Old Wounds: Little Battles Part 22

EDalton123: Okay. I suppose I'll see you Monday? I can still pick you up, right?

YoSoph: Of course. Are you no longer suspended?

EDalton123: I've been paroled. What about you?

YoSoph: Still "grounded" but Tom fails to understand that I don't really go anywhere anyway, so it's not like he's "teaching" me anything.

My instant messaging conversation with Elliott carried me through the evening. I'd only gotten high twice today, once before work and once on my lunch break. Although I wanted to be high right now, I was going to try to get through this evening on my own.

After he signed off, I replied to his e-mail, feeling as though it wasn't right to let his questions go unanswered for very long. In truth, the e-mail format of our relationship was growing stale. It wasn't that I didn't like learning new things about him or sharing bits and pieces of myself, but I would rather have been in his presence while doing it.

But he was much more comfortable using the written word and I understood that. h.e.l.l, even I was more comfortable putting the s.h.i.t in my head inside of an e-mail. The stuff we asked was hard to answer. I probably would have chickened out if he was sitting right next to me.

I liked that Elliott had the power to make me nervous and get me to tell him all of the nasty things I've held inside. I had never told anyone about the fork in my neck or the burns on my tongue, but somehow Elliott managed to make me want to tell him.

Elliott, I'm glad your suspension is up. School is boring without you.

So, the answers: What do you do all day at work?

I mostly put up stock. Take stuff out of boxes and put it on shelves. Like I said, tomorrow I have to build a big display or something. I'm sure it'll be stupid.

If you had to pick one or the other, would you rather be blind or deaf?

Can I pick neither? If I had to pick one, I'd rather be deaf because I don't like the dark.

If you could win anything, other than the lottery or money, what would it be?

I don't want to win anything. Should I be striving to win something?

Why didn't you live with your father when you were little?

I don't know. I always a.s.sumed he didn't want me, so I never asked him if I could live with him.

Why do you always run so far away when we spend time together?

Because you're one of the things I'm afraid of. And before you even ask, here's the answer to the question you're thinking right now: You didn't do anything to make me afraid of you, and physically, I'm not. But emotionally, it's a different story. I don't really know how to stay away from you, even though everything inside of me is shouting that it's time to bail the f.u.c.k out.

I don't let people touch my face. I don't go to the movies with people. I don't hold hands, and I sure as f.u.c.k don't dance. Yet, I've done all those things with you.

I don't know what the h.e.l.l that means, Elliott. No one's ever asked me what my favorite flower is, or about any of my scars.

I want to be with you all the time, but I don't know how to be with you at all. That's scary as h.e.l.l.

And I'm trying to be better for you because I know you don't like drugs. I'm trying not to get high, but it's just not working out that well. I don't know, maybe I'm not trying, but I have intentions to try.

Christ, sorry for the ramble.

My turn: How do you not know if you like Christmas?

Tell the truth; how awesome did it feel to beat the s.h.i.t out of Anderson?

How can you have panic attacks one day, and then save Jane when she's b.l.o.o.d.y and needy the next, and not even panic just a little?

If you were an animal, which one would you be?

What is your least favorite of all the books that you've read?

Thank you for helping me paint my walls. They're much nicer now. I'm sorry we can't hang out tomorrow but maybe you could come over for dinner on Monday.

S.

I started feeling really antsy about five minutes after I hit send, suddenly feeling like I shouldn't have put all that s.h.i.t in my e-mail. I should've just told him I was finished sharing and been done with it. The s.h.i.t between Elliott and me was incredibly...well, I didn't know what it was, but it wasn't normal. It was difficult to understand, and I felt like I was swimming as hard as I could against the current to avoid drowning.

I was getting tired.

I knew he didn't like drugs, obviously, but I only wished he knew how hard it was to stay afloat some days without them.

I really wanted to be high right now. I wouldn't have been so uptight about the e-mail. A little bit of pot would relax me.

Horrible words and a nasty, foul voice reverberated in my head, giving me chills. An echo of the past that I'd pushed down a long time ago was back, and before I could stop myself from thinking about it, I was in my room in Tampa again.

"Just breathe it in, Sophie," he said, his hand on my thigh while holding a joint very close to my mouth. He stroked my cheek with his pinkie finger and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to focus on something other than his touch.

I leaned forward, my lips barely touching the paper, and inhaled, because it didn't matter if I didn't want to; it was going to happen, just like everything else in my life. He wanted me to do it, so I did it.

"That's it, Sophie, good girl."

I sputtered and coughed as it burned my throat and lungs. It tasted horrible and I felt like spitting. I doubled over.

He laughed. "You'll never get high like that." My mom wasn't home, so he wasn't being quiet. "Here," he said as he pulled me up. The joint now hung from his mouth. "When I do this," he said, running his index finger over my exposed collarbone, "you breathe in, okay?"

I nodded and watched as he took a big pull off of the smoking joint and held it in his mouth. Then he leaned in and I cringed as he pressed his lips to mine. He stroked my collarbone with his finger and then moved lower.

I was supposed to do something.

Breathe, I had to breathe.

My lungs were on fire again and my eyes were wide. He clamped his hand down on my wrist. Before I could exhale, his eyes changed and I knew it was time for him to be mean.

He put his hand over my mouth while pinching my nose with his thumb and index finger. "You have to hold the s.h.i.t in."

I couldn't breathe and I panicked, kicking out my legs as I tried to pull his hand off my mouth. I couldn't do it. Then he suddenly released me and I could breathe again, if that's what you'd call what I was doing through the painful coughing.

He put his hand on the back of my neck. "You're such a dirty girl, Sophie. Show me how dirty you can be and I won't tell your mother."

Back in my own room, I shook my head quickly and violently, and forced myself to return to the present.

I stepped away from my computer desk and the new chair Tom had gotten me to replace the one he'd smashed, and went over to my closet. In the second shoe box were my old-as-s.h.i.t Goodwill Vans. Buried all the way in the toe of the left shoe was my new bag of pot.

Jason had sold me a dime bag so that I'd never have too much for Tom to find if he were to go through my things again. I didn't even think it was Tom, but Wallace.

He'd also let me borrow another one-hitter. Even though I wanted the man's voice to stop echoing in my brain as quickly as possible, I couldn't just pack it. I had to break the pot up, so I sat there with my stupid f.u.c.king hands shaking like I was some scared little girl, trying to get that done and then pack Jason's nice gla.s.s one-hitter.

I f.u.c.king hated that voice and I wished that I could forget what he sounded like. I hated the way I could still feel his breath on my cheek and his hands on my skin. My stomach tightened and I fought against the urge to get sick.

I just had to smoke a little.

I made it to the window and as quietly as I could, I inched it open.

I hoped that two hits would be enough to shut that motherf.u.c.ker's voice off, and then I wouldn't have to hear him say those things, but maybe it would take more than two.

I put the pipe to my lips and the lighter to the tip, and inhaled.

I wouldn't have to feel him do those...

It was only after five hits that I withdrew back into my room, leaving the window open and letting in the too-cold air, which was good for waking me up and keeping the pot smell out.

It was late, but not late enough for Tom to be sleeping. I jumped when there was a knock on my door. I really had no desire to answer it, but didn't want him to break it down again, because I probably couldn't handle it. When I realized the chair wasn't under the handle, my chest tightened and my stomach knotted. It was stupid of me not to have done that before messing around with the weed.

"What?" I asked through the door. "Do you have the window open?"

"Yes."

"Can you close it? This is an old house, and it's already expensive to heat."

"Fine."

"I'm going to bed."

What was I supposed to say to something like that? Why did he think I needed to know that he was going to bed? Was I supposed to be thrilled and enlightened that I now had confirmation Tom was going to sleep?

"'Kay," was the only response that came to mind.

I spent the rest of the night trying not to fall asleep, because every time I closed my eyes, I was back in my room in Tampa.

I guess I finally fell asleep against my will, because I awoke at eleven and went to work at twelve-thirty. The holiday display project was ma.s.sive, and there were about four of us doing it. I got to put up one side with Brody, and we talked about stupid, random things like the water temperature at Ocean City and some kind of soccer teamed named "a.r.s.enal."

I'd been working for a while, getting ready to take my lunch and get high, when I heard, "I-i-it's b-beginning to look a lot like Ch-Chr-Christmas."

Instantly, a smile forced its way onto my face. I turned around and looked up. "Elliott!"

He was an incredibly wonderful surprise. I stood and went over to him. "Hi. What are you doing here?"

"I w-w-was in the neighborhood."

I kept the smile on my face, but narrowed my eyes. "No, you weren't."

He shook his head and smiled. "No, I w-w-wasn't, but I w-wanted to see you."

I looked back at Brody who was pulling out small gla.s.s snow globes and putting them on a shelf. "I'm taking my lunch now."

I was on top of him in his car, the steering wheel grinding into my back as I pressed myself to him. His hands were digging into the small of my back as I tangled my fingers in his rusty hair and attacked him with my lips. If he moved his hands any lower, he'd be cupping my a.s.s, and I hoped to h.e.l.l he'd be doing that soon.

I wanted him so badly in this moment and if I was perfectly honest with myself, the ever-present aching need for him was rippling throughout my body.

I pulled myself closer to him and sighed into his mouth. He felt so good. He moved his bandaged hands up my back and down over my shoulders, and then encircled my wrists. Carefully, he pulled my arms away and practically forced me to stop touching him.

I didn't stop kissing him though.

"SSSS-SSSSoph-phie," he stuttered against my lips.

"Hmmm?"

"We sssshould sssstop."

I shook my head and sucked his lower lip into my mouth as I ran my tongue along the length of it. Even though he was still holding my wrists, I put my hands on his chest and pawed at him.

"SSSSophie, ssssstop." "Why?"

"B-b-b-because."

I lifted my head away and focused on his deep hazel eyes. "Your body wants me, Elliott, I can..." I pressed against him again.

"I c-c-can't." I pulled back. "Do you want me?"

He bit his lower lip as he gave me a slow answering nod. "Y-y-yes."

"Then quit saying we have to stop. I promise I'll make you feel good, baby."

I ignored how his hands tightened around me when I said that. I ignored how firm his grip was when I tried to get closer again. I kept inching toward him until I could attach my mouth to his earlobe in hopes of hearing that s.e.xy groan of his. It felt like he was bruising my wrists as he pushed and pulled me away from him.

"SSSSoph-phie, sssstop."

I sighed. Well, it was more of a huff, actually. I pushed up against his shoulders and got off of him, settling back down into the pa.s.senger seat. He'd let go of my wrists and I ran my hands through my hair as I let out a deep breath.

"We're really not going to..."

Elliott shook his head.

"Seriously?"

He nodded.

"Well, s.h.i.t."

"D-d-don't be m-m-mmmad."

I sighed again. "I'm not mad, Elliott."