Does It Hurt?

by H.D. Carlton

Some days I’m the ocean. Some days I’m the ship. Tonight, I’m the lighthouse: at the edge, alone, and burning. -Vasiliki

Another inhale, and it tastes a little better with the reminder that I’m ingesting death into my lungs. Yeah, that tastes much better.

The ocean is beautiful. But it’s also unforgivable. Within seconds, it can turn against you. Drag you down so violently, you don’t know which way is up, and feed you into its cavernous mouth until you drown or end up between the teeth of something much scarier.

Cigarettes are also unforgivable, with the way they eat at you from the inside out. Kill you slowly, and then all at once. I decide I like the ocean, and I like cigarettes. Because I… I am also unforgivable.

Problem is, that edge is sharp and jagged, and there’s not a drug in this world that will prevent it from cutting me.

I’m ashamed of myself, but I don’t think I know what it’s like to feel anything else.

“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.”

He stares deeply into my eyes when I speak; I’ve never felt so heard. The best part—he doesn’t offer unsolicited advice or lackluster comfort. He just… listens, and attentively at that. Like the next thing out of my mouth just might be the cure for cancer. Too bad I am the fucking cancer.

God, he’s mean. Why do I like it?

“Whatever. Let me just get the money for—” “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.”

I've always wanted to swing from a vine and jump into water. Be one with nature and shit.

I’m in trouble, but it’s the type of danger that makes you smile uncontrollably as you ride the line between life and death. The kind of danger that gives you a thrill, makes you feel alive, and then leaves you bereft and empty when it’s over.

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

“Did I…?” I trail off, too embarrassed to even say it aloud. I’ve never squirted before, and the experience was as otherworldly as others have claimed. “You did,” he confirms, his voice deepening with unrestrained desire. “And now I want to see you come like that all over my cock.” He leans down, sending chills skating across my flesh as he whispers, “I won’t stop until you do.”

He looks at me as if I’m a masterpiece, a shrine to worship, and I can’t deny how invigorating that feels.

“Just like that, bella. Cazzo, quanto mi fai godere.”

“Still think you can handle me?”

“You know what I think? You take me so fucking good. But I want to see how good you take me after you’ve been coming around my cock for hours.”

“Maybe that’s my appeal then. Everyone wants to fix the broken, right?” “Nah,” he says. “People don’t actually care about fixing you. They just want to shape your broken pieces until they fit their standards. Smooth ’em out, make ’em less sharp, so they don’t cut so deep when they collect ’em. But you ain’t any less broken.”

I’m going to fucking find her first.

Ecco la mia piccola ladra.

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.

My chest burns with the need for oxygen, but I can only think of one thing. Where is she?

Try as I might to deny it, I have an attraction to doing the wrong thing.

Every time his skin slides against mine, a storm cloud swells, and lightning strikes somewhere around the world. How many others have shipwrecked because he can't stop touching me?

“How does it feel to be eaten alive?” “It’s not enough,” I mewl breathlessly. “I’d rather you fuck me to death.”

“Why did you get to be God’s favorite?” He stares down at me with a savage expression. “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.”

“You’re going to come for me, bella, and you’re going to fucking paint me in it. If I’m not covered, then I will make you do it again until there’s nothing left of you.”

Being scared and weak aren't synonymous. It takes strength to keep getting back up after constantly being knocked down.

“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.”

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

“Because anyone who looks at what’s mine will never live to tell about it,”

“È impossibile odiarti quando mi fai sentire così vivo,” I start, slipping two fingers past her lips and hooking them over her teeth, bringing her closer. “Ed è esattamente per questo che voglio odiarti. Prima di incontrare te ero un sonnambulo. Cazzo, non ero pronto a svegliarmi.”

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

“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.”

“Now’s your time for revenge, bella ladra. I’ve drowned you once. It’s your turn to drown me.”

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

“I’m more than aware that you’re a capable woman, Sawyer. But that doesn’t mean I won’t take care of you.”

“Mostrami come amarti,”

“There’s a place in the ocean, so deep, where not a single point of light penetrates through it. And for so long, I’ve been trapped there, unable to breathe. When I met you, you lifted me out of that darkness, and it was the first time I came up for air. You’ve become my oxygen, bella ladra, and I can no longer breathe without you.”

Whoever created the word goodbye never knew loss. There’s nothing good about the way he leaves me.

She’s both fighting for him and against him. Love is funny that way. It persists even when you’ve done everything in your power to banish it. It demands its own voice and refuses to be a slave to

anyone but its own desires. And despite the power of it, those selfish desires are what make love so weak. It’s accepting the apologies of a cheating lover. It’s returning to a raised hand, over and over, until that hand becomes lethal, and home is in the afterlife. It’s clinging to a mother who never wanted you and hoping she will one day show up on those church steps. It’s grabbing ahold of a hand that belongs to both a father and an abuser, wailing as they slowly slip away. It’s falling in love with a liar, a thief, and praying they never hurt you again.

“There are many things you deserve, bella ladra, but the only prison you will be a captive in is one of my own making. If my love is a prison, so be it.”

“The day you stole from me was the best day of my life,” he whispers against my lips. “Because then you became my life, and I don’t want it back. I won’t fucking take it.”