Malice

Every time I stepped into his room an opiate-like high permeated me, a euphoric sense of relapsing back into a cataclysmic habit that feels like home. It was the sedated bliss of knowing what lay ahead: I’d consume enough wine for nothing to make sense anymore, inhale vapor and exhale a thick fog as the tranquility of nicotine washed over me, and he would rupture the delicacy with his cunning cruelty, dragging me by the hair around his bed in moments so potent they stretched on with a false sense of permanence, leaving me inconsolable and suicidal the next morning on my drive home. The relief that spread through my body upon walking through his door was so magical I could never imagine escaping his grasp and would sooner rather die. He laughed when I begged Tighter as his hands wrapped around my neck, the word barely forming in my throat, coming out as more of a cough. But eventually he could never grip tightly enough, always sparing me asphyxiation; he could never hit me hard enough, penetrate me deeply enough. He could never condescend me harshly enough, ignore me long enough. I reached 134 ****** Avenue and wondered why he invited me at all instead of making me wait miserable and lonely at home for his elusive texts, where all of my pain would build up so it could be swept away upon his presence. There was not enough pain anymore. My tolerance was growing. He wasn’t enough. Tighter, I plead, but he always stopped, and I rolled my eyes when he refused to kill me, tired of his uninspired sadist role and methods of manipulation that led to nowhere. He couldn’t commit to his malice just as he couldn’t commit to me.