Harrison Avenue // H.S.

Cohen

           

Just wanted to put a little warning at the beginning of this just in case this is a tough subject for anyone: there are some elements of sexual assault in this one (thought it's not super detailed). If this is something you'd rather not read, I would suggest stopping after the first part.

[Elle]

I didn't think that I still cared.

I thought that every ounce of care was sucked out of me years ago. I thought that whatever my mom said, whatever she did, I thought I was over it. I've realized in this moment though that maybe that's just a lie I tell myself to justify everything I do. I do care what my mom says. I do care what my mom does. And honestly, I don't think that's a bad thing considering that I'm only fifteen and being a teenager is the fucking worst and makes me more emotional than I'd ever like to claim to be.

I didn't think that I still cared, but now it's clear that I actually care a whole fucking lot, because I wouldn't be in this position if I didn't.

Irrational, impulsive decisions are made because of it though... decisions I probably wouldn't make otherwise, and I don't know why I do it to myself but it just happens. It's like I'm trying to self-destruct and I know it, but I can't seem to stop.

The thing is, I should have known better. I should have known after years, years, and years of the same repetitive dismissal for the things that I find important, that trying one last attempt would make any difference. I should have known better. It's just, I'm not a complete pessimist... not yet at least, but I think based on where things are headed at the moment I might be getting there soon. It's just, I thought maybe, maybe things would be different this time.

I was wrong.

"Elle," it's his voice and it makes my stomach churn.

"What?" my response back is short, aggressive, and a little cold.

"Jesus," he's quick to take note of my attitude. This is how I usually am, with everyone else that is. But for some reason, he has the power to make me soft sometimes so he'll get taken aback by my usual reactions to people. "Don't take your shit out on me. I'm not the bad guy here."

He says that but I don't believe him.

So I turn my head to him, pulling up the sheet that's over my body a little higher so my bare chest is completely covered. His hair is messy, his cheeks a little flushed still and there's nothing in his face that feels safe or comforting or good. Yet, I keep getting myself into this position with him.

It makes me feel sick.

This isn't the first time. It's not even the second time... I don't know how many times it's been. We're not even friends, because I don't have friends and he's not someone I would ever want to be friends with even if I did want one. He's a senior and I suppose if we were in a movie he would be the popular guy in school that every girl thought was hot and wanted to date. And he is hot, I'll give him that much, but he definitely isn't from one of those movies where the hot, popular boy also has a nice streak. To put it simply, he's an asshole.

For some reason though there's something that he finds interesting about me and I've gotten completely sucked into it. He's older than me, and he has plenty of girls who would fall at his heels who are not fifteen, but I've done something to capture his attention.

I would say that the something is sleeping with him, because that's obviously why we spend any time together at all. I'm not the only girl who would sleep with him though. I can think of at least twenty other girls who actively try to, and yet, he chooses me.