Save Me

Chapter Two

In my head, I knew that I was a slut. I knew that was how people must see me, everyone that knew me, every guy that I fucked around with. They must have known. I never tried to hide it. I didn't make it obvious either, but it wasn't hard to guess.

It was the way that I would touch them, the way my fingers would glide along their skin so effortlessly, or the way my mouth would plant soft, hard, slow, fast kisses along the surface of their bodies. It was like I was an expert, like I'd done it a thousand times before - because I had.

The way that I could so easily know their bodies, control them and their minds. I'd been with so many now that I'd lost count. Most people count their fucks, so they know in their head how big of a whore they were. So they could tell themselves, it's only eight guys, that's not that many. It's only nineteen, that's okay for my age. It was when you started to lose count that you really had to worry.

Was it thirty, or forty, or fifty? I'd stopped counting after twenty, so I could never be sure now. I knew I must have been somewhere between fifty and a hundred, and I knew that made me a whore. But I didn't care. I guess that was why I stopped counting: because I stopped caring. It was better not to care about them, it made the sex so much better, and it made it easier for me to hurt them.

I'd grown to like playing with boys' heads. No, I'd grown to love it, to need it. The feeling of a body underneath my own, of knowing that I was in control of them, and there was nothing that they could do to stop me - I'd become addicted. But it was an addiction that I embraced.

The boys, they were all meaningless to me, blurry and boring. Only a few even managed to stand out, and not many stayed for long. I got bored of the warm bodies lying beside me, I got bored of their faces and their mouths. The way they spoke and moaned, or the way they held themselves. Bored of their personalities, or the small glimpses of them that I got to see. I suppose I just became bored of all of them, everything about them, that in the end, I'd silently cut ties and we'd never really see each-other again.

But there were still a few boys that managed to inevitably slip through my barrier, boys who's faces would never bore me, who's bodies I'd never grow tired of. Boys who's eyes would haunt me in my dreams. They were the worst, because I knew I'd never be able to forget about them. They were a part of me now, their names carved into the seams of my heartstrings forever and ever and ever.

And I hated it, how some of them had managed to crawl under my skin and nest there until the day I die, laying eggs of unhappiness and feeding off of me like parasites. That was what love felt like to me. It was twisted, and it never worked out well in the end.

At the time, I wouldn't even know, I wouldn't even think. But the more guys I fucked, the easier it was to tell they were getting under my skin. That was usually when I'd break free of them, end things, to stop myself getting hurt. From letting another name be clawed onto my insides, or from letting their pleading brown eyes be glued to the back of my eyelids every time I went to sleep.

This boy was the one that I'd been fucking the longest. He was nothing special. I didn't even like him that much, and he never really got under my skin, but I never became bored with him either. So I'd kept him around, and we'd fuck occasionally. The way he liked to fuck, I could never get bored of it. The best thing about him was how quickly he'd run away after sex, too. He never liked to stay too long. In a way, he was the perfect fuck buddy.

I watched him picking up his clothes from the floor quickly, in a hurry to leave after the sex. His face was flustered a bright red, his body still shaking and his skin fogged by the clouds of bruises I'd left for him. My gift to him, I guess. He'd probably stare at himself in the mirror later, alone, staring at each and every bruise. Maybe he'd cry in self-hate, or maybe he'd smile. Whatever he did, he'd still look, and he'd think of me every time he did. It gave me a kind of power over him, the kind that I relished.

I lay still on my bed, watching him where he hurried.

"In a hurry, again?" I asked, smiling still, wondering what lie he'd concoct this time. It was fun to watch him squirm under my gaze, trying hard to make eye contact with me, but scuttling to the floor in defeat anyway.

"Gotta go," was all he said this time.

He never even bothered to make up lies anymore, he just feared my company, and I couldn't blame him. I was poison, toxic. I was the real parasite, feeding on boys and throwing them aside once they opened up to me. He was right to keep his vulnerabilities as far from me as possible, because if he dared to reveal them, I wouldn't know what I would do. At the back of my mind, though, I knew I'd end up ripping him apart.

Whether it was today or tomorrow, that was always how it ended. I'd either cut the ties too early and never see them again, or I'd do it too late, and I'd crush them. I'd forever be the bastard that destroyed their confidence, their self-esteem, and left them unable to move on from me.

I knew, one day, the cute blond boy standing in front of me would be wet with tears. His face would be streaming, dazzling in them, drenched in them. Drowning in them. His body would be left shivering and bruised, but that time, for the last time. And his mind, well, I'd fuck that up the most. It was what I did. It was what I was best at, even when I don't realise I'm doing it.

"I'll call you when I fancy another go," I told him, turning over onto my stomach so that I could get to sleep. "Switch off the light on your way out."

He did, and slammed the door behind him once he'd gone. He never even said goodbye, just grabbed all of his clothes from the floor, tossed them loosely back on, and left. I couldn't decide in my head if it was better that he left straight after, or worse. I couldn't decide whether or not I actually wanted him to stay. Maybe that was just because he never did.

"Bye, Bobby," I whispered after him, turning over on my mattress and kicking off the discarded bed sheets. It was going to be a warm night, and I hated sleeping in used sheets anyway.

That was his name. Bobby Benjamin. The boy I'd inevitably break, just like all the others. In the back of my head, I knew I'd do it in the end. I just couldn't tell whether or not I was feeling sad about it, or excited. Whether or not I actually wanted to break him, and that was always a bad sign.

Maybe his name was becoming one of the names scraped into me. I couldn't let it happen again, though. I didn't want a third name carved there, not after what happened to the others.

I didn't want to hurt him like I'd hurt them.

But I knew, in the end, I inevitably would.

A.N. I've added Evan Peters to the cast as the recurring character Bobby, who shows himself a couple times throughout this entire series. In this book, I'm still undecided whether or not to make him have more of an appearance - what do you think? He's a bit of a nerd, but I'm not interested in making him Isaac's love interest cos he's too sexually boring lmao.

Well, anyway, I hope you liked this chapter. It was a bit full of sex, but I hope it also gave you a kind of peek into Isaac's head to see how he ticks.

Until next time, xoxo, Clay.