The day started it off like this: Waking up early, readying myself for a start of another day of school, coming across Samuel on the way to the school, witnessing a fight that resulted in school property damage, skipping with Luke there after, and now I find myself on my couch with my hands in Luke's hair and his shirt on my floor.
He was urgently pushing me back into the armrest and his big hands cupped my thighs, raising them and wrapping them around my waist. I removed my lips from his and tilted my head back, exposing my neck to him, which he took to his advantage, nipping at it and placing kisses at the hollow of my throat.
I almost enjoyed it all. Almost.
Then I snapped back into reality. I didn't want Luke's hands all over me. It made me feel dirty, as if I had mud marks or dirt all over me. I pushed him away frantically. I was crying now; oh how the tears came around Luke. "Stop. Please." I cried. Luke looked up at me from his spot on my collarbone.
"Chey? Baby, what's wrong?" Luke muttered, his voice heavily accented when he was worried. "Nothing. Oh, nothing." I curled up into a little ball at the end of the couch and heaved silently, riding out the waves of cries. Luke, after staring at me for a couple seconds, picked me up as if I was as light as a feather and placed me in his lap, rocking me, murmuring sweet nothings.
I pressed my face into his chest then freak out when I remembered that he was shirtless. I sprang up and ran upstairs. Full on sobbing. What was wrong with me? I seriously needed therapy. I am not saying this because there is a boy downstairs and I fucked up.
No.
I am saying this because I, myself, am the fuck up. Look at me! I have healing scars up and down my arm and across my stomach hidden by shirt. I have bruises on my hips and my thighs from the hands of men who buy my body from me every night. My father abuses me and my mother watches. The light in my eyes has been killed. I think about scuicide constantly. I have no friends. I'm not anti-social because I want to be, I'm anti-social because people are repulsed by my big fat secret. And the fact that a very attractive boy is downstairs, about to find out any given day about that secret, is
worse.
I stumble to my bed, blinded by the tears. I clutch the pillow to my face and scream. Why I am reacting this way? What does Luke have that makes me react this horrible and terrible, childish way? Speaking of which, Luke walks into my room cautiously. I sit up and stop the sobs. When he sits at the edge of my bed, I scoot all the way to the headboard, bending my knees and wrapping my arms around my legs.
"Cheyanne," Luke sighs. It is now that I love his accent, when he worries for me, which is unhealthy, but the truth. "Chey. What is going on with you? With your life?" He asks. I shake my head. "I don't want to tell you," I sniffle.
Luke's eyes darken just a tad. Is he really angry with me? "Why?! When will you be able to tell me? It's October, Cheyanne. We've known each other three months. Isn't that long enough to tell someone something?" He asks bitterly.
I can't keep my mouth shut. "You can know someone your whole life and not tell them a word!" I snap. "It's all about trust!"
"Trust? Do you trust Samuel? Hmmm? Does that bloke know more than I do?" Luke fires back. I lean back, my mouth agape. Is Luke... jealous? As if just realising what he sounds like, Luke blushes and looks away. "I'm not jealous, if that's what you're thinking." My mouth turns up a bit.
I sniff and look at the digital clock on my nightstand. 10:45, third period had ten minutes to go. I look back up and notice Luke walking around my room. He opened my closet and I stand up.
"What. What are you doing?" I ask. "Let's find you something cozy to wear, because I wan to hear everything about you." Luke says, shuffling throug the hangers. I sit down on the edge of my bed. "What if don't wanna say anything? About me, I mean." I counter. Luke turns around.
