Running in circles

You don’t do things; things happen to you. The alarm on your phone wakes you up. Mechanical arousal puts your fingers on your sex and produces a dull orgasm. Pressure within demands you relieve it, and emptiness inside demands you fill it. Some remote sense of obligation dresses you, grooms you, and sets you out the door to school.

You’re not really aware of what’s going on around you. There aren’t any thoughts occupying your mind, no emotions roiling your heart. The small, compressed version of yourself simply doesn’t have room for any of that. You just exist, you just are, less than what you were, and what little there is losing touch with what you want, what you care for, what you someday hope to become. And slowly, steadily, the smallness that is you fills, drip by drip, with something else, something you’ve forgotten. Something that hasn’t forgotten you.

In school now. In class. Sitting at your desk, the teacher is talking, the words entering your ears and your brain processing what it needs to. Pencil moves over paper, fill out the sheet, you understand the material, chemical reactions and valence electrons. Simple. Pointless. Flowing through you and leaving nothing behind.

Then, slowly, your awareness expands, just a little. Something isn’t right. Beside you, seated at another desk, your friend. His name is Jack. Something is wrong with Jack. You can tell. The smallness of you grows, just a tiny bit, to include the knowledge of your friend, the idea of his wellbeing as something you care about. Your mouth opens and words come out. “What’s up, Jack? Something eating you?” Your words sound muted, distant, like someone else is saying them from the other side of a mirror.

Jack fidgets in his chair, taking short, uneven breaths, pencil tapping an erratic rhythm against his worksheet. “Nah, I’m… I mean… fuck. Fuck.” He tries to take a deep breath, hiccups through it, starts tapping his pencil harder. “It’s just… shit’s been… I haven’t been able to handle it. I mean, I’m okay, I guess… but Anne… they…” His voice peters out, and you see his eyes lose focus.

You lean over, trying not to be too obvious so you don’t draw your teacher’s attention. “Hey man, it’s okay, slow down. What’s up with Anne?” Your voice is starting to sound more like you, and your self grows a little more, in tiny fits and starts, encompassing Anne now, their relationship to Jack, where they fit into your social circle, the things you like to do together, the way they’ve been there for you when you were low. I can be there for them. That’s something I am, a friend, a confidante.

Jack’s breathing slows, just a tick. “They’ve been… the shit at the protest hit them hard. Real hard. I think they blame themself. And like… I’ve been trying to be there… help them get through it… but… it’s hit me hard, too. I’m still scared thinking about it. Whenever I try to talk to Anne about it I just, like, shut down, which makes them worse, which makes me worse, and everything, just, fuck!”

You risk putting your hand on Jack’s arm, and you immediately sense his tension start to drain into your touch. “Hey man, it’s okay to feel fucked up. I wasn’t even there and it’s got me fucked up.” Where are these words coming from? It doesn’t feel like you’re choosing them, it feels like they’re choosing you, like your care for your friend is forcing you to grow enough to find the words he needs to hear. “You don’t have to fix Anne. Hell, you don’t even gotta fix yourself. Shit sucks sometimes. But we got each other, and we’re gonna get through this. And next time, we’re gonna fuckin kick their asses. Alright?”

Jack’s face has opened up, and he looks up at you, a smile on his lips. “Alright, RC. Thanks. Thanks for believing in me. In us.”

“Anytime, bud. Now let’s knock out this worksheet. You get the part about isotopes yet?” As the two of you settle into your schoolwork, a small wave of relief washes over you. It still feels like your being is compressed, but something has unbounded you now, and that little ball of who you are is slowly growing, returning to its true form, freed from its confines by this small connection with your friend.

And in your relief, you’re able to ignore that other, that something, that shadow from before that’s still leaking in.

Making your way into second period, you see Drew already seated, an empty desk next to him, and a warm tingling in your body draws you closer, makes you sit down, puts a smile on your face pointed his way. He looks up at you, returns the smile, and leans over. “So, can I take yours?”

You blink, still not quite yourself, still feeling reduced, unsure how to take his unexpected question. “Take… what?” Fuck! Come on, RC! He’s flirting with you, do something!

He clears his throat. “You said I’d have to take a number. So, can I take yours? Just in case I wanna check in, see how your new guy is treating you.”

Whoa. Wow. Whoa wow whoa Drew just asked for my number. I can handle this. That’s something I am, a player, a lover, someone people desire. “Hmm, I dunno, Drew. My new guy can be kinda private.” Good, yes, let’s not talk about… about the other guy. This is about me and Drew.

Drew leans in, determined. “Well we can talk about other stuff. We can talk about you. I’ve been sitting next to you all this time, but I still don’t know you that well.”

Your heart is racing, mind filling with possibilities, Drew’s gorgeous face close enough to lean over and kiss. A wry grin graces your lips. “You sure you wanna know me that bad?”

You see that spark in Drew’s eyes. You’ve got him. He does want to know you that bad. Holy shit did I really just bag Drew? Before he can respond, your teacher coughs loudly and reminds the class to pay attention, as this will be on the test. You stay focused for the rest of the period, but you watch Drew out of the corner of your eye, and he can’t stop looking over at you, squirming in his seat. You’ve never seen him lose his cool like that. A warm sense of triumph fills you, and just before class ends you tear a scrap of paper from your notebook, scribble your number on it, and smoothly slide it onto his desk as you get up to leave.

Drew looks up at you in surprise, and before he can say anything you give him a little wink and tell him “Try not to fumble this, kay?”

You’re still buzzing as you get to third period, feeling ready to take on anything else the day has to throw at you, that small compressed feeling nearly forgotten. Your Creative Writing teacher has an interesting assignment for the day: write a short story about a character whose motivation is clear to the reader, but not to themselves. OK, sheesh, kinda heavy for a Wednesday morning, but I can do this. I can do anything.

Doodling a few ideas down, you get the ball rolling describing a man nearing middle age, a guy who can’t figure out why he wants what he wants, why he does what he does, but is too stuck in his routines to question anything. This is one of your favorite parts of the writing process: getting into the head of someone unlike yourself. As you get into it, establishing a central conflict and a few supporting characters, you feel that flow state coming on. You’re really getting some momentum, and your creative mind taps into that fundamental source where all art comes from, and you let it wash over you, finding what about yourself and this fictional man is shared in common, how does one feel when they have something they aren’t aware of calling the shots, making the moves, becoming more real day by day until you no longer even know who you are, this other thing is you now and you don’t exist just a shell a forgotten memory a—

Your eyes go wide, your breath stops, your heart hammers. Something inside you, snapping into focus, that creative flow allowing this Other within you to come to the surface. It isn’t a feeling, it isn’t a memory, it isn’t anything you can put a name to. All you know is you’ve spent your life running from it, hiding from it, trying to stop yourself from becoming it. It’s cold, numbing you, draining the light and color from your vision, swallowing up all the joy and excitement you’ve managed to scrape out of the day. You try to push back, try to stuff it back into whatever lost corner of your heart it came from, but now that you’re aware of it you can’t escape it. You know you’d do anything to escape it. Even that small compressed version of your being is better than… this.

Class finally ends, and you numbly turn in your half-finished assignment before trudging to the lunch room. This isn’t… this isn’t me. This doesn’t feel like me. This feels like… like something someone else tried to put on me. Make me into. Why? Why now? Where the fuck did this come from? I fucking cannot deal with this right now.

You avoid your friends and find a quiet corner to be alone. Feeling caught between trying to hide from this unnamable darkness and trying to figure out what exactly it is. A buried trauma? A denied desire? Some alter ego you’ve managed to ignore all these years? All you know is, the longer it sits with you the more it dominates your awareness. You can barely taste your food, the noise and commotion of the lunch room is muted, like you’re on a little island all by yourself.

Until suddenly your little island has an invader.

“You’ve been avoiding me, haven’t you?” That voice, that smell, that presence. Tony. Your ex. Probably the last person in the entire world you want to see right now. He sits down, right next to you, taking you in with his stormy blue eyes. “It certainly doesn’t feel nice to be avoided. Especially after everything—”

“Tony.” You put as much vitriol into your response as you can. “I told you never to talk to me again after last time.” It had taken everything you had to escape his control after your nightmare of a relationship, and he’d almost managed to suck you back in once. Never again.

He raises his hands defensively and puts a hurt look on his face. “Okay, okay, I get it. I promise I won’t bother you for too long.” He puts his hands on the table and leans in, too close, lowering his voice to just above a whisper. “I’m not here to talk about you, or me, or us, okay?”

You’re shaking. You hate how much of an effect he still has on you, and you put every ounce of that hatred into your voice. “Then get. The fuck. Away from me. Now.”

A little smile, far too familiar, curves the corner of his lips. “But there’s someone else I wanted to talk about. Someone I’m pretty sure you still care for.”

An image flashes into your mind. A dark haired boy with his arm around a blonde girl, walking away from you. No no fuck you leave her out of this leave her alone leave ME alone fuck you Tony. You don’t say anything, just glare at him.

That familiar smile grows. “You know you really fucked her up, right?”

You can feel your glare instantly collapse into shock, horror, agony. I… I fucked her up? But… but she… Memories of Emily, your former best friend, former lover, former everything, have been buried deep since your apocalyptic breakup over a year ago. Even thinking about recalling the details of who left who is too painful. “Tony…” you hate how much your voice is trembling. “What the fuck are you talking about?” No, no no no don’t let him in, don’t let him twist things, get away from him now!

His smile is lighting up his whole face, a cold, dark light. “Oh, she’s been telling me a lot. I’ve been helping her deal with things. Helping her get over just how much your betrayal hurt her. It’s really sad, you know? If I’d realized what a monster you were, I might’ve had second thoughts about getting together with you.”

The room feels like it’s spinning around you. You can feel yourself starting to hyperventilate. You knew this would happen. You knew that if you let Tony start to spin his web that you’d be caught in it, bound and controlled and your heart dancing to his every whim. Just like before. But worse than all that, the darkness inside you starts to feel… comfortable. It likes this. Wants this. Wants more. You feel words start to bubble up from somewhere deep inside. Apologies for what you are. **** pleas for him to forgive you, take you back, make it all better again. No god no I can’t not him I can’t be that can’t be his again go go go RC RUN!

You’re up from the table, unfinished food abandoned, Tony’s laughter following you out of the lunch room as you escape his irresistible pull. Walking down the hall in a daze, not even realizing how early you are to fourth period until you sit down at your desk and realize it’s just you and your History teacher in the room.

Mr. Peterson peers at you from his position seated behind his desk. “You surprise me, Miss Murray.”

Still too shook up from lunch to think of a proper response, you mumble “Guess I just wanted to get a head start.”

Your teacher raises an eyebrow. “Forgive me if I don’t take your words entirely at face value, Miss Murray.”

Taken aback, you stammer out “wh-what do you mean?”

Mr. Peterson steeples his fingers and leans forward. “I’ve been observing you quite closely over the course of the year, Miss Murray. Your actions, your choices, have revealed a rather complete, and disappointing, picture of your character.” He folds his hands together and leans back. “There is always the opportunity to make different choices, choose other paths, but as of now I simply do not see that within you.”

You let the darkness within answer for you. “Yeah… I guess I’m a lost cause, huh?”

There’s a little spark in his eyes, a hunger, but before he can give it voice other students start to file into the room, and he lets the issue rest. You can’t be sure, but he seems to ease up on you a bit today. Maybe he feels sorry for me.

Don’t kid yourself, RC. You don’t even deserve this asshole’s pity.

Fifth period French is like a fever dream. It’s conversation practice, you and a partner needing to make your way through a set of prompts to work on vocabulary and grammar. You usually do just fine with this stuff, you’re no fluent speaker but you can hold your own. Today, though, it’s like you’ve never learned a single word of the language. Your partner speaks, your ears hear, and the words fizzle into gibberish. You try to respond, generating a sentence in your head, but you can’t cross the barrier from one language to another. It’s as if there’s something inside blocking the flow, like a refraction in your mind turning meaning into meaninglessness. This is just what you are, RC. Incapable. Unknowing. Meaningless.

That dark shadow within feels so full inside you now, wearing you like a skinsuit. It’s almost comforting, you want to just let go and let it become you. It almost doesn’t register that you’ve made it to your final class now, sitting there as the drone of the English lecture buzzes past your head, and then something pulls at your awareness.

“Psst, hey! RC!” It’s George, leaning over to get your attention.

You look up at him. What could he possibly want from me? I broke my promise to him, I don’t deserve to be his friend. I betrayed him, just like I betrayed Emily. All I ever do is hurt people. “Sup, Georgie?”

He has that familiar gleam in his eye. “I got a new idea for an RPG. Wanna do a character quiz real quick?”

You blink at him, and something shifts inside you. That shadow starts to retreat, to shrink, the sheer sincerity in your friend’s voice chasing it away. Yeah, I can do a character quiz instead of paying attention in class. That’s something I am, a buddy, a pal, someone to hang out and relax with when responsibility is a drag. “Sure thing, Georgerino. What’s this cool new idea?”

His smile is wider than usual. Looks like he missed this, too. “Well, I decided to go a little more down to earth this time. It’s about a group of friends in high school. You need to decide—”

“Mister Ortega!” Your English teacher’s exasperated voice jerks both of you to attention. “Would you please grant me and the rest of the class just a modicum of respect.”

George looks properly abashed, but shoots you a wink. “Sorry, Mrs. Beachum.”

You actually pay attention after that, mostly. As you scribble down notes, part of your mind is turned inward, following the path of the retreating darkness. I don’t want that. I don’t want to be that. I can be so much more, I can be someone else, I can be a positive in other people’s lives, I can do what I want to do and I don’t have to let some bullshit… whatever it is call the shots. Feeling lighter and lighter every moment, you feel a growing sense of gratitude to your friend seated next to you. Even after letting him down, he still reached out to me, still managed to pop the bubble I was trapped in. He must really care about me. That’s something I am, someone worth caring about.

As you all get up to leave after the final bell rings, George gives you a little nudge with his elbow. “We’ll do the quiz tomorrow, ok? Just think about what kind of person you want to be.”

You give him a great big smile and an even bigger hug, earning a look of surprise and delight. “You got it, buddy. See ya tomorrow.”

Walking home, you reflect back on the rollercoaster of a day you just lived through. That strange feeling of being a small and reduced version of yourself feels like a fading dream, and the nightmare of being filled up by that darkness inside is still lingering, but you know you can beat it. You don’t have to face these things alone. The sun is breaking through the clouds overhead, and a spring enters your step as the warm light covers you.

Mind turning to what awaits you at home, you feel just a tinge of uncertainty. I wonder if David’s still feeling fucked up about yesterday? The warmth of the sunlight is now matched by a growing warmth within. Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t, either way I think a warm hello from his little cocksucker will help him feel better. Your mouth waters at the thought. With all the bullshit going on at school and in your own heart, the idea of being able to settle into the role of your stepdad’s good girl is immensely comforting. Thank you for putting me in my place, David.

That comfort vanishes when you come within sight of your driveway to see your mom’s car haphazardly parked across it. Well well, look who decided to come home. Fuck. Maybe I’ll be lucky and she’ll be passed out already. As you approach the front door, you can hear raised voices coming from inside, and you hesitate. So much for that. Whatever, it’s my house too. I’ll just hole up in my room and let them sort it out.

You open the door, part of your awareness noticing the pile of mail has already been thrown to the side, and then you see that whatever argument they were having stopped the moment you turned the doorknob, both your parents standing in the front hallway, breathing heavily. David’s face is dark and tight, while your mom has a look in her eyes you’ve only seen a few times before. Bad times.

“Well well well…” she slurs her words and sways on her feet. “If it isn’t my fuckin daughter. How are you, schweetheart?”

David’s voice is low and strained. “Rachel, leave her out of this.”

“Leave her OUT of this?” She puts a hand on the wall to stop her swaying. “But THIS is ABOUT her! Idn’t it?” She takes a few unsteady steps towards you.

Wait, about me? Did she find out? Your heart pounds in your chest.

“Rachel…” David’s voice is a growl, his hand reaching out, but he doesn’t move to stop her.

Your mom is right in front of you now. “You… you…” Her words come with a wave of liquor-drenched breath. You’re too scared to stop her from putting her cold hands on your cheeks, and then she moves them up to push your hair back, covering it. Her red eyes search your face. “You look just like him.” And like that her hands jerk away from you, she stumbles back, her expression hardens and cracks, revealing a depth of pain underneath you’ve never seen in her before. “I can’t… I can’t ever get away from him…”

David grabs her shoulders. “Rachel, babe, c’mon, let’s sit down.”

“NO!” She twists away from him, stumbling over and crashing into the wall, swinging her arms at him. “I can’t ever get away from him because SHE’S HERE!”

“RACHEL!”

Your whole body is shaking. Breath won’t come. You have to get away. Your feet take you away, away from her, away from David, away from the sounds of the two of them shrieking and struggling. The moment she’d said that, that you looked like… like him… all the warmth and confidence you’d pulled together vanished, leaving only the shadow. And worst of all, it didn’t even rush back to refill you, just laid there deep inside, waiting. Knowing it will win. Leaving nothing but emptiness within you.

You’re back in your room, pacing, hugging yourself, **** to escape the void that is you. I can’t… I can’t do this. I won’t let this… won’t let him… am I really just like him? Shaking your head, you try to take deep breaths, struggling against the urge to hyperventilate. I want to… I need to be something else. Anything else. But what if I’m not enough? What if I can’t hold that darkness back? What if I try to be what I want to be and I fail and the darkness comes back? Can I escape it again?

The door to your room opens, and you freeze, waiting for her to come in and tell you just how much of her ex-husband is in you. But it’s not her. It’s David, looking ragged, looking scared, looking utterly lost. “Hey, RC.” He closes the door behind him. “Your mother, she… she’s out cold. Screamed herself out of breath and just dropped. I got her rolled on her side, I think she’ll be OK, but…”

You’re only half-listening to his words. He can help me. He can save me. He’s already made me do and feel things I’ve never imagined. I just need him to go further. I need him to take me, completely, make me his. “David.” Your voice is soft and clear. “I don’t care about her.”

He’s not listening to you, his eyes are seeing something else. “I’m just so sick of it.” His voice is thick with pain, with anger. “It doesn’t matter what I do, it never fucking matters, I’m never gonna matter to her as long as she’s still running from a fucking ghost.”

“David.” Your voice is louder now, enough to grab his attention, and you step closer. I can’t just tell him what I need, I can’t ask for it. I have to make him do it for himself. “Are you really gonna let some other man be more important than you in your own house?” You see that look in his eyes, that look he gave you the first time you challenged him, and you know you have to keep going. Placing your hands on his firm chest, digging your fingers in so he feels how much you need him, you put your mouth right up to his ear and whisper “are you really gonna let some woman tell you you’re not enough?”

He tenses, inhaling sharply, then grabs your wrists tight in his callused hands, pushing you back, looking at you with eyes full of fire, full of lust. “What the fuck has gotten into you, Cola?”

The growl in his voice makes your knees shake, and you give him a grin. “Guess I’m just waiting for a real man to put something in me.”

That lust flares in his eyes, and you see it spread like a wave through his body. He releases your wrists and grabs at your shirt, ripping it and your bra off in one frantic motion. You want to laugh, in joy, in relief, but instead you give him a gasp and a whimper. He takes the encouragement, drinking in the sight of your bare flesh with his eyes, then his hands, mauling you, twisting you around and pulling you back against him, squeezing your breasts hard enough to make you squeal as his mouth descends on your neck, biting and sucking, forcing more squeals and moans from your throat.

You need more, need him to keep going, you can’t risk him having second thoughts, so you push your ass back against his crotch, shuddering at how hard he is. He reacts just as you hoped, moving his hands down, tearing your fly open and shoving your pants and panties down. One hand covers your belly, moving down through your damp bush and sinking a finger into your wetness. “You little fucking slut.”

Grinding your bare ass back against him, you moan “mmmnnn but are you gonna make me your slut?”

In an instant he’s shoved you forward, tumbling onto your bed, a deep thrill running through you. You hear his pants drop to the floor, and then he walks up behind you and gives your ass a sharp smack. “Get that ass up, cocksucker. I’m through fucking around.”

Obeying instantly, you put your knees under you and lift your ass high for him, reaching back to spread yourself, show him what you’re so **** for him to take. You hear him growl, deeper and harsher than before, and then his head is pressing against your entrance, his hands grab your waist tightly, locking you in place, and then he’s in you sinking inside, stretching you open, filling you up, claiming you as his. “Ohhhhhh fuck yes David thank you thank you thank you aahhhhhhhhnnnnn…”

“Shut up, Cola.” He grabs a fistful of your hair and presses your face into the mattress, muffling your voice, blocking your breath, and then he’s pulling out, pressing in, firm and steady strokes, making sure you feel how hard he is, how hot, how much he owns your pussy. Yes this is it this is exactly what I need just show me I’m yours make me yours don’t stop. He’s fucking you harder now, making you scream helplessly into your bed, every thrust shaking off that feeling of emptiness, that fear of the darkness, filling you with something else, molding you into a new idea of yourself.

You’re thrusting back against him now, **** for more, **** to take all of him, and that willing surrender opens your heart, allowing his heat and his ferocity to fill it, and then you’re shaking, shuddering, spasming against him, orgasmic juices soaking his crotch as you desperately try to fill your lungs. He pulls out of you with a jerk. “Jesus Cola you were about to rip my dick off. How’d you squeeze me so hard?”

You lift your face from the bed, sucking in sweet air, and you decide not to respond with words. You still need more, more of him, still need him to take you completely until there’s no room for any other version of you except the one that belongs to him. You roll onto your back, spreading your legs wide, reaching up with open arms, eyes pleading, and you smile at him.

That lust is still in his eyes, and now there’s something else as well. He wants more than just to fuck you. He wants you, all of you. He strips off his shirt, joining you in your nakedness, and lays his firm body down over yours. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, you pull him close, singing out in joy as he fills you again, matching his firm heavy thrusts by pushing back against him, locking your long legs around his waist to make sure he stays there, stays with you, stays in you, as long as it takes.

His face is so close to yours, his heavy breaths music in your ears, and you can’t stop the words from coming out. “David David David I’m yours, take me David take me yes! Take me harder! Fuck me David fuck me fuck me!”

He grunts and winces as he feels you squeeze around him, you can feel him throbbing within you. “Cola, shut the fuck up, you’re making too much noise.”

Moving your hands to the back of his head, you lock eyes with him. “Make. Me.”

He doesn’t hesitate, he knows what you want, what you need. His face moves down to cover you, lips locking with yours, his mustache and stubble scratching against your soft skin, a glorious pain as he groans into your mouth, cock spasming in your tight pussy as he unloads inside you, the **** the heat of his climax rocking through your body as you pull him even tighter against you, a cry of joy muffled by the kiss and you keep moving against him, willing him to fill you more, fill you up until there’s no room for anything else but him.

After both of you stop moving, stop shaking, stop existing in this eternity of a climax, he releases you from the kiss, putting his face next to yours, bodies still entwined, and you hear the sweet sound of his panting. You put your lips next to his ear and whisper “I’m yours now, David. All of me.”

And he whispers back the words that fill you with joy, the words that you hope to hear over and over and over again, the words that define you. “Good girl.”