American River Review 2019 - Flipbook - Page 27
you have to believe in a life raft in the middle of a
hurricane.
“And I’ll always love you.”
“I know. Because you’re not like them. You aren’t
here to steal away parts of me for yourself.”
“Can’t you forget about them?” I knew she’d sense
the pleading in my voice. I felt ashamed. I was not the
one who should be begging for anything. Her smile
broke my heart.
“You know I can’t. They’re like a bitter taste in my
mouth. I need to cleanse my palate, replace it with
something sweet, something that reminds me just how
delicious something can taste.” Her eyes closed, soft
lashes resting against her cheeks, the same smile she
has when eating strawberry crepes for her birthday.
“What if I can’t give that to you?”
“Don’t be silly! You’re the most giving person I
know!”
“What if I don’t want to?” The question was a lie.
“Please. I need you. You’re the only one I trust now.”
At that point, we both knew that I would agree. The
first time she had told me the story, I held her. Wiped
away her tears while she told me about too rough hands
and the too wet mouth. She told me that at first she
tried to let him down easy, to play coy, but the only
game he played was the end game. I sat stone still as
she whispered the atrocities, the words too harsh in
the light of day. The only control she had over what
happened was the retelling of the story. I brought her
ice for her bruised wrists and hot chocolate for her
bruised heart. She lay wrapped in all the blankets I
owned, every inch of skin covered except her face,
even in the stifling summer heat.
When she finally fell asleep, I cried silently with
everything I had. I sank ships with the storm inside my
head, doomed every man to be lost at sea to pay for
what he had done. Begged sirens to pull them to their
watery graves, victims to the hands of women more
ferocious than us.
I know she can’t understand why this might mean so
much to me. Why I would be giving her more of me
than I had ever given anyone else. She believed that
the boy who leaned in, mouth puckered tight, orange
Gatorade clinging to his wisp of facial hair, was my
first love. It was my first real kiss, if you could call it
that. All I could think about in that dark room was how
badly I wished I could brush my teeth, and wondered
how long I could I hold my breath before I died. It took
days for me to wash the scent of his cologne off of my
clothes, weeks for me to push away the hurt I felt when
he called me a whore for NOT letting his sweaty
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