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His face always reminded me of something pure. An angel, a lamb, a child, a bunny. Reminded me of myself, like a version of me that didn't follow the same dirty path. His wrists were clean, he didn't keep old syringes and he had friends. I was more of a Lucifer, the same holiness you could find in angels, but with a hint of utter depravity, my past clear on my whole body. My hands, stained with sin and the blood of the pure, craved to corrupt him, as I had done with myself. Yet there he was. Ethereal, untainted by the filth that breathed so close to his neck.
I know I don't deserve him, but I want it. I want it so much it burns. He was sitting on the floor, head layed on the edge of my bed, smoke dragging itself out of that pretty mouth. The same mouth I ache to kiss in the most wild way, something primal and untamed, just so the marks of my teeth could bruise his skin forever. I could almost feel the nicotine on his tongue, and I wanted to taste it off his throat. I want him to look in the mirror and find me reflected, to never be forgotten.
But I knew he could never be mine. His purity was something I couldn't understand anymore, out of reach for my dirty form. I would always be someone who stained what was pure, making it ugly and humane. And yet, I couldn't resist the lure of him. With every touch I would leave my mark, and with every moment more obsessed I became. I wouldn't fight it much longer.
I dragged my fingers through his hair. My pale, long and bruised skin brushing against what I could just call perfection, the right combination of everything. His hair isn't quite curly, but it isn't straight, either. The color is like a mix of blonde and brown, the best of both worlds. Everything about it makes me want to cut it out, drag it with me like a promise, but also want to brush it and caress it until my fingers turn red. That's all that I was with him. Want. Desire. But he never let me get closer.
He made a sound of approval, leaning into the touch. The sight of him made something turn on my head, a shiver running down my spine. I wanted more.
“Ethy” I said, “don't smoke too much. I don't want your friends accusing me of shit again.”
He groaned, closing his eyes and not listening to me at all. I didn't actually mind it, though. When he was high, he didn't look at me weirdly or asked too many questions. And I wanted to hear my own thoughts today.
That's the thing about his pureness. I hated it the same as I loved it. How could someone be so happy even when this world is so cold? how could someone so fucked up still be able to get up everyday? I didn't get it, but I was jealous. I want him to know what my world is like. To feel my pain, my hate, and my loneliness. To have the same desire of opening up his skin as a proof of the sins of others, to flirt with death, but be denied of the full thing. I drifted my hand lower, caressing the back of his neck, wishing to grab the bunny's neck and twist it until his breathing turns as shallow as mine.
His breath hitched, and my excitement grew. “Your hand is cold”, he said. I didn't reply.
I knew what I was doing. Dirtying him the same way I fantasized about, my sinful hands brushing over this holy thing, so sacred it shouldn't be touched. I wonder what he would do if he knew what I was thinking. Maybe he would be okay with it. He was always one to forgive me anyways. “I don't think you are a bad person”, he would say, “I can find beauty in you, even if you are full of self destruction.” But right now my hands were stained in the blood from the pure, and I was dragging it on his skin, wondering how dirty I could get him before he was taken away from my hands again. That's how it feels to be sinned , I thought. And you still look so beautiful with it.
That's when I made my choice. I knew he had seen it before, I didn't exactly try to hide it. My arms, legs and soul were full of them, everywhere. Even places you wouldn't think would be possible. But he never said anything, of course. He's too much of a nice friend to do that. But I wanted him to. I craved him to judge me. And that's what's wrong with me, I wanted, wanted and wanted too much, too much for anyone to handle. But that wasn't my problem for now.
“Hey,” I started, “do you know I have a tattoo?”
He took a bit to answer me. I knew he was already fading, but I really couldn't wait. “No” he said, with the same unfocused voice I dreamed about. “Where?”
“In my back. Do you want to see it?”
He opened his eyes, and looked like he was thinking about it. He doesn't think much though. “Sure” he said, sitting up and turning to me. “Is it a cool one?”
“Pretty cool. Wait.”
Before I did anything, I took my gloves and my bracelets away. He had to see the full thing.
His eyes trailed down to it. Mouth agape, but no actual surprise in his eyes. Oh, I loved when he looked at me. His dark eyes made me drown, and I always wondered what they would look like when he was in love. I eventually found out, but not towards me. After my gesture sank in, he moved his eyes to meet mine again, ignoring the marks I wanted him to see. Like he always did, it could never be the way I wanted. But today was different. Today is the day the bunny finds out what rotten prey looks like.
I turned my back to him, and took my shirt off without any warning, and then the bra. The ink on my back was bare to him, but I felt it. His eyes weren't on it, only on the old scars, the ones I once was determined to make. I smiled, my mind filled with thoughts of little high angels getting dirty on my hands, me pulling out their wings and choking them on their little halos. May God forgive him for letting me get a hold of his skin.
“What…” He gasped. My smile only grew, but he couldn't see it. “Oh my god, Tracy. I’m so sorry.”
What.
That was not the reaction I was looking for. I glanced behind me, and I found his eyes. Shock. Sadness. Pity . I hated it. I wanted it to stop. I was the hunter, not the prey. My years of being the bunny already ended. But he didn't get it. I wanted him to judge, to be scared, to fear. But he didn't.
Suddenly, I became way too aware of my state. Topless, with my body and thoughts completely bare, I was a prey again, nothing more than the desperate bunny who begged to not be eaten by the wolf. His eyes were still focused on the scars, but my body made me want to throw up. Pale, sick and with its only curves being the bones that forcefully try to stick out of my skin, something that I'm usually proud of, completely at show. I started to cry.
“Stop it” I begged, “stop looking at me like that. I'm fine. This is the most punk rock shit possible. This is cool.”
His sad eyes met mine again. “Tay” he said, “Does it still hurt?”
“No. They stopped hurting after I did.” I replied, my voice barely louder than a whisper, covering myself with my hands. “I don't even feel it anymore.”
He stared back at it, and I could hear the question on his tongue, but I didn't want to answer it. Not yet. But he asks it anyway.
“I'm sorry.” he pauses. “Can I touch it?” he asks, like a kid who just found out about something new. Besides anything, I only nod and look straight again.
I feel his fingers brush against one of them, tracing it like a drawing. It made me feel disgusted, but I still craved it like air. I wanted to rip his hands apart and make him pay for touching something so stained, but I resisted. Ethan was still there, holy and pure, caressing me like i would break if he pressed it too hard. His touch quickly became focused, and I felt the gentle caress in the biggest scar. I hated how nice he could be, but my mind adored feeling it. I wasn't disgusting to him, just different. Underneath his eyes I became a person, a human with actual feelings, and under his touch I was loved. I cried even more, knowing only the blade had come this close.
“I'm sorry I wasn't there,” he said, after a while. “I would have cleaned it for you. I swear. I'm sorry you had to go through that on your own.”
I wanted to ignore it. To brush off his words, pretend they didn't get to me. But something about him pierced through my defenses. “I don't need your pity,” I snapped back, trying to gain my control.
He flinched at my words, but didnt pull his hands away. “It's… It's not pity, Tay. It's empathy.” I heard that word countless times, but it sounded different now. Because it came from him.
His gentle touch was too much for me. I remembered all those times, times when I hurted myself and others, all the anger and frustration that still lurked in my mind, fear and vulnerability begging to be left out. But he didn't see any of that. Instead, he looked at me like a friend. Like something that deserved love.
“You can't fix me.” I sobbed, turning to look in his eyes. He met mine, and I found sorrow in them. But there was something else too. Something that reminded me of being a kid, having someone to brush my hair and kiss my knees when I fell.
He leaned forward, kissing my forehead in a way that made everything else seem dull. “Maybe not,” he admitted. “But I can learn to understand you.”
I knew his hands were unholy now. Touching a dirty thing like this, and loving it, was simply disgusting. But I didn't mind. When he opened his arms to me, I let myself fall in his embrace. Maybe that's the real difference between us. He told me about love, and I replied with violence.
And for a moment I wished I wasn't the rotten bunny. I didn't need pureness or control or anything other than being human. And for now, that was enough.