It’s late. Too late. There was no dinner tonight, and now he’s MIA. Maybe he has abandoned you again. Maybe he decided it would be good to leave you on your own for a while. Remind you that he’s the one who has kept you alive all these years. That without him, you would die. Starve.
Then, the doorknob turns. Here he is. The man who never forgets you.
He uncuffs you. His shoes come off first, then his pants, his sweater, his undershirt. You allow your mind to escape your body. Your brain plays memories of a long-ago train ride, rows and rows of trees flashing against the darkening sky, fading sunlight poking through the branches.
Reality snaps back into place. You are in the room, on the hardwood floor, underneath his body. His left shoulder shifts against your chin, and you see: four red streaks etched into his skin. Half-moons with a scarlet trail. You know these markings. From digging into your own palms, from carving shapes into the pale skin of your legs, the pain temporarily relieving you of something. These are the marks you get when someone digs their nails into the softest parts of you.
It’s the first time you’ve seen these on him. Even after a trip, even after You know. He’s always returned scratch-free.
After, when he’s pulling his pants back up, you study him. He’s in no rush to leave. There is an ease about him, a buoyancy. He’s in a good mood.
“So,” you whisper. “It’s later than usual, no?”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Why? Got somewhere you need to go?”
You force yourself to chuckle. “No. I was just wondering, you know. Where have you been?”
He tilts his head to the side. “Missed me?”
He doesn’t wait for your answer, slips his undershirt back on. “Just running some errands,” he says, and rubs his nose. “If you must know.”
He’s lying—of course he’s lying—but you can read him. There is no You know. No sparkle in his eyes, no electricity coursing through his body.
Whoever scratched his back, you have to believe she is okay. You have to believe she is still alive.
For a second, you are relieved. Then, your throat closes again. If he has her, does he need you? Or is he just playing with his food?
The thought stays with you after he leaves. Scratching a man’s back, clinging to his flesh, carving yourself into him, is something you do only in a set of specific circumstances.
You don’t like it. You don’t like it at all.
You don’t like it for her, and you don’t like it for you.
There is a stranger outside. A stranger in danger.
And she could be the end of you, too.
Rule number three of staying alive outside the shed: If you have to be in his world, then you must be special. You must be the only one of you.