Blackthorn

by J.T. Geissinger

“You really hate me that much that you’d keep my own blood from me?” “The blood you denied you wanted in the first place?” “I was seventeen!” “So was I. Just a girl in love with a selfish, heartless boy who didn’t want to be seen in public with her.” “I never said I didn’t want to be—” He cuts off abruptly, staring down at me with furrowed brows and a strange expression taking over his face. At first I think it’s confusion, but then I realize it’s worse. Much worse. It’s understanding. He grasps my jaw, gripping it firmly so that I can’t turn away. “You were in love with me.” It would’ve been bad enough if it was a question, but it wasn’t. It was a statement. I can see it in his eyes, the way his brain is working furiously, going back over every interaction we ever had and casting them into a whole new light. “You were in love with me.” The lump in my throat is too big to talk around, so I bite my tongue and stay silent. “I thought you hated me. I thought you were ashamed to be seen with me. But you were in love with me. You loved me. You loved me.” “Stop saying that! It doesn’t matter.” “It’s the only thing that matters.” I stare at him defiantly. “Why?” “Because if you loved me once, you can love me again.” “I’ll never love you again. I don’t feel anything for you except disgust.” His eyes burn. His jaw clenches. He grits out, “You really are the worst liar in history.” I can’t respond to that because he covers my mouth with his.