Natalya #3
So sharply it steals a sound from me, a broken noise that vibrates straight into his mouth. Whatever restraint he had fractures at that. He presses into me harder, kissing me like he’s trying to close a distance that doesn’t exist anymore.
We stagger together, nearly losing balance, but he holds me in and steps forward, like proximity alone could solve this desire.
The kiss turns messy in gasps, breaths, and need tangling without release. He pushes us back until my hips hit the wooden foot of the bed, hard enough to jar me, and we’re just about to trip over but he restores the balance.
And even though my eyes are closed, the surroundings suddenly rapidly change.
It’s the staff house couch. The old one.
I’m thirteen.
My hands are cold and I don’t know where to put them. I feel that panic so clearly—the unbearable awareness of my own body, of his proximity, of the fact that something is about to happen and there’s no manual for it.
He’s sitting in front of me, nervously raking through his hair.
I lean in to kiss him, to finally have my first kiss, but the space in front of me is empty. He’s gone.
And then—
The smell changes. It creeps in slowly, at first so faint I almost miss it.
Smoke.
Not cigarette smoke or oil. Something thicker, like something acrid that’s burning wrong. It scratches at the back of my throat and suddenly the air feels too dense to breathe.
Then I hear it, a sharp snapping sound, like wood splitting under heat.
No no no.
The room blurs, the couch dissolves, the walls stretch and darken and the warmth that was wrapped around me turns suffocating as my lungs seize.
The walls suddenly ignite into a fire.
The smoke is unbearable. I can’t breathe.
“I’m sorry,” he says, but it’s muffled under the wood cracking.
I open my eyes and it doesn’t help. The fire is so bright and hot I have to close them again. I smack my hands against the body that is pulling me under. I push him away, inhaling some air but I cough, the smoke is still clinging to my lungs. I cough over and over.
It took him away.
He’s dead.
The thought repeats, stacking on top of itself, louder each time, until it’s all I can hear.
My knees give up.
I don’t even realize I’m sinking until his arms catch me.
“I’m sorry,” he keeps repeating it, the words spilling over each other. “I’m so sorry—I should’ve—please—please don’t leave me again—”
I clutch at his shirt like it’s the only solid thing left in the world, until my mind screams that it’s a lie, so I push him away more.
But he comes back, so I shove him away with all the force I have, failing over and over and over.
“You’re dead,” I sob. “You died. You’re gone.”
The words tear out of me like saying them enough times will finally make them stick. Like repetition could make them true enough to hurt less.
Why did I do this? Why do I keep bringing him back?
He always evaporates. Always. It never ends differently. It always hurts exactly the same as the first time. No tolerance built, no scar tissue thick enough to blunt it.
Why do I keep doing it?
“I’m not. Please don’t leave me,” he begs.
He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.
You fucking psycho, he’s dead.
“I’m so stupid,” I whisper, then louder, frantic. “I’m so stupid, I’m so stupid, I’m so fucking insane.”
The words tumble, slipping out of order as I clutch at my hair, fingers digging into my scalp like I could physically grab the memory, tear it out and rip him loose.
I need to extract him. Remove him like a tumor I never consented to growing.
“No,” he keeps pleading. “Baby, no. I’m here.”
His forehead presses to mine and it makes me sick because I can feel it. I can feel the heat. His voice is wrecked, splintering, breaking apart as it pushes through his throat.
“Please let me in. Please take me with you—just don’t shut me out—” His hands tremble against my back, holding me together while I’m falling apart.
“No, no, no, no, no,” I keep telling him, but he won’t listen.
He’s still there. Still here. Torturing me with the shape of him, with the sound of him, with the way he knows exactly how to exist inside me.
“I’m here,” he keeps repeating, his voice hoarse, desperate. “Please—please come back to me.”
Why can’t I just forget? Why does it never work? Why is he coming back to torture me?
“Get out—” I choke, slamming my palms over my ears like that might block him out, like sound is the problem.
But I can still feel him. He’s shaking, still there, sobbing into my skin.
“Get the fuck out!” I scream, folding in on myself, spine curving, shoulders collapsing inward like I’m trying to disappear into my own ribcage. “Get away from me!”
He won’t listen.
I suck in a sharp breath and clamp my hands tighter over my ears, pressing until it hurts, until pressure blooms and throbs and pulses behind my eyes.
And then I scream.
I scream because if my head hurts badly enough, it won’t be able to hold onto him. And if I scream loud enough, my head will fracture into noise.
After a long moment, he lets go of me and all I can feel is the dull pain in my head.