David Davis 46, part 8

Read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, and Part 7.

He was looking at me. Leaving the laughter and the red cups, I followed him into an empty bedroom—I don’t think it was his—where for a long time, including the five seconds he spent removing and halving his brown leather belt, he held me down, fucked me, and beat me, all without saying a word.

As we slid back into our clothes, I became aware of the party again, still humming on the other side of the door. We finally spoke, but I don’t remember what we said. If we kissed, I don’t remember that, either. I do remember, very well, knowing that I had fallen in love. But even that sensation, being in love, is gone. Only its certainty has been able to outlast the years between now and then.

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