The Past
Hunter age sixteen
Isabel age fifteen
She’s at my damn locker again. It baffles me that she constantly waits on me as if I would change my mind, as if I could change my mind. I undo the lock and take out my English text book, ignoring her completely.
I slam my locker shut and before I walk off, she grabs my upper arm, her small fingers burning into my skin. “I missed you last week and the week before that and the night before that.”
My heart is about to burst in my chest. I shake her off, glaring down at her with all the hatred I can muster—the hatred for my mother, the hatred because of this situation that I don’t want to be in.
When she begins to cry I whisper through gritted teeth, “Don’t you fucking dare. You’re going to make a scene and, if you do, swear to God, Isabel, you’re going to regret it.”
She nods stiffly, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her blue sweater. She grabs the back of my shirt with tightly clenched fingers when I try to move past her. The cold breeze blows over my exposed skin as the fabric stretches out. I break out in goose bumps there. My heart thuds heavily. The sound of an erratic pulse reverberates throughout my body. My mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton when I try to speak.
I keep my back facing her; it’s the only way I can keep sane. “Let me go, Isabel.”I hate saying that when I really want her to hold on tighter.
Students give us odd glances as they pass through the halls. Neither one of us moves until the late ball rings, once the corridors are clear, I drag Isabel by the elbow into the girls’ bathroom. I back her into the corner of the wall and glare down fiercely at her. I feel like an enraged bull about to trample a helpless bunny.
She stares down at her shoes for a moment, then finds some kind of resolve and slowly meets my glare. Her eyes expand and her lips part, a slight pink tenting her paled cheeks. My heart cracks and then shatters into a billion tiny pieces that are too sharp to ever be touched again.
I close my eyes and press my forehead to hers. When she looks at me like that, I feel a strange sort of warmth take root inside of me. That warmth she blesses me with is weird and significant. I have never felt or knew it existed before her.
Her fingers reach out and trace my eyebrows, nose, and lips. Such curious fingers she has. They never fail to leave my skin tingly. I open my eyes and stare into the dilated pupils of hers. Never in my life have I wanted to be more selfish. If I could, I would wrap my heart snugly around Isabel and make her a part of me. We would be two hearts beating as one. At this age, I know that Isabel is the love of my life; I know that there will never be another Isabel. At this age, I know that Isabel is meant for me and I was made for her. I was put on this earth to love and protect her.
She is my purpose.
She is my world.
She is why I was created.
When she reaches up to play with the hair at the nape of my neck, the sleeves of her sweater rise, exposing red tally mark scars on both wrists. I take her wrists in my hands, gingerly running the pads of my thumbs against the angry scarlet welts there. She shivers violently and tries to pull away but I keep her anchored to me.
I know she does this because of me. I am the reason for her despair. I hate this. It was never meant to be this way. Isabel whimpers. It’s a strange sound; one of pleasure, distress, and pain. I look at her face, which is barely contained in the throes of anguish and gratification.
She likes this?
Testing this theory, I press my thumb nails into her scars. Her breath hitches, coming out faster. Holding her gaze, I add more pressure. Her eyes expand and her breathing turns into shallow little gasps, her cheeks flushing. Incredible warmth settles in the pit of my stomach, spreading all over. My entire body is alert and alive. Tenderly, I stroke her inflamed scars to soothe her, then she trembles and does an odd twitching movement, her muscles jumping and jerking. Her knees give way and I hold her wrists tight as I watch her knees bend.
Did she just come?
Isabel is kneeling in front of me, panting for breath she can’t seem to catch. I feel myself get hard. Her glossy eyes are wide and her face is a deep shade of red. Her body can’t stop shaking. Looking down at her with her wounded wrists in my hands, I come to the realization that I enjoy hurting Isabel, maybe even more than she enjoys getting hurt by me.
What the hell does that mean?
Will I always relish in hurting girls?
Or do I only take pleasure in hurting Isabel?
I love her.
I shouldn’t want to hurt her, but I do.
I do really badly.
I’m ill that’s the only explanation there is.
Something is wrong with me.
Frustrated that my father and mother’s twisted and sadistic ways rubbed off on me, I drop her wrists and take a step back to look at the heap of beautiful, quivering flesh sprawled on the tiled floor. Staring at Isabel gasping for breath, I feel like an abusive asshole.
Yeah, I have to end this because I’m going to take too much pleasure in breaking her. Collecting my cool, I walk back up to her with a false superior sense of myself. “This ends now. You don’t have any communication with me. At all.” When I take a step back, she reaches out and desperately grasps my boots, her fingers clenching tightly. My heart does a heavy and painful squeeze.
God damn it.
She’s making this more difficult than it needs to be.
Gripping a handful of black silk, I cruelly grab the back of her head and jerk it up to face me. “Disobey me and I’ll fucking destroy you.” Without another word I storm out the bathroom before I break down in front of the one person who ever gave a shit.