Chapter 19 #2
My body's done fighting,
my knees give in,
my legs part.
I forget how to fake,
forget how to lie,
forget how to hide.
All I can do is stand
while his fingers dig the past out of me.
And those eyes—
cruel, merciless,
fucking patronizing eyes—
has me chained here.
“There you go, baby,” he whispers,
his finger prowling lower,
riding the damp line,
each stroke pressing heavy
‘til the craving spreads.
“Relax. Open up for me.”
My voice won’t work,
so I close my legs around his hand instead.
Not inside. That part of me’s mine now.
Only I get to decide who enters and when.
But his fingertip teases my opening,
moving in a cruel rhythm he knows I'll submit to.
And he’s right.
A sick, warm shiver rips through my center.
Then his finger sinks in.
His mouth parts with it,
from the power he has over me,
from watching the tremor run through me.
I inch back.
But the cold edge of the desk cuts into the backs of my thighs.
“Allie, baby…” he drawls,
all velvet and thorns.
“I keep tellin' you—control isn't emotional.
“It's strategic."
His fingers heave the pleasure higher,
with friction so delicious,
it makes my kneecaps soften.
He taps the edge of the desk with his knuckle.
“Bet if I told you to sit right here…
“Spread real sweet for me…” he whispers.
“You’d do it without a second thought.”
I bite down on my cheek—
a punishment,
a painful distraction—
anything to stop my hips
from chasing the orgasm.
“And look at you, melting in my hand.”
He breathes it against my temple.
“Gonna run a whole label?”
He drags wetness up to my clit,
spreads it,
fondles filthy and cruel.
“See, that’s all you need.”
My eyes snap shut,
tighter than fists,
capping the scream wanting to get out.
No tears have fallen, but they will.
Because I’m weak.
And the worst part?
I don’t want him to stop.
I'm close to climax,
rapture flicking my veins with the countdown.
My palms brace against the desk,
and I drop my head back,
arching into his hand.
“That’s it, baby,” he croons, stepping in close.
“Nice and slow now.”
I want to throw up.
I want to vanish.
I want to shove him through the window
and watch him fall forty floors.
But all my body wants is to fucking come.
It’s moving without me,
breath jagged,
thighs trembling,
begging for a release I don’t want to need.
The pressure builds.
Second by second.
Kneading deep.
Dangerous.
Dragging me closer.
And closer.
And closer.
“Don’t hold back,” he whispers.
A sound escapes my throat.
“Keep going, baby. You're so close,”
he purrs into my skin.
“You're gonna feel so much better after."
He strokes me faster,
and then I break—
hard,
quiet,
cracked open from the inside out.
My body spasms,
soaking his fingers,
and his eyes grin with satisfaction.
Cruel. Undeniable. Victory in a stare.
And I slump into his hand—
boneless, weightless, useless.
For a moment,
I don’t remember what I came here for.
Or what I was even mad about.
“You needed it, baby,” he says.
Needed me. Needed this.
A climax to pull the covers over what he can't control.
The words IV-drip into my bloodstream.
He finally pulls his hands away.
Gone.
As if he was never inside me at all.
Then he’s humming.
Hotel California.
The same song he used to hum
in the hallways at home.
In the kitchen.
In the shower.
In my bedroom in the middle of the night.
He hums while fixing his cuffs,
when he takes the pen,
when he signs the goddamn transfer.
As if it was never about the money.
Then he tosses the pen when he’s done.
The thunk against the glass desk punctures through the humming and pulls me back into my skin.
Everything comes crashing back.
I sway, catching the edge of the desk,
and stare at the wall to keep me steady.
The records. The plaques.
The awards for songs that never saved me.
My soul, wrung out between music notes.
My heart, mutilated to a point I don’t recognize it anymore.
My childhood, framed, frozen, still bleeding behind glass.
The burn hits behind my eyes.
But I refuse to let my tears fall here, for him.
Behind me, the chair groans under his weight.
Click.
Click.
The mouse moves in his hand.
Like I’m not still standing here,
spirit dead with his fingerprints inside me.
Like he didn’t just sign with one hand
and gut me with the other.
It takes everything I have left to turn around.
When I do,
he doesn’t glance up.
“Close the door on the way out.”
Click.
“And don’t forget—I run this label, baby.”
Click.
“Not you.”
Click.
I must’ve left the building,
guessing by the fact I’m not still in it.
But I don’t remember when.
Or how.
Or if I said goodbye.
I don’t remember the elevator.
Or pressing the button.
Or what the rent-a-cop looked like,
only that he nodded
as if I wasn’t dying right in front of him.
Nice of him to pretend.
Wish I could.
I don’t remember how my keys ended up in my hand.
Maybe I dug for them at some point.
Or they jumped into my palm out of pity.
But before I slide into the driver seat,
the bile hits my throat.
I leave the car door hung open,
turn,
and fold in half.
Vomit shakes out of me,
splashing the concrete wall of the parking garage.
My eyes burn,
my hands shake,
my knees are barely holding my legs together.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand,
slide into the car,
and throw my head back, the seat catching me.
Parking space number 4 blurs on the wall in front of me.
My brain's blank, my breathing all jacked up.
Then as soon as my next inhale fully fills my lung,
everything crashes at once,
too much for my chest to hold.
Both of my fists hit the wheel,
wishing it would hit me back.
Knuckles ghost-white, grip too tight,
maybe if I hold on hard enough,
I won’t fall apart.
My lungs cave.
My chest goes hollow.
The air thins, running from me.
Then comes a second wave,
crashing down,
harder this time.
A flood of tears, finally letting go.
They rain down my face fast—
angry, reckless, pissed.
They don’t fall. They attack.
I hear Raymond.
Not really. But really.
His voice, his humming, is in my head,
his hands still on my skin—
ghosts knowing
how to keep the bruises bruising.
He’s gone.
But I still feel him. I still feel gross.
I feel disgusting.
I am disgusting.
I slam my palm into the steering wheel,
hoping the ache will knock him out of me.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Again.
And again.
And again.
But it doesn’t.
It just echoes
off the windshield,
the dashboard,
the inside of my skull.
I shove the key in.
The engine screams to life,
knowing the routine by heart.
I tear out of the garage,
tires screeching
My heart does, too.
I floor it.
Fast.
Faster.
Fast enough to hope his voice won’t catch up.
“Baby... melting in my hands.”
The way he says it—baby.
It's as if my name still belongs to his mouth.
I press harder.
Gas pedal. Guilt. I crush both.
The sun slices through the windshield,
bright enough to blind,
bright enough to piss me off.
Sky’s too blue
and clear
and oblivious to know
I’m crumbling to pieces.
But I don’t stop or slow down.
Because if I stop,
I might collapse and never get back up.
I weave through traffic,
blow through yellow lights,
take the next turn.
I don’t care where it leads.
And then—
I'm on a bridge,
a river on both sides,
me in the middle,
begging the concrete to snap.
And the second I hit the interstate,
I roll the windows down
and crank the volume up until it hurts.
The bass drills through the doors,
rattles my ribcage,
pierces my eardrums,
crawls into my chest,
and pounds harder than my heart.
Lyrics cut through me,
louder than the words screaming in my head.
Then I open my mouth—
And a held scream rips out.
Loud. Raw. Ugly.
Vicious enough to crack open my chest
so the infection pours out.
Him. The disgust. All of it.
I scream again.
And again.
I don’t know if I’m screaming or singing anymore.
My voice fades into the music,
crashes into the wind,
gets shredded by my own sobs.
I don’t know where I’m going. I just drive.
Mile after mile,
song after song,
I scream myself hoarse
until the city shrinks in the rearview.
Until traffic fades,
the world’s behind me,
and music’s running through my veins.
It’s still not enough,
so I keep going.
Until—
Water.
Gravel crunches under the tires when I pull over.
I kill the engine, and the music dies.
The silence rushes in so fast
it makes my ears ring.
I close my eyes, feel the quiet wrap around me like something maternal, which is hilarious, because nothing maternal has touched me in over a decade.
I step out,
and the cold air slaps the salt from my cheeks,
reminding me I’m still wearing this skin.
I walk until I’m toes-to-the-edge,
staring into water the color of ink.
My reflection looks like she gave up somewhere along the way.
Mascara’s burning my eyes.
My lips are cracked and swollen.
I look used.
I feel empty.
I drop to the ground,
pull my knees to my chest,
arms wrapping around them,
trying to hold myself in.
There’s no one here. Not even a bird.
The sun—high and arrogant—blinds me,
as if it’s forcing its way in,
stomping its light inside me
through the windows of my eyes.
And then I rip open my bag,
hands shaking, breath shaking.
Notepad. Pen.
I write, fast, messy,
words bleeding through my fingertips.
I don’t hesitate. I don’t edit.
I let words fall out of me.
No filter. Just raw nerve on the page.
Bars spill out, confessions I don’t mean to say.
Lines crash down one after the other,
faster than my tears,
louder than my heartbeat,
sharper than my guilt.
Every syllable punches.
Every verse pulses.
It’s heartbreak. It’s honesty.
It’s powerless rage shoved into rhyme.
Truth wrapped in rhythm.
By the time I stop,
the page’s been mauled by emotion.
Ink smudged. Corners bent. A violent thing.
Ugly and perfect.
I stare at it, my chest tight.
It’s real.
And only one person should read it.
My thumb finds Andrew’s name.
I type it all in, then read
and reread
and stare.
Stupid blue send bubble stares back.
I go back and forth.
Don’t do it.
He’s not going to answer.
You’ll regret it.
I should let him forget me.
Yeah, I shouldn’t send it.
I should keep this to myself.
I should—
I should—
I hit send.
And freeze.
Fuck, Allison.
What the hell did you do?
But then—
Relief.
Everything leaves me.
The noise fades.
The weight floats away.
It feels like the high
after hitting a perfect crescendo,
the final note of a symphony,
the last riff of a guitar solo,
the hum of an amp after the last strum,
the lights dimming at the end of a concert.
Whatever happens next, it doesn’t matter.
Because at least
someone will read these words
and know—
for once—
they’re mine.
Today 1:21 PM
Shoulda spit the details / pre the derail /
now I’m textin’ this / confessin
My heart bails on fairy tales /
mind all hails to one obsession
I inhale the ‘me n’ you’ /
exhale transgression while undressin’
I break hearts with no intention /
just a side effect of methods
Reign-man wired me / to never need /
connection or affection
Maybe Crazy’s rainin’ / Baby /
detachin’ after satisfaction
Years of people pleasin’ / loved ones leavin’ /
‘til I’m seizin’ what I need
They all leave me / on cold streets an’ /
now I’m seekin’ selfishly
Some believin’ / this heart’s less when /
all this heart needs more mercy
Greed’s the hard part / but it’s smart art /
bein’ both the lock and key
Eyes strip me slow n’ / fuck me blind /
excuse but never leave me
So I refuse / n’ use / n’ take /
before they / break / abuse n’ bruise me
Don’t confuse / I choose this life / Drew /
how am I to explain
Contracts became my main domain /
to com n’ sustain
May think / chains mean / forsake me /
but just clever / with the pain
Got sunshine in my name / lover like an
addict on cocaine
It’s pleasure / in my / pockets /
pouring / rain / in my veins
La-petite-mort seconds / then leftover /
to taste what remains
I’m undyin’ alone / in this grave /
Cryin’ / Steven Tyler style
but you untucked / true smiles /
while lyin’ / even with denial
n’ Drew / you-you screwed me up /
scared me since Type, so
make me stutter / switch the flo up /
rhyme n’ rewrite every line, tho
Don’t love the way they want me / Angel /
love the single sacred high
My heaven’s built on safety /
strangled / standards / summit skies
But with you / I feel different /
I don’t wanna say goodbye
But with you / I feel different /
tho you left n’ drew the line
And with you / I feel different /
I’ll repeat it every time
Crazy / but in that / other life / please /
save a spot for you and I