Lustful Memoirs
By: Gina - gina@basic-nstynct.com
Chapter Thirty FiveMinutes that seemed like hours went by as tears burned my cheeks, staining my face. And the past week and a half of uncertain, unexpected feelings and emotions became clear. I hadn’t understood my attraction to JC. Sure, he was good looking, but my feelings for him were deeper, I cared for him in a way that I cared for no one. And now, as I let the memories of the first fifteen years of my life, the images I had so successfully kept hidden, drain into my consciousness, I knew why. I knew the reasons I was drawn to him, the reasons I wanted to protect him and help him. Images of him poured into my brain, the image of him the first night at the pool, him sitting crying in my arms in the kitchen, him sitting close to me on a bench as he poured out his feelings for her, him trying to lose himself and the hurt in me. My lungs struggled for air as my sobs rose from deep within me, from the depths of a place few had ever seen and I never wished to see again. The realization hit me, pelting me with this thought and that feeling like a hail storm, causing puddles, in the form of tears. The balls of hail landing on me, crushing me, constricting and confining me. I had misplaced my feelings, my understanding of him as love. I wasn’t in love with him. I hardly knew him, but I could relate to him. Relate to the desertion that clouded the blue of his eyes, relate to the loneliness, the knowledge that no matter how many persons surrounded you, you were still alone. I understood and empathized with his isolation from those that he once held dear. I understood his feelings and his actions, not wanting to let go of her, not wanting to believe that she would leave him, that the one person in the whole world that he loved more then anything else could walk out of his life and never come back. I understood his need to feel love, to feel the warmth of another person surround him, and I understood his need to push everyone away. I understood because as I looked at him, I saw myself, a mirror image of how I had been, before I suppressed all feelings and emotions. In five years I hadn’t thought about those moments when he walked out, I hadn’t thought about the insecurity or the self-blame. If only I had been better, if only I had listened when he told me to clean my room, if only I had come home on time, if only I had gotten all A’s, instead of that one B. If only, if only, then he would still be there, but I didn’t and I caused him to walk out of my life. I hadn’t thought about the days following his departure when all I did was cry, and I hadn’t thought about the blame in my mother’s eyes. The warm chocolate that had turned to ice. I hadn’t thought about her actions or her anger. I hadn’t thought about packing what little I had to call my own and walking out of the only home I had ever known. I hadn’t thought about any of it, until this person, the one that I wanted so desperately to help, not only to ease his pain, but to ease my own, until this person, used my mother’s own word to describe me, he called me a whore and all those feelings and thoughts of uselessness and unworth, all those insecurities and the self hate, all those emotions came crashing down over me, opening the wounds, causing them to bleed. And as they bled, I found myself lying on the floor in a room that wasn’t mine, caught in my own despair, my own grief, my own sorrow, oblivious to what was going on around me. I hadn’t noticed Justin’s attempts to get me to open the door, or his legs swing from the balcony above to the one that was outside my room. I hadn’t noticed him enter the room, or him run toward me. I hadn’t noticed, until suddenly I felt him beside me, urging me into his arms, whispering words that were, to me, unintelligible.
His hands touched the bare skin on my arms and I burned, the touch, the soft caress like molten lava consuming me. I flinched at his touch, withdrawing further and further into my self contained ball. He tried again and was less successful. I pressed my body as far against the door and as far away from him as possible. I didn’t want him to see the emotions in my eyes, I didn’t want to let him into the hurtful place. I kept my body taut, my arms wrapped around my legs, unyielding to him as my violent sobs continued. I ignored his muttered protests, his urgent, worried demands. I ignored the way his voice cracked as he asked me over and over to come to him, to tell him what was wrong, to tell him what he could do. I ignored him until he wouldn’t allow me to ignore him any longer. He grabbed my right arm with one hand, his other forcibly turning my body. Using his brute strength against my frail frame, he pulled me to him. My arms went up instinctively, erecting a barrier between us. I pushed against his chest, preventing his comfort, not wanting his pity. He forced me against him, my face meeting the hardness of his shoulder. His hands caressed my back. My body stayed tense, not wanting to give in, but as every moment passed and every soft soothing word he whispered so close to my ear found it’s way to my brain, I began to give in. The tightness of my muscles drained with each sob. My body became pliable, putty, molding against him. His fingers tangled in my hair, his hands rubbed down my back. His body supported me, and as it did, thunderous sobs wracked my body, causing both our bodies, molded together as one, to shake. He never let go, he never forced me to talk. His words lingered in my ears as his soft breath brushed my cheek. Whispering over and over, "everything’s going to be okay," "let it all out," "let me hold you," "shh." Over and over he repeated his soft, soothing, simple, words which formed in my ear as well developed prose.
I wasn’t aware of when the tears stopped, but they had, and I remained in his arms. His fingers continued to twist in my hair, his hand residing still on my back, strong to support me, soft to soothe me. My face crushed upon his shoulder, his shirt moist, holding captive the beads that had fallen from my eyes. The material darkened, shaped as a thunderous cloud, the pain that each drop contained, now held at bay within the material of his shirt. I tried to unlatch myself from him, his muscles tightened, resisting me. My face again contacted the moisture on his shoulder as the pounding rhythm of his heart, echoed in my ears, and my body rocked gently against him as his chest expanded and contracted with each breath. For that moment, in his arms, I was safe from every hidden emotion, every suppressed feeling. The world did not exist, for within those minutes it was only him and I; no past no future, just now. Just our bodies molded together in a heap on the wooden floor. Then he shifted, giving me the room and space I had longed for only moments before, and now didn’t want. Reality filtered into my consciousness, my body ached, my head throbbed, my brain was mush and my heart was deserted. He stretched languidly, his arms reaching for the ceiling. I watched him with averted gaze, my being spent from the outpouring of emotion. I couldn’t move, didn’t have the strength. He rose from the floor and approached me. Taking my arms within his strong, smooth hands, he peeled my body from the floor. Lifting me into his arms, he carried me to my bed and laid my lifeless form unto the white down comforter. He removed my shoes, slowly, cautiously. I watched him, unable to respond, unable to react, unable to speak. He walked across the room, his actions still slow, calculated. Pulling the afghan from the chair, he walked toward me, covering me in the soft fabric. Then there was silence. He, looking down at me, I, doing my best to not look at him. I was numb, from head to toe, I couldn’t feel, couldn’t act, couldn’t breath. The room spun as I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.