Bittersweet Meeting

AUTHOR\'S NOTE: This is a warning, this chapter contains some graphic description of non-con and it invovles a minor. Though it is important to the story line, it may not be suitable for all.

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She’d been there for two weeks. He worked at one of those small mail shops, the kind where you can get a PO Box, pick up office supplies or make photocopies of things. She’d found a shelf stocking position in a local market. After that first night, they didn’t talk about the fact that she was there, living on his couch, because she’d tried to get him to pay her for sex, or that he’d been specifically in that part of town to find someone to pay for sex. They especially didn’t talk about the fact that they had both intended to overdose on heroin following the sex. Instead, they talked about the weather, about her new job and his old one, or who was going to make dinner that night.

Tonight was her turn for meal preparation, and she had ridden his bike to the corner market to pick up a few things. Though they’d stopped each other from attempting to take their own lives that night, both were obviously still dealing with things that were difficult to overcome. She assumed that his tireless, everything is alright, I’m okay you’re okay attitude was going back to normal for him. For her, a kind of mindless numb make it through the next activity attitude had set in. Though she knew how to cook, and cook fairly well, she wasn’t up for much more than cheap spaghetti noodles and marinara out of a can. Fresh grated parmesan and a couple of bottles of wine were how she planned to dress it up.

He always kept some fresh produce around. He was meticulous, his kitchen was spotless, and he ate fairly healthy foods, often spending an hour or two cooking before sitting down for a meal. She found it a bit surprising. Most of the men and a fair few of the women she had known hadn’t paid much attention to what they put into their bodies. When it was her turn to cook, she always made sure she prepared a salad, or a fresh fruit dessert, so that he could have his daily dose of preservative free food.

As she was washing the lettuce and tomatoes, she heard the jingle of the keys and the clang of the chain, followed by the echoing clatter of the elevator grate.

“John?” she called out.

“Yeah, it‘s me,” he responded, shutting the gate. His footsteps sounded hollow on the concrete floor as he made his way toward the kitchen. The legs of a barstool scraped on the floor, and she put the lettuce into a colander to dry before turning around to look at him.

“You look tired today,” she noted as she studied his form. He had lowered his head onto his arms which were crossed on the counter.

“Just been a really long day,” he said. Normally he would inspect the boiling pots on the stove a make a teasing comment about her love for sodium and starch. This evening he looked as though he could hardly keep his eyes open. The worry lines in his forehead appeared deeper. He looked old.

“What happened? Something bad?” she queried.

He grunted before responding. “No, pretty much the same stuff. It was just quieter in the store today than usual. I had a lot of time to think.” He sat up as he spoke, then propped his elbows on the counter.

“Wine?” she offered.

“Yeah, sounds good.”

She handed him a glass, then finished preparing the meal. She set the food up on the island, and then joined him there, rather than having him move to the dining room. Their meal passed in relative silence, both were contemplating what he was probably thinking about all day. By the time they were done, the first bottle of wine was empty, and she moved to open the second.

“Why did you want to do it? Why did you try so many times? I know you said it was too much, but I don’t really understand. What was too much?” His voice was earnest as he asked the questions, the words all came out in a rush.

She refilled his glass, and then put her empty one into the sink. In its stead, she got out a tumbler, and filled it with ice and then an ample portion of whiskey. She gulped down half of it before letting the ice cool it, then refilled it, and sat down beside him again.

“Do you want the long version, or the short version?” she asked, resigned to the fact that she would tell him tonight.

“I want whatever you are willing to give me,” he said gently, then sipped his wine. His eyes were fixed on her, though he was waiting for any indication that she might want him to look away, look at something else.

She breathed heavily for a moment, in and then out, as though she was looking for the breath that would give her the courage to start. And then she asked him a question.

“Do you remember that party at that girl’s apartment, when we first knew each other? The night I tried to seduce you?”

“Yes, I do,” he answered. “You were drunk. You were sixteen and you were drunk. And I was twenty three and almost took you up on it. I didn’t want you that way, regretting doing something because you were drunk when you did it.”

“I was eighteen actually, and maybe I was drunk. But that’s not what motivated me. I was desperate. I wanted to feel something stronger than what I normally felt, and the alcohol wasn’t strong enough. I wanted the feelings you get from sex. Sex had helped before to overpower all the other crap in my head, and that night I wanted it from you.” She took another sip of her whiskey.

“For a long time, I didn’t think about my actions. I didn’t regret anything. Everything I did, I did in the moment, and nothing else mattered. For years, actually. From the time I was twelve and eight months, nothing was more important that right now. Because as long as I was in right now, as long as I was fully immersed in what was going on in the moment, I wouldn’t have to think about what happened, and how to deal with it.” She paused, then, and swirled the alcohol around in her glass, ice tinkling delicately, before taking another swallow.

He wanted to ask her what happened, but was tentative about interrupting her, afraid that she would stop talking. He knew from experience that people needed time to talk out what they were having the most difficulty with, so he stayed silent.

“Up until I was twelve and eight months, I wanted to be a lawyer. I always wanted to get in there, discuss the rights and wrongs, prove my case. I wanted to be a defense lawyer. My mom always told me I may have to defend the guilty, and in my youth I said I wouldn’t take them on unless I truly believed they were innocent. My dad said I should go into business law, or environmental law, because I could make a lot of money there. He was always the businessman at heart. I always said the money didn’t matter, and that I would work for free, because I would be a really good lawyer, and if people couldn’t pay me, they shouldn’t miss out on my services just because of that. God, I was young.” With this statement she shook her head and got up to start rinsing dishes.

He followed her, standing beside her after refilling his glass so that he could hear her over the running water.

“When I was twelve and eight months, my god brother coerced me into having oral sex with him. The year before I had made out with him, and he had sucked on my breasts, put his fingers in me. I had stroked his dick. And now, when we were working in the grain plant together again over the summer, he coerced me into having oral sex. It took him fucking weeks. He kept asking and asking and I just wanted him to fucking shut up. Just shut up, you know? And so I agreed to let him lick me, experience and learn from me, because that is what he wanted. And I even had a god damned orgasm...I wasn’t even thirteen yet, for god’s sake!” With this she violently turned off the faucet, chugged down the rest of her whiskey, and then refilled her glass.

He followed her again, this time through the archway and into the living room. He sat on the couch as she paced before him.

“And then, as though it wasn’t humiliating enough hiding behind the pallets with stacks and stacks of grain sacks around us, in the dust and the dirt on the floor, with my shorts and underwear around my ankles, he wanted my to suck his god damned cock. And I so didn’t want to, and I told him no. And he told me that since I had done that for my boyfriend, I should do it for him. And though I didn’t think that argument was sound, he had his hand on my wrist and I tried to pull away but he was older and stronger and smarter than me and he fucking wore me down, and I just agreed to get it over with.”

Angrily, she wiped tears away from her face. Though she had told her parents later, and counselors and friends that she had been molested, this was the first time she had actually described what had happened, what had really happened. Nobody had ever let her just talk before.

“He told me what to do, what felt good, and I just did it. I just wanted it done. And he was so fucking big. Since him I’ve never seen anyone as big. Then finally, he came. Before he did though he grabbed my head and shoved it down. I gagged on him, on the come surging in my mouth. But after he rasped out ‘swallow it’ I swallowed the whole god damned thing. Fuck!” With this she went to the window and slammed her forehead against the cool pane.

He got up quickly, and went over to her. Tentatively, he placed a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t respond to his touch, she didn’t even move. Instead, she merely opened her eyes to stare at the city traffic below her. Then she continued. This time, her voice was soft, barely above a whisper.

“It took three months for anyone to say anything to me. After that day, I had developed a sort of get through the day attitude. I pretended to the best of my ability to still be me, but I was just broken. And I had started having these horrible nightmares, about being really small, and holding a larger boy’s hand. He would lead me through a door and down some stairs, and then through another door. Then I would sit with him on his bunk bed. The wood was light, the blankets were dark blue with some sort of cowboy pattern. And he would pull a tootsie roll pop off of the head board, and tell me if I closed my eyes and opened my mouth he would let me lick it. And so I would. But what I licked was not a sweet, room temperature candy. Instead it was warm, and soft, and somewhat salty. It felt like a finger tip, only softer. And then he would tell me to keep my eyes closed, and he would move it so that I could lick it better. And I would, and he did.” She wiped the tears off her face, this time much more gently. But she still didn’t look at him.

“And so, my mom finally said something. Tensions between her and I had gotten much higher. Maybe I blamed her and maybe she had what psychologists talk about, that weird jealously of a younger daughter just in bloom while her own is fading or whatever. But during one of our early morning fights she finally yelled, ‘what the hell is wrong with you lately?’ and I just broke. I started crying and I sat down at the kitchen table. She sat down next to me and asked me softly this time, what was wrong? And I told her what he had done to me, and the dreams I was having. And you know what she said? There was no hug, there was no swearing to get the guy who did this to me. What she said was, ‘They told us you wouldn’t remember.’ And I was like what the fuck?”

She turned then, abruptly, knocking his hand from her shoulder. “You know what I found out, John? I had been molested for two years as a young child. From the time I was two until the time I was four, by the son of a woman who babysat me while my parents were at work. And they had sent me to counseling, and he had gone to counseling, and everything was okay, because the doctors had told them I wouldn’t remember. And so this time, they said, well, we’ll just send you to counseling, and we’ll talk to his parents, and they’ll send him to counseling. After all, my dad’s insurance paid for six months of counseling, and that would surely be enough.” She slammed back the glass of whiskey she had been ignoring and then placed it on the coffee table roughly.

“Oh, but here is the cream of the crop!” she panted, pointing a finger at him. “My counselor, the one who is supposed to help me through all of this, who told me that anyone putting anything into anyone’s orifice against their wishes was rape, suggested that she call my god brother and we all meet up for ice cream and resolve all of this. Fucking ice cream! And to top it all, my parents still to this day go over to his parents house, still spend holidays and birthdays and whatever else over there. Still talk to him. And my mom still makes me feel guilty for not going. And every so often she brings him up in polite conversation. What he’s doing, where he’s at, how his wife is. Fucking hell!”

With that comment she slumped down onto the couch, studying her knees intensely. “I really tried, John. I really tried. I wanted to be everything they wanted me to be. Smart, funny, popular, and successful. And to a certain extent, I was. I was a 3.8 student in high school. I was involved in debate, community theater, and choir. I had friend, and boyfriends, and the teachers knew who I was. But after that, aside from that, there was all this other. I tried alcohol, I tried pot. Finally, I discovered that sex was the only thing that helped. Four, five times a day. If I could have it, I wouldn’t think about what had happened, I wouldn’t think about the fact that I had given all of that to someone, that I had been too weak to stop it, that I had fucking said yes. I was the guilty party. And though I was angry that no one punished either of them, I think I was angrier still that no one punished me. But I couldn’t give up my duel life. I had to be what they wanted. And the sex helped me forget.”

She leaned forward then, swiping her hands over her face in an exhausted motion. Then pushing them back behind her head, only to lean back on the couch and look him strait in the eye.

“After a while, even the sex stopped helping. I just wanted it over. I couldn’t have another conversation with my mother, with my friends, pretending that everything was just great, and I was so happy, and I was right on track. And I absolutely refuse to be a junky. I would not go harder than pot or alcohol or the occasional acid hit. That’s probably why I turned to sex in the first place. I tried the knife first. When that failed, I decided to go with hard drugs. One heavy dose of something I’ve never done before should’ve killed me instantly. But I couldn’t afford the amount that I needed. That’s why you found me where you did.”

He realized this was the end of her story, but he had no idea what to say.

“Jesus, Lydia,” he started, “I had no idea...”

“Don’t John, just don’t,” she held up her hand in protest of his words. “I just want to get drunk and pass out now, alright?” She got up and picked up her glass, starting to head toward the kitchen for a refill.

John drew in a breath. “I’m HIV positive,” he said under his breath. “I didn’t want to die like that...Thought I would end it in my own way.”


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To TheScarlettLetter:

This story was originally intended to be a three parter, spread over a long period of time. Your questions made me want to expand it, so I have been working on that. As to how the story ends, I already know that. As to what happens in between, more comments and questions would be greatly appreciated. I never intended to say the why\'s or how\'s for her, only for him. Thank you for spurring me on into more storyline, and making me realize it was necessary.


To heartgrenade13:

Aw...I\'m blushing. Your comments this evening forced me to finish the second chapter I started after Scarlett made me. I hope this meets your standards. I will continue to do what I can to feed your hunger for my stories...