Take the Edge Off
It had been a shitty day. More like a shitty two weeks, really. The situation with Emma was technically resolved, but what she admitted today dragged the worst parts of me to the surface. Most things didn’t make me feel much, but this? This hit everything I had. Made me want revenge. Not for me. For Emma. She’d been hurt. In a way that makes you want to scrape your own skin off just to feel clean again.
I wasn’t angry that she’d lied, even if that lie could’ve screwed me over. I understood why she lied. She said I was the one who got her pregnant because she knew her father would force her into a marriage. And she’d apparently rather be shackled to me than… him. Or maybe she trusted that I had enough backbone to tell him to get fucked.
I do.
I did.
He wasn’t pleased.
I like Emma, but marrying at eighteen over a pregnancy that wasn’t even mine?
Hard pass.
***
Her mom had tears in her eyes when she asked me for money for the abortion. Behind her husband’s back. From what I’d seen of them, it was probably the first time she’d ever acted against his will.
Good for her.
Good for Emma.
I didn’t lend her the money. I paid.
***
I took Emma to the clinic today. Stayed with her, then brought her back to my place. Gave her a hot water bottle and chocolate. I didn’t know what else to do, so I just let her rest in my bed.
“Can you tell me the truth now?”
It didn’t matter anymore. But I wanted to understand.
Now I did.
Anger burned hot and sharp, like a brand pressed into my chest.
She cried when she told me that piece of shit had spiked her drink. My stomach clenched. I only half-listened. My mind was already filling with violent images. Creative ones. Everything I wanted to do to him. What I will do to him.
That fucker will regret not just what he did.
He’ll regret existing.
I forced my focus back on Emma. I never knew what to do with crying people. I shifted to sit next to her and pulled her head onto my shoulder, letting her sob into my T-shirt.
***
It left me raw. On edge. I’m not used to that.
I needed to fuck myself up.
Fuck someone up.
Fuck someone.
I didn’t care about the order.
But first, I needed something to take the edge off.
When I got to Reset, the party was already going strong. Most people were drunk or high or both. As I waited for Marcel, I watched a small group of rich kids who’d been showing up the past couple of weeks. One of them was clearly gay. The other two looked straight. One definitely was. The other, I’d bet, was bi. But he played straight with such confidence I was willing to believe he didn’t know it yet. I smirked. Been there. It could be confusing, especially when you grow up with a simple dichotomy of straight–gay. More commonly known as normal–faggot where I come from. I wasn’t sure where I belonged at the beginning either. What was I? Both? Neither? Something in between? Took me a while to figure it out.
Finally, Marcel showed up. Late, as always. And the only thing he had left was speed. Not what I wanted. I wanted something to take the edge off. Speed has never taken the edge off anything ever in the history of edges.
I took it anyway.
I went into the club bathroom with my little bag of white crystals and snorted a line off the sink. I watched my face in the cracked mirror as the familiar sensation kicked in.
First, the sharp sting in my nose. The bitter taste at the back of my throat. Pupils dilating. Breathing speeding up. Then the heartbeat.
Soon, the buzz of restless, chemically induced energy crawling under my skin. Looking for somewhere to go. I clenched my jaw. Gripped the edge of the sink tighter.
Less than a minute in, I felt like bursting out of my skin.
Fan-fucking-tastic. So much for taking the edge off.
The door opened and the music got louder. In the mirror, I saw a boy linger in the doorway, still speaking to someone outside before stepping in. The door shut behind him. The music dropped back to a muffled, pounding beat.
Our eyes met in the mirror.
For a moment he looked at me the way people often did the first time they saw me. Slightly stunned.
I looked good.
I knew that.
His clothes looked expensive. Not flashy, no big logos, but still expensive. Rich kid. Not one of those I’d noticed before. This one was new.
Beautiful.
It took him several seconds to wipe that stunned look off his face and replace it with something else. Casual. Indifferent. Almost disgusted.
I didn’t like that. Not tonight.
“The fuck are you staring at?”
His expression didn’t shift, his voice was all condescension and faint disgust.
“Some ghetto scum, I presume.”
I saw myself snarl in the mirror. Smoothed it into a smirk and turned to face him.
“That’s rich, coming from a spoiled brat wasting daddy’s money.”
That landed. His cheeks flushed.
Good.
“Oh, the Princeling doesn’t like that, does he?”
I stepped closer. Not sure why the next sentence came out of my mouth. Blame the drugs.
“But I bet you’d like it if I bent you over the sink.”
Nothing. No reaction.
“Thanks,” he said evenly. “I don’t bottom.”
The absurdity of it. The confidence. The way he said it like it settled something. Made me want to hit him. Made me want to prove him wrong. Made me want to wrap my hand around his throat.
I wasn’t even sure whether for pain or pleasure.
“Shame,” I said. Got even closer. “You’re pretty. You’d look good on my cock.”
He smelled good. Clean. Expensive. Like pampered privilege. Up close, I looked into his eyes for the first time. Now I was the one stunned for a moment.
He had the most beautiful eyes I’d ever fucking seen. Insanely green.
Not a hint of fear in them.
Interesting.
But before I had a chance to do or say anything else, the door opened again, and one of the original trio of rich kids entered. The straight-ish one.
“Hey Leo… ” He froze. “Oh. Hi…Tyra” he practically squeaked. This one was scared of me.
Reputation confirmed.
I smirked. Winked at the green-eyed brat and left the bathroom to mingle with the sweaty bodies on the dancefloor.
I should’ve forgotten him the moment I left.
I didn’t.
