already? Replaced me? Maybe Andrea swooped in and gave him everything I couldn’t. Maybe he’s finally getting better now that I’m not dragging him down.
The old twin mattress crammed into the corner of my childhood bedroom creaks as I toss another scrapped letter in the bin. I’ve lost count of how many I’ve written at this point.
The blank page of the composition notebook in my lap mocks me with whispered taunts:
You’re pathetic holding onto a boy who was never meant for you. You’re worthless. Disgusting. Damaged. No one could love you, especially not him. Let him be with someone who isn’t a lost cause.
But the idea of him holding someone else as they soothe him through nightmares and tears, someone else on the receiving end of his laugh and infectious smile, or experiencing his desperate kisses and moans—
It’s like being buried six feet deep, clawing at the lid of a coffin, forgotten underground, running out of oxygen in sweltering darkness.
I shake my head, trying and failing to stop the tears. They’re rivers flowing from an endless well where my heart used to be. The ache is worse than the hell I went through. The reality of him moving on haunts me more than the nightmares plaguing my broken mind.
Not for the first time, I regret fleeing.
But there’s no turning back; the nuke has already dropped, decimating anything worth salvaging. All that’s left behind is toxic radiation, mutating me into an unrecognizable, walking corpse.
Tossing the notebook aside, I scoot off the edge of the bed, my bare feet landing on the thin carpet. Crouching in the cramped space between the bed and my desk, I wedge my hand between the mattress and box spring, fingers curling around a thin metal handle. Dad won’t be home for another hour. Should be enough time.
Silver glints in the yellow lamplight as I withdraw the straight razor I stole from Richard ages ago, the demonic voice in my head hissing in excitement. Wriggling my shorts down, I rest my back against the wall, parting my legs.
Red and white tallies line my inner thighs. Some faint, some jagged, some raised and some barely visible.
My fingertip traces one as a memory overtakes me.
“God, I can’t get enough,” Remy pants against my neck as his hands wander under my shirt, palms smoothing up my heaving stomach. His most recent Win and Remy Playlist streams from the speaker on his dresser, our limbs a tangled mess. His touches get bolder every time we’re alone which unfortunately isn’t as often as either of us wants. He’s grounded again and I had to bail on him last weekend after Grant and Marcus cornered me before I could escape in my car. The bruises have finally faded enough that under the dim light, he shouldn’t notice if he takes my shirt off.
He pinches my nipple as he burns a path of open-mouthed kisses down my chest. My cock strains in my sweats, digging into him as he slides down my body—
“Where are you going?” I groan.
He chuckles, his other hand squeezing my waist. “I want more of you.”
My hooded eyes widen. He slips off the edge of the bed to his knees. Hands splayed on my thighs. I crane my neck, chest rising and falling in bursts.
“More? ”
A crooked, secretive smile sits on his lips. His palms scorch a path up, fingertips curling around the waistband of my sweats, his penetrating hazel gaze holding mine hostage.
I’m hypnotized. Paralyzed.
We touch under clothes, occasionally taking shirts off. I’ve felt him. He’s felt me. But aside from hand jobs, groping and dry humping, we haven’t gone further. Or more accurately, I won’t let him.
My breath hitches.
“Wait.”
A line forms between his brows, but he obeys.
White teeth scrape over his lower lip, threads of worry tangling in his beautiful eyes.
“We’ve been together for months, Win.” he sighs, fiddling with the drawstring of my pants. Peering through his lashes, he looks so vulnerable. “You want to keep us private, and I respect that. But lately… even when we’re alone you don’t seem to want me as much as I want you.”
No, no, no.
I fly upright, grasping his face. “I do. I want you so fucking badly.”
His brows smash together. “Then why are you holding back? Am I doing something wrong? Do you not like—"
“Baby, no, you’re perfect,” I murmur, pushing an unruly curl behind his ear. “I’m just scared.”
Now he’s really confused.
I groan, throwing my head back in frustration.
“Has someone… hurt you before?”
My entire body freezes at his cautious question. How do I explain that all I’ve known outside of him is hurt? My stomach sloshes at the reel of images and sensations flitting through my mind. Punches and burns and kicks.
And lately …
Smacks on the ass hard enough to leave prints. Knees to the crotch. Painful squeezes. Taunting voices. “You sure you don’t want Jess’s pretty cunt?” and, “No, he wants a thick cock up his ass. Down his throat.” Vicious laughter. “Or maybe he wants it all. Sick little fucker, aren’t you?”
Shuddering, I shake my head.
“No, nothing like that. I’m just… nervous. It’s a big deal, you know?”
All the tension in him melts. He rises off his heels, nuzzling my nose as his lips whisper over mine. “It’s ok. I’m nervous too, but I promise we can stop if you don’t like it.”
The voices bang against the steel shields I throw up. This is Remy. My sweet sunshine boy. The boy I’m helplessly, irrevocably, undeniably in love with.
I find myself nodding despite blaring siren screeches in my brain.
The scars. The cuts. The healing gash from last night when my blade slipped from my fingers—
“What if your mom comes home?”
Remy smirks, nipping my jaw before sinking back between my parted legs. “She won’t be back for another hour. I highly doubt you’ll last that long.”
I snort. “Someone’s cocky.”
His grin widens. “Not yet.”
I roll my eyes. He snickers, pulling my pants down to my knees to reveal my boxers.
My heart pounds.
The temperature in his room spikes as lust glazes his hazel stare. Despite the chaos in my mind, my dick throbs against the constraints of my briefs. His tongue darts over his lips as he starts to remove them—
“N-not those. ”
He can’t see what I’ve done. He can’t see the real me.
It’ll break him.
I bite my lip. “I mean, just not all the way off.”
With a reassuring smile, he nods and bends to kiss the sliver of skin between my pushed-up t-shirt and the band of my Calvins. Goosebumps explode in the wake of his lips as he inhales deeply. Like the scent of me is a drug.
“Do you have any idea how fucking beautiful you are?”
I blink.
Beautiful?
He’s whispered things in the heat of the moment. Written letters with sweet words. Texted dirty fantasies. But for some reason, this feels different. Weighted. Grasping for a response, I barely notice him soothingly kneading my upper thigh.
“Tell me to stop and I will,” he murmurs, the heel of his palm digging into my bulge.
I gasp, “Fuck.”
Grinning, he holds my gaze as he slowly peels down my briefs enough to free the top half of my cock. Amusement shifts into heady desire. Mini suns flare in his eyes before he ducks his head—
My jaw drops. No sound comes out. Pleasure begs me to close my eyes but I can’t look away as the flat of his tongue swipes the bead of precum from my crown.
I’m done for.
He makes a sound between a moan and a growl that I wish I could record if only to listen to like a favorite song for eternity.
“God, I’ve wanted to…” he whispers, his voice fading as he flicks his tongue against my sensitive tip again. And again. Swirling curiously. Plush lips close over me, tongue circling—
“Ok, ok, fine, you’re right— ahhh, fuck— this is going to be— Oh god— embarrassingly fast,” I ramble, squirming with the need to rut into his mouth. He chuckles, sucking gently as his hand reaches further into my boxers to grasp my shaft.
Suddenly his mouth vanishes.
“Don’t stop now," I whine.
“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.