That's the sick part. It wasn't just me. He must've been trying to
annihilate himself, too. He wanted the abuse, otherwise he wouldn't
have kept coming back again and again. And again. Punishment for his
sins? Justify his evil ways by letting me pound out my anger on his
face. And his body. Until I couldn't even see the blood. Until I
forgot who he was. And until I remembered who he was. And I kissed
him. And cried. And fucked him.
He came on Wednesdays. Not every week. Never at the same time. He
could be waiting for me when I got home from work or wake me up at 3
am. But it was always Wednesday. My lack of social life made it
impossible to dodge his visits. Besides, I'm sure he'd have come
anyway. He would've waited for me. I would try to get work done or
watch TV, but it got harder and harder. When I got home, I'd fidget and
pace, unable to stay still.
I'd find myself looking for him all day, gazing into space, knowing full
well that he'd only come to my apartment. Scully would ask me if I was
OK. I'd just say yeah and keep ignoring her. I don't know what I'd
have done if I would've seen him somewhere, just on the street. Reality
can become surreal very quickly. Especially if you were to realize in
the cold light of day that you're fucking a criminal. The man who
killed your father.
Last time he came, I was stretched out on the couch, bouncing a tennis
ball on the ceiling, wondering if he would come that night. Thinking of
ways to kill him. Thinking of how much I wanted him. He appeared out
of nowhere, probably came in through the window in the bedroom. He was
covered in dirt and grime. Cut on his forehead, the blood dried and
crusty.
I wanted to tell him to go use my shower, but all that came out was
"Where the hell've you been?" The rough edge of my voice cut through
the darkened room.
"Happy to see me, Mulder?" His voice was cautious, and he was standing
at attention, bracing himself for what was to come.
I swear he was almost radiating energy. It was like... he was excited
about the prospect of me beating the shit out of him. Hell, I was
excited. And he knew that. His eyes glinted and he almost smiled.
Enough for me to pounce on him. Bloodied his nose and reopened the gash
on his forehead. Ripped his filthy clothes off. And mine.
We didn't need foreplay; the punches were enough. I kissed him. I
threw him over my coffee table and pounded myself into him. Until he
came—gasping my name, scratching his nails on the wood hard enough to
leave imprints, pushing me over the edge.
Standing up from where we lay in a heap on the floor and pushing me off
of him after what seemed an eternity, he walked naked to the bathroom.
Through a haze I heard the water running, the toilet flushing, paper
tearing. He came back, clean and bandaged, and proceeded to dress.
Without a word, he left the way he came.
After he left, I sat on the floor, thinking about him, about us. We've
hurt each other plenty—he has physical scars, and I'm all scratched up
on the inside, scars that'll never go away. I asked myself, 'Can this
keep on happening? Should we keep up this arrangement?' I gave up,
content with the situation. I told myself that as long as he comes
here, I'd give him what we both want. Screw the consequences.
And then tonight happens. It wasn't his day, so I didn't expect him.
One second I'm looking at a piece of paper on the floor and bam!
suddenly, I was at the end of his gun. The situation was reversed. But
instead of hurting me, he just talked, lies or truth, I don't quite
know. Why should I believe him?
Then, he kissed me. Not a "I-wanna-fuck-you" kiss like usual. But a
real kiss, on the cheek. Nice, not twisted. He handed me the gun,
turned and walked out, spouting some Russian. But he sounded sincere
when he said it. Not angry.
Sitting here in the dark, I think about him. I rub the scratches in the
tabletop. Five little rows of etches. Deep enough to see the light
wood under the dark stain. One hand. I want to know where he fits into
my life now. He changed the rules. His anger was gone and I don't want
to hit him anymore. But I want to see him. And, honestly, I don't think
I can give him up now. It's not that I'm desperate for the sex. It's
more than that. I crave him. It's obsessive, I know. And as I sit here
I realize that I don't think he'll be back next week.
Scratch
by Susan
I swear. I just don't understand it. The more I think about it, the
more it confuses me. I must have felt guilty about something. Maybe I
just wanted control, although, I'm the one who always lost control.
Well, that's not true, we both did.
