Bait(31)

Just like I try not to do so many things.

Walk amongst families. Hear a baby cry. Watch a little kid run after their parents.

I avoid it all.

Another part of the reason I left. Selfish, but true.

Friends getting married, having kids. Friends with kids meeting friends with kids and inviting me along – the woman that can’t have one.

I wipe myself and flush. There is a tiny flash of pink on the toilet paper. A minor injury all considered. I expected worse.

I expected him to be a lot less… considered.

I expected him to tear me in two without a moment’s hesitation.

I fantasised he’d take my ass once he’d done with the rest of me. I imagined him pressing his forehead to mine while he took everything I had.

I’m half glad he didn’t when I have to use the handrail for leverage to get up. The aftermath of what he did do requires enough recovery to be going along with.

I grab myself some toast and eat it in bed. I flick on the TV I haven’t watched in ages and keep my profile open on my laptop, just in case.

And finally, when I dare risk it, I rub my clit until I come for him all over again.

It’s different today.

The way I come is different today. The way I picture the monster in the darkness is all about him.

It always will be.

From now on, it always will be.

My fantasies couldn’t go back to yesterday if I tried. They’re different. They feel different.

And that’s alright.

It has to be alright.

Because today I’m different, too.





Phoenix



I usually carry Cam everywhere out of habit, but today I let him clamber down from the truck on his own. I take his hand and let him walk alongside me. Encourage him to open the park gate on his own.

I push him on the swing with a lump in my throat. Push him higher and higher, faster than usual, just to see if he’ll squeal.

He doesn’t.

He doesn’t make a single sound.

I watch him on the slide with a fake smile on my face. I hoist him onto the springy metal horse with a giddy-up and a laugh.

But I’m breaking inside.

I wonder if Serena is done packing her things. I wonder if she’s already called Jake to ask for a ride.

She’s been staying with us for twelve months, my domestic crutch through a workload that would have swallowed most people alive.

It nearly swallowed me.

I trusted her. Needed her. We both did.

Still do.

Fuck.

I force that under the surface with the rest of the shit down there.

And I stare at my boy. My boy.

My boy who looks like his mother and not like me.

My boy who has the same cow’s lick as Jake had when he was a boy.

Cameron looks my way and smiles, rides that metal horse a little bit harder. He’s mine.

He has to be mine.

Because if he’s not…

I force the demons back in the pit. Kicking back on a bench as Cameron keeps playing.

I pull my phone from my pocket and call up my hookup login, and I’m so close to reactivating my profile. So fucking close.

But I can’t.

I don’t trust my demons. I don’t trust hers either.

I don’t trust where this insanity will end.

I don’t trust where I’d want it to.

When I look back at my boy, he’s going too fast. Rocking that horse as though he’s in a fucking steeplechase.

His eyes are on me, his mouth unsmiling, and I don’t understand why it hits me so hard in the gut, until I do.

I’m already poised for action when I realise the obvious.

My instinct is to run to him and sweep him off there before he hurts himself.

My instinct is to baby him like the baby I’ve let him be these past twelve months.

The baby I’ve made him be.

But today I don’t.

Today I let him keep rocking.

He’s tall enough that his feet easily reach the foot bars. His grip is strong and his balance is good. He could dismount if he wanted and I know it. He knows it, too.

His expression turns to a grimace as I don’t react to him. He rocks so hard that the metal springs squeak and lurch and my stomach squeaks and lurches with them.

And then he falls, loses his footing and tumbles onto the woodchips below. He rolls onto his back with his face scrunched with tears that make no sound, and I hate myself.

I hate myself and I hate Serena for opening her stupid fucking mouth with her stupid fucking theories.

If only they were fucking stupid.

I’ve scooped Cameron from the floor in a heartbeat. He’s tight in my arms before the horse has even stopped rocking.

He’s tense, flailing, his face screwed in agony as the tears roll down his face. But I see no injuries.

I tug his trouser legs up and there’s not even a mark, there’s not even a graze on his elbow. Nothing.

“What hurts, Cam?” I ask him, but he keeps on silent-crying. “Tell me what’s hurting, champ,” I try again, but he doesn’t even point.