part0077

My stepfather. The man that married my mom when I was eleven. He’s still married to her, because I never told a soul about those late nights. He’d come into my room and caress my body as I sighed. It felt good. It was what I needed, because I felt dead .

It all began when I was sixteen. Before that, I thought he hated me. He could find something wrong in everything – didn’t matter what it was. He’d go on about having to provide for a child that wasn’t his while mom would pour another glass of red wine at the table. He made me stand there… to listen to the fight… to listen to the scrutiny. I was a failure, after all. At least, until he found something that I was good at.

We had a large home in the suburbs, and the cemetery was right over the fence. I used to jump on the trampoline, and my eyes would fixate on another grave each time I ascended towards the sky. Sometimes it was raining, and sometimes the sky was blue. Sometimes the sun was going up, or it was coming down. Yet, one thing was for certain: the dead souls that I considered neighbors always stayed . Every now and then, I’d see teenagers stumbling between the graves late at night, and I’d watch them screw between the cracks in the fence.

That was the first time Liam touched me. He was drunk, the whiskey smell heavy on his tongue. That’s how I knew that he was behind me, and I gasped as I quickly turned to face him. “Liam,” I whispered, expecting to see fury in his dark eyes, but that isn’t what I saw. I saw something that I couldn’t explain, but it made my stomach tingle and my knees go weak. He leaned down, peering out between the crack in the fence, sighing as he reached over and pulled me in front of him. I felt something hard against my backside, and I swallowed.

His large hands found the tops of my thighs, and I whimpered when he pulled my ass to his crotch, making the bulge in his pants more prevalent. I was wearing my bathing suit, just having come out of the pool, so there was little to protect my bare skin from his touch. I felt guilt right up until I looked across the backyard and into the kitchen window. There she stood, wine glass in hand, bleary eyes fixated on Liam and me. She did nothing when he turned me in his arms and pressed his lips to mine. She did nothing when he reached down between my thighs and stuck a finger inside of me. She did nothing when he ripped off my bathing suit, threw me onto the ground, and shoved into me while he clamped a hand over my mouth.

I didn’t fight him, and I didn’t attempt to scream. Instead, I held him close to me as I buried my face into his neck – finding the comfort that I needed from my mother in his touch. Thus, my unhealthy sexual appetite was born, and he has remained the anchor holding my desires.

As for my mother… she became somebody that I hated that day.

“You’re so beautiful, Kitten.” He murmurs against my flesh as his large fingers trail over my bony side. I smile slightly, staring into those dark eyes that once were so mean. He’s the only one that sleeps with me, because in a warped way, he makes me feel safe. His words invoke a response, and his touch provides memories. I don’t call him often. I call him when I need him.

He rolls onto his back, the low light reflecting off his grey hair as he grips my waist and lifts me on top of him. He immediately enters me, and I roll my hips, pulling him in deep as his groin rubs against my clit. Everything wrong about this is what gets me off, and the feeling is always the same afterwards.

“Come. Please, I need your come,” I whimper, and he smiles as he bucks beneath me, his fingers digging into my hips.

He stills, and I feel him fill me. I don’t want it to stop, but it must, for now, until he can give me more.

Lying my head on his chest, I keep him inside of me as he runs his finger over my hair. “How’s mom?” I ask, the bitterness unapologetically dripping off my tongue. My words result in his hand landing across my ass.

“Don’t .” He warns, grasping my burning ass cheek harshly before rubbing it in soft, circular motions. I feel him growing inside of me. He loves punishing me. And perhaps I love it, too.

“Daddy,” I whisper, and he tenses below me.

I roll my hips as I sit up and place my palms over his hairy chest. “Please give me more.”

He moans and lifts his hips as I fuck him. He says that he doesn’t like it when I call him that, but I know that he does. He used to tell me to, and I guess he stopped due to guilt. It was the reality of the situation that threatened to send him over. He was fucking the girl that he helped raised, shitty job or not. He was fucking the girl that he watched grow . Now, he takes care of that girl in more ways than one, disgusting as it may be.

He finishes once more, and I frown when he gets up and pulls his slacks over his hips. “Where are you going?” I ask, and he looks at me from over his shoulder.

“Got to get back home, Kitten. Can’t stay tonight.

Tears burn my eyes as my lips part. I was hoping to keep warm tonight, instead of dealing with night sweats and chills. I’m pretty sure he’s the reason for them, and I don’t know why I keep doing this to myself. I wonder if mom knows that he comes to see me. Of course, she does, you idiot.

“I will have your rent money in your bank come the 1st . Please remember to pay, Emmy. Also, I’ll have the car payment taken care of.”

He sits on the edge of the bed as he laces his dress shoes, and I find myself wanting to pound him on the back. He never leaves like this. It’s me. It must be me. What did I do? Why is he angry with me?

I hide the tears behind my hair as I turn my face, ashamed that I’m acting this way at all. Funny thing, when you think that someone cares, but you know they really don’t. If he did, he would’ve never touched me in the first place. Because, I was already bound to be broken – why break me more? Now, I feed off him like a succubus, and I wish that I could somehow turn it off. Why does it feed me, this nastiness? It’s the only thing that speaks to my soul because it’s dirty, wicked, and wrong. I crave the unconventional like an addict craves a fix.

Yet they wonder why I hide away. Like Liam, they all act the same. They want to take care of me, fuck me, then leave me. My wellbeing only matters when they’re here, with me. Once they walk out of that door, I’m fucked, and I know that I’ll be staring at the wall until I will my fingers to move. The guitar, the words, the world inside my head. It escapes in the lyrics, and for a short time, I can breathe.

This world weighs on me. I see the faces, but I can’t hear anything when the mouths move. I’m too lost in my own head to understand their meek trivialities. Maybe I should care more, but I was never meant to get caught up in the mundane. My mind existed in a broader place. Enough to where I began hating people, because humanity was petty. So many people were like the next, and the more that I dug, the more disappointed I became. Cynicism became my middle name, and anarchy, my first. I stopped caring, because there wasn’t a point anymore. Not after the hurt and the cold shoulders. I learned long ago that I only had myself, yet Liam was always a crutch, and Nathan, my savior. He kept me away from the dark corners of my mind with laughter and love, while Liam kept pulling me back.

I turn quietly on the bed, and lie, wrapped in the sin-soiled sheets. I always trust him to come back. I know he will. That’s without question, but the real dilemma plaguing my mind is why I called him to begin with, and the reality is clear as day. I’m fucked up, and I’ve been this way for a while. The remorse isn’t long lasting, but the shame never goes away. I feel him slither across my skin when I’m showering alone. I wake up and panic when I remember those late nights, when he’d sneak into my room. His words sunk into my head:

I want to cry as I listen to him rustling beside me on the bed, but I don’t. Instead, I purse my lips and close my eyes, acting like a child, as I often do with Liam. Reverting to the teen that liked his touch a little too much.

I wanted to shake mom. I wanted to scream in her face and send specks of spit across her cheeks. WHY? Why, mom? But, I never did. Instead, I got angry. After I got angry, I went numb, and that’s where I’ve stayed. Liam revives something in me, and even if it’s nothing other than disgust, it’s something that I can feel.

“Yeah,” I say, offering a slight nod. “Busy tonight?”

“Yeah, packed house tonight, Twiggy.”

I smile at his mention of the nickname he lovingly gave me years ago when I stumbled into this place with a battered guitar and holes in my boots. Nobody expected the skinny girl to sing, but she did, and that’s when she found home .

Ole Virgie is a knowing man. He always manages to be funny with a straight face, and when I first met him, I wasn’t sure if I should laugh at his dry humor. But, eventually, I began to see that little gleam in his eye when I cracked a smile. Still haven’t seen him smile, though.

The smoke is heavy in the bar, and the bass makes my body vibrate. Everyone here is always so mellow. Mostly regulars, and some newcomers that stagger in after a drunken night. The walls are cedar, and neon signs hang alongside old pictures of when the bar was founded. Sticky notes litter the walls with words of wisdom, and signed guitars hang everywhere in between. It’s my home away from home, and it makes me hate people a little less.

Making my way through the crowd, I hug the regulars who call me by the same name. Twiggy, Twigs, or Twig. It’s what I’m known by here, and I don’t necessarily hate it. When somebody gives you a name like that, you know it’s special. You know it’s out of love.

My ears perk up when I hear a familiar song begin to play. The voice, so familiar. He sounds just like him, and he’s stealing my set. Shoving past the crowd, I eventually make it to the front of the crowd, my guitar hanging in its case from my shoulder. I stand, dumbfounded, as I look up at this fucking enigma. He drips mystery, and his eyes are closed as the words to “Oh Me” by Nirvana roll off his tongue.

God fucking dammit . That dark, long hair, and stubbly cheeks. He’s rough, yet beautiful, but not in the conventional way. He’s like a ship that sunk, its treasures hidden in cabinets and chests. I automatically want to know more. It’s his passion, alone. Take looks out of the equation, and you’re left with a vibrant ball of yellow fire. His energy speaks volumes. I feel something watching him, and it’s deep in my gut. It feels like fire, his presence. Anyone else that plays here is usually shit. But, this guy…

My eyes flutter shut as his voice wraps me in an embrace, and I find myself swaying from side to side, but then, a hand grasps my shoulder before the music suddenly stops.

“Twigs? You’re up next.”

The familiar voice snaps me out of my trance, and my eyes snap open to see Virgie’s wrinkled face and drooping eyes. My gaze shifts towards the stage, and I frown when I see that the handsome musician is gone.

“S-sorry,” I stutter, making my way towards the steps of the stage. I opt for a couple of Mazzy Star songs, my eyes scanning the sea of people for the man, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Once I’m finished with “Be my Angel,” I clear my throat as I get ready to play one of my original songs. It isn’t about love, and it isn’t about life. It’s about being, nothing more.

And it’s the saddest song I’ve ever written.

I close my eyes for the entire song, allowing my vulnerabilities to flow through to the small crowd, the strums of my guitar reverberating off the cedar walls, hoping that those listening can interpret my soul however they see fit. I hold in the tears, allowing the liquid emotion to become something powerful… it still isn’t something that you can touch, but you can feel it. I tell tales with my art, as do most poets and musicians, and storytelling isn’t easy for me without a guitar.

The music that accompanies the words is the perfect mask to hide behind. Every lie I’ve ever told, and every love I’ve ever lost come through when I sit down with a pen and pad. If someone truly wanted to understand, all they would need to do is listen.

Sometimes, you need some type of monumental shift. Then, everything changes. The chapter ends, and you turn the page. I feel like I’ve been waiting for the next chapter of my life for eternity. My mind battles with my heart, but of course, my mind never wins. I want to believe in something without so much of a hello, but the enigma is still nowhere to be seen when I open my eyes.

Part of the crowd claps, the regulars much louder than the vagabonds that have somehow stumbled across this place. Still, no handsome singer, though, and I feel my heart drop.

I just want somebody – anybody to understand my ways, and my life. My hopes, and my dreams. My desires, and the wickedness that lies subtly beneath the surface of my bony body.

For some reason, I saw hope when I saw him standing up there, but like everyone else, he’s gone – practically an apparition as the drunkards drown in my sorrows.