VILLAINS COME IN all shapes and forms. I’m sure no one would have suspected my mother, her gingerbread apron tied perfectly over pressed pants and paired with a spotless smile. Or me, the barely-looks-eighteen beauty in a pink cami and white panties, kneeling on my bed and smiling into my webcam.
I know better. Regardless of the exterior smile, regardless of how sweet, or handsome, or friendly someone may look, I should never trust them. I should never let them get close enough to hurt me. Even Jeremy. In some ways, especially Jeremy.
I’ve been turning it over ever since my conversation with Derek. Debated the point of undertaking an unwinnable journey. My side of our relationship has become, in these deliberations, a struggle to keep him emotionally at bay. I have physically let him in, let him run those strong fingers over every inch of my body, my skin thirsty for the touch, my mouth eager for the contact. But I won’t let him touch my heart. It isn’t fair to let him love me, not when he doesn’t really know what it is he is loving. He doesn’t know what he holds in his hand, who he kisses over takeout. He thinks he knows, he thinks he is aware of my dark desires to hurt and thinks that that makes him educated, protected. But when he doesn’t know what I’ve done with that need, what lives I have taken… can his love be true without that information?
Our relationship started out so guarded, my fear of my actions setting so many parameters and restrictions on our time that we barely discussed anything other than the basics. And as time has gone on I have carefully trained him to avoid certain subjects. My work is discussed freely. But any discussion of death is avoided. He has tried to ask about the past, about where I went that night when I borrowed his truck a couple of months ago. But I have stayed silent and he, respectful Jeremy, hasn’t pushed the issue.
A part of me thinks that I should tell him. Should give him some idea of what lies beneath my skin. He might take my fears more seriously if he knew. Might do more to ensure that I am returned to my apartment at night. Might understand why I insist we avoid steak knives, glass bottles, or anything with a point sharp enough to kill. So I consider, at weak moments, telling him things. Sharing my past—at least some of it—my moral compass wavering over exclusion points and disclosure limits. Trust, a loosening of the purse strings that contain my secrets, might be necessary for a viable relationship. And maybe, after he knows what I am capable of, he won’t run. He’ll stay.
Maybe. Or maybe, for the first time in this crazy courtship that we call a relationship, he’ll show some common sense and run the hell away.
I consider the possibilities, turn over the words I’d use to confess, but my mouth has stayed quiet. I can always tell him. But I can’t take back the truth once it is spoken. And honestly? I don’t know how my heart would react if he left.
Yes, my silence is selfish. Admitting the fact does little to convince my mouth to speak. Selfishness is the least of my problems.