Does It Hurt?

by H.D. Carlton

deciding the idea of a stranger giving me a tattoo at a bus stop is too good to pass up. It’s the perfect kind of spontaneity I need.

“Don’t you feel bad for me, young lady. It’s a blessing to be old, and every blessing is a little bittersweet.”

“It’s perfect.” “Imperfect,” he corrects, eyeing his work. “Perfectly imperfect,”

“Then why were you sitting at the bus stop?” He shrugs. “I was passing by, and you looked like you needed a friend.”

“We’ll cross paths again, Sawyer. Life has a funny way of throwing people into your path when you’re meant to collide. It’s up to you to choose to make it permanent.” “Permanence,” I mutter, tasting the foreign word on my tongue. “You’re already permanent, Simon, just as much as this tattoo.”

“You’re American,” he notes. “Unfortunately,” is my answer.

“Nope. I could get pregnant just looking at you. Go away.”

“Have you ever been bitten?” “Not by a shark,” he drawls. I do a double take, sensing the innuendo within his words. “You say that like you enjoy being bitten by not-sharks.” He arches a brow, a slight grin pushing that dimple deeper into his cheek. He can arch one brow. Suppose it's no surprise. God has always played favorites.

“You put any money out and I’ll shove it down your throat,” he warns, his voice deepening dangerously. My eyes snap to him, round with shock. “Jesus, if you want to be a gentleman, just say that. Weirdo.”

The dickhead just assumes that I’ll follow him. Well. He's right.

My mouth dries as he drops the material to the wet rock, wondering how he can make it so a stone retains moisture better than me.

“Only if you promise not to touch me,” I call back. “I promise not to do anything you don’t beg me for.”

“You’re going to ruin me, too. But unfortunately for you, that’s where I feel most at home.”

“My name and God’s don’t belong in the same sentence, bella,” he rasps, his voice as rough as the rock below us. “One is holy, and the other is depraved.”

And like a typical adult who grew up deprived of praise and attention from their parents, I'm now seeking those things from a man. Fuck.

Must've lost all my fucks to give in the ocean.

“Does it hurt, baby?” he asks quietly. “Not being able to scream for me like you want to.”

“Do you honestly think you scare me? A shrimp is more intimidating than you.” I gasp. “That is so fucking rude.”

Throwing up the peace sign and moonwalking out of the vicinity is my go-to response.

“Where did you get this?” he asks, wiggling the book and ignoring me. “The bookshelf. It's a shelf that you put books on,” I clip. “Where did you get your audacity?”

Why did you get to be God’s favorite?”

You can ask him yourself when I take you to see him.”

Oh God,” I cry, trying to keep my voice down but failing miserably. “Can you see him, baby? Ask him for forgiveness.” “Why?” I pant, another high-pitched moan nearly swallowing the word. “Because you worship me now.”

“I don’t want your apologies. It’s men that made you feel and think that way. They should be apologizing to you.”

So, I made you feel what you made me feel? I won't deny that I'm the villain in your story, baby, but please don't insult me by acting like you didn't hurt me first.”

I giggle, imagining myself telling all my organs to go back to their seats or else extra homework for them.

“What happened to you does not define you. It only forged a new path that will take you to a different version of yourself. But no one can force you to walk that road; only you can determine who you will be once you get there. It’s your choice who you become, Sawyer.”

“No more running, baby. I want him to come looking for you just so I can have the privilege of ending his life for touching what’s mine.”

“You were always destined to be mine,”

Did that hurt, baby?

“You’re not dying.” “You sure? I think I hear Jesus talking to me.” “Then you’re definitely not dying. Jesus would never talk to you.”

“Do you think I’d be happier if I lived in another world?” His response isn't immediate, but it stops my heart anyway. “Maybe. But I wouldn't be.”

“Choose to live, bella. Choose me.”

She’s walking lightning. Both beautiful and fucking destructive.

“I’ve been punishing you for something you didn’t do—something beyond stealing an identity. I’ve been making you hurt because I’m hurt, but you’re not the one who broke me. And it was never my right to break you.”

“You are good enough, Sawyer. You’re nothing like I said you were, and everything I said you weren’t. You’re strong and brave, and above all else, you’re admirable.” Her eyes become glassy, and she looks away, blinking rapidly while crooking her finger beneath her eye. “Can you, like, not make me cry right now, please? I’m trying to look like a badass.”

“I believe our souls either move on to somewhere unknown, get stuck, or reincarnate into another body. I never believed in what they did. They hoped God would heal my wounds and guide me in life. Thought I’d eventually become a priest and tell people my story and how I overcame it. But the more I read the Bible, the more lost I became.”

“Yet, he still haunts you.” I nod. “Just as your mother haunts you.” A dimple on the side of his cheek appears. “Then maybe we could show each other how to let go, yeah?”

Attempting to shrug it off, I say, “You got it, dude.” And then I take off toward the steps, needing air as much as I need fucking Jesus in my life.

I swear to God, if he shoots, I will kick him in the peg and feel no remorse.

“È impossibile odiarti quando mi fai sentire così vivo,”

“Ed è esattamente per questo che voglio odiarti. Prima di incontrare te ero un sonnambulo. Cazzo, non ero pronto a svegliarmi.”

“Ho sbagliato a dirti che eri debole. Sei così incredibilmente coraggiosa, vorrei che lo vedessi anche tu.”

“Ti penso ogni ora, ogni minuto, ogni dannato secondo. Non so che fare.”

“L’oceano era l’unico posto in cui mi sentivo a casa,”

“Era l’unica cosa che mi eccitava e dava pace. Hai rovinato anche questo. Sentirti su di me è meglio di immergersi nell’oceano. Neanche con questa rivelazione so che fare.”

“You’re supposed to be begging for my forgiveness.” “Can’t we beg together, baby?” I rasp darkly.

“Ma solo quando sono pronto a venire con te. Annegheremo insieme, bella ladra.”

Never let me go. I’ll die with your hands wrapped around my throat. Wow. That’s fucked up. I need to find a therapist when I get home.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not true. Have you ever seen The Conjuring? Or literally any other paranormal horror movie? They definitely get hurt. People die. Demons are like, serial killers, Enzo.”