#4: I can still feel you next to me.
I hate that when it gets dark enough in my room, or in my head, that I’m there again–sophomore year, in a dorm room that smells like dueling man musk, with the glow of The Godfather video game for Playstation 3 (or was it 2???) hovering over our bodies. I was already drunk, but you pressed that bottle against my lips until I complied. You did it again, and again, until the images surrounding us were well-past muddled. Transcendent, even. You waited until I was pliant enough, when resisting felt as if I were pushing against the rock collective that make up Stonehenge.
I hate those words, prey and predator, because they imply an inevitability. They’re ingrained in the notion of eventual victimhood, but that’s what you did, right? When you told me to stay after everyone else had disappeared, when you smiled, when you chose to drink nothing because you were sick–you waited. Back when I used to think of waiting as a passive activity.
I’m not that foolish anymore.
Instead, in my dark, there are pinched nipples and cold hands down my jeans. There are words that you don’t hear. That you ignore.
And then there are things I remember and choose to forget.
But what you told me after killed me. I almost laughed, would have, had I not been so angry. They came at next day’s end after you spent hours chasing my ghost all over campus. You wanted to explain before I told someone ‘important’. I never did.
“I always liked you,” you said.
That had I been your sister, a mythical being for you to foist your culpability upon, that you would be furious with that ‘other guy’. You gave these sentiments in between nervous apologies, but you might as well have said nothing. I would have preferred it.
You ruined me for a while, you know. I used to think you ruined me for other men, but I know better now.
I have evolved.