1. But I Love Him

"I love you," he says. I look at him through the hazy mist of tobacco. I rub the lit embers into my leg, making it flicker and evaporate. The perfectly horrible sting makes me flinch.
"Really?" I ask.
"Absolutely."
I roll my tongue in my mouth and keep my gaze on his blue eyes. "What do you want?"
"Ecstasy." His lips are on mine and I'm on autopilot. Suck. Nibble. Swirl tongue. Touch.
Kiss.
Ecstasy might mean sex for some couples but that isn't what he wants. That comes after. When he's so in love with life, he'll fuck anyone.
"Come on," he whines after I push him softly away. Softly, because if I push too hard, I might think I'm angry. Angry that he's an asshole who doesn't really love me and angry that I'd even think that. Of course he loves me. But if my body feels angry, my head will, too. "You're rich. You can get some."
"My father's rich and he hasn't visited in ages."
"So you visit him." I rub the cigarette harder against my thigh, digging a hole and failing to get anywhere. But at least it hurts; a stupid journey to nowhere that hurts.
"Okay." The words are born before I can get an abortion. He grins and shoves his lips against mine. His bedroom is messy by guy standards and I don't remember how I got here. His belt stabs into my back as if it's trying to impale me to his floor, His rough hands lift my waist and he nuzzles my neck. This is probably meant to feel good.
"It'll feel better when we're off tap," he takes my hand and puts it somewhere I've zoned out from. Better. Not "even" better. Just better like it was never good, never has been.
I guess I'm not very good at acting aroused.
I moan and he moans and I forget the rest.

The bathtub's cheap and I can feel him on my back, he's warm and he's cold and I don't know why I love him.
He stuffs the weed into the metal pipe and puts the water bottle to my lips. He's so resourceful.
He lights it and I suck. It burns its way down my throat and somewhere in some lost brain matter of mine I remember I'm a singer. I inhale until my lungs are too full and I can't take anymore but the weed is red and I should keep breathing. I don't.
"Shit, don't waste my weed." He puts the bottle to his lips and sucks. I breathe out and I need more.
He leans back and exhales. The smoke tangles itself in my hair.
His hands are on my hips and I think he's being too gentle. I wish he'd drink too much and snort in too much coke and hit me.
I reach towards the sink, trying to grab a bottle of cheap whisky. I'm too small to reach it and I feel like a child but I don't remember ever being one. He reaches over me and grabs the bottle easily.
It's been opened and I wonder if he had some on his own or if he shared it with someone else. Then I remember my old maybe-friend, his ex-girlfriend and how she warned me about him. But there's nothing to warn. I love him and he loves me and that's all that matters.
His adam's apple bobs against my head as he devours the whisky like he lives for it. Then again, he probably does.
I take the makeshift bong from his left hand, stuff more weed in and light it. I breathe slowly and then harder, like this miraculous bottle is filled with life. Life and I'm dying. I'm dying and this will bring me back.
I keep adding more and more and I know he'll be mad if I finish his batch but he's too drunk to notice and I'm too desperate to care. I grab a can of beer from the bathroom tiles and it feels like heaven in my throat. The beer tastes amazing and I hate beer.
"Stop singing," he tells me. I don't remember singing but it turns out I am. The room sways and I laugh when I want to cry.
"Stop it," he growls and slurs and my head is shattering. "Stop it!" he cries but I don't know what to stop. His large hands are on my shoulders and I'm shaking with the room. He's in me and he's on me and I'm suffocating. Wait, that isn't him. That was a different him.
That was my father.
"What are you doing?" he asks and I'm back. My nails are in my arms and I don't know how I got there. I look up at him and for a moment I'm afraid. Then I realise it's him and I'm safe.
He pulls my fingernails out of my flesh and holds my small hands in his. "Don't hurt yourself," he says and I think I could die. He kisses my wrinkled hands and I wonder how long we've been in the water and then I think about how much I'd love to drown at this moment, with him holding me. They'd find us dead in the bathtub and it'd be romantic.
He brushes my long dark hair from my face and melts his lips into mine. He tastes like whisky and smoke and coffee and I think I should be crying right now but I can't. I'm miserable and I'm ecstatic and I don't know what to feel.
He wraps my legs around his torso and pulls me in. All of me is swaying and I need to sit but I realise I'm sitting. I curl my arms around him, burying my face in his hair. I let him do what he wants because I love him.

Because I need someone to love me.