Let Me Tell You About Michael

Michael was my first adult love.

I was 18 and he was 33.

We met when I was dating his neighbor. A boy I went to school with who was sweet and all but just wasn’t ready.

We were drinking at Michael’s house (something that had become an every Saturday night thing) when my boyfriend passed out early.

I guess it wasn’t just my imagination that Michael had been flirting with me all night because it didn’t take long for him to kiss me. It was just a second after he had pulled me into the bathroom with him.

The universe is a great prankster when you are trying to be quiet. A hairbrush falls in the sink after strong hands pick you up by the hips and set you on the counter. Aspirin bottles rattle over and roll and make the sound of snakes warning before the strike.

I bit at my lip until I gave up and bit at his.

“I’ve always wanted to fuck you” he whispered in my ear and made the hair on the back of my neck stand straight.

I was in love.

He was both of the men I needed him to be. The protective one who gave me everything and the one who destroyed me and took what he needed.

“Meredith?” I heard my boyfriend moan from the other room.

He sounded so helpless that I had to go to him.

Michael wouldn’t stop.

It only made me love him more.

My eyes fluttered until the lights became strobes and my head convulsed against his chest like I was a crazy woman headbutting the wall in a padded cell.

Sympathy became a frightened fly on the edge of a cup as a hand reached for a drink. As if magic had wished it away.

I felt it bouncing in me. The sound I was going to make. Hitting the wall of my stomach and returning the serve to my back as it moved me with it. Getting higher and higher off my chest and and faster and faster up my throat until it was alive in the confines of the bathroom.

I lived with Michael for two years after that.

I have still never forgiven myself for what I did to that boy. 

I hope he is still sweet. 

Wherever he may be. 

He didn’t deserve to be with someone as ugly as me. 

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Author: The Unamused Muse

You know me better than I do.

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