TW: Violence, suicidal ideation, non-sexual sadism and masochism.
Summer was on its way in. I could feel the dryness brush the back of my hand, chipping away at the layer of lotion I had coated myself in earlier. The sheaves of grass seemed sharper than usual as we walked through them. The crunch of our sneakers on the path was louder, and the sun’s glare seemed unusually vicious.
“It’s probably sometime this week, right?” I asked, glancing at him.
Our shoulders were so close, I could hear the fabric of his shirt whistle through the air as he swung his arms. We were lucky we didn’t knock each other down as we trod the narrow path through the dense brush.
He nodded. “Yes, this week.”
We trudged along in painful silence until we got to the clearing: a small, almost circular piece of land we called our own from the moment we found it twelve years ago.
We shuffled to our usual spot, still side by side despite not being constrained by the path. I slowed, falling behind him. Tilting my head back, I inhaled the hot air, allowing the radiant sun to beam down on my face. I brought my hands up, loving the force of the wind on my arms.
Life was beautiful.
Yeah, it got hard to see when the pressures of daily living got to me but in moments like this, an immense lust for life seized me and I found myself wishing I could taste the very heavens. I wanted to run my hands in the ocean and hear the electrifying sound of thunder in an open field.
Life was beautiful.
I dropped my arms and still feeling the buzz of happiness coursing through my veins, looked over to my friend. He’d settled at our spot—under a large willow tree on the edge of the clearing. Hands resting on raised knees, he watched me, eyes glinting with amusement. And more than a little…envy.
I hurried to him and plopped myself on a root next to him. His jeans felt coarse, scratching against my bare legs, yet I didn’t—couldn’t—pull away. There was about a hand’s width of distance between us, and it seemed too much.
“When exactly?” I asked.
I turned to him, our eyes meeting over a minuscule distance. The heat of his breath warmed my face as he laughed. His scent was intoxicating, and I was content to remain like that, compulsively breathing him in.
“I won’t tell you,” he whispered. I tasted the words more than I heard them.
I leaned in. “Why? Isn’t the whole point of this to make sure it doesn’t come as a surprise to me?”
He puckered his lips, and the slight motion altered the rhythm of the breaths fanning over me. “I think I’ve given you enough info. I’ve already told you that I’m going to die and when I’m going to die. If I tell you more, the police might think you’re involved. I don’t want that.”
I sighed—pushing all the disappointment and pain wriggling under my skin into that sound—and fell back on the grass below. He stared at me for a moment before following suit. The instant he hit the grass, we rearranged ourselves, pressing against each other until our breaths intermingled again.
Force of habit.
“You’re unhappy.”
I nodded.
“Are you unhappy because I’m not telling you more or because I’m going to die?”
I chuckled dryly. “What do you think?”
He closed his eyes and gave a small hum. “I think you’re unhappy I’m not telling you more.”
“Your mum is going to quiz me, you know.”
He leaned back to brush a spear of grass off his face and my skin rapidly chilled. I almost panicked but he leaned back in, blowing a soft breath on the tip of my nose as compensation and my heart quieted.
“Ask me then. I’ll answer as many questions as I can.”
“Tell me the day.”
He shook his head. “Can’t do that.”
I nudged him with my shoulder. “Okay, then tell me the method.”
He shook his head again. “Can’t.”
I stared into his bottomless eyes. “Will I be the one to find you?”
“No. I would…I would never do that to you.”
I shivered in relief, and he brought his arm around, wrapping it around me.
“Thank you,” I closed my eyes against the tears.
He wriggled slightly, bringing the tip of his tongue beneath my eyelashes to soak up my tears. “Will you hit me tonight?” he breathed against my eyelids.
“Hold me. And I’ll think about it.”
He held me, crushing our bodies together until I couldn’t breathe.
“What of murder-suicide?” I offered, a few minutes of silence later.
“Do you want to die?”
No. I didn’t want to die. I loved life. I wanted to see this summer and the one coming after it. I wanted to eat and dance and sing. I wanted those sleepless nights in the library, shoulders stiff as we hunched over our notes, eyes red and swollen from the lack of sleep. I wanted those salty takeout meals. That slight impatience furrowing my brows as I stood in an endless queue.
I wanted to feel the bite of winter’s air on my cheeks. I wanted to march through the sludge of snow, cursing when the moisture somehow sneaks itself into my boots. I wanted to live.
“But I don’t want to live without you, Jason. I don’t want to live without you.”
He sank his teeth into my earlobe. “I could never kill you.”
I looked into his eyes. How didn’t he understand that by planning his suicide, he was also planning my death? I’d told him over and over again. How much I loved him. Yet, I could feel him slipping through my fingers with every passing second. Even as I pressed our skins together, I could feel him slip away.
I hated it.
Therefore, I put up with him. Even then, as he meticulously planned his death. Even now, as his teeth broke my skin, even as I felt a bead of my blood snake down my neck. I never flinched, never pulled away. I bore with him, forcing my mind to focus on the beauty of the clearing.
When he was finished, he drew back with a shuddering exhale, his red tongue darting out to swipe at the blood staining his lips.
Paying the wound no heed, I rose, dusting the back of my shorts. “We should head back. The sun will set anytime now.”
“You want to go back to that noisy house?”
I shrugged, stretching slightly. “Not necessarily. But they might be wondering where we are.”
I bent over, offering him a hand. He clasped it, and I began to pull but he swiftly overpowered me and I fell into his arms. Our cheeks rubbed against each other, and a copper-iron scent quickly rose as blood smeared everywhere.
“Promise I won’t be the one to find you, Jason,” I finally said. “I won’t be able to take it.”
He nodded. “I swear it. I would have sworn on my life but…”
We both smiled at that and stumbled to our feet. Together, we retraced our steps to his car and returned to his house. As we neared the property, the thump of the music shook the air and I could almost see the waves of sound emanating from the house. I immediately felt a phantom pressure around my temples like I’d forced a rubber band onto my head.
He laughed as I rubbed circles into my temples. “You wanted to come back.”
“Your aunt’s fifty-six. Why is she still throwing parties like this?”
“Because she can and because my mother allows her? Besides, it’s her birthday.”
He parked the car, and we got out, slamming our doors shut in quick succession. He gestured to the back of the house. “Let's sneak back in. I can’t deal with them now.”
I nodded. The phantom headache was quickly turning into a real one. I was certain the music was shaking the earth beneath me. Thankfully, the neighbours were miles away in either direction or the police would have been parked nose-to-nose with Jason’s car.
We scurried around the side of the building and gingerly climbed up the roof drainpipe. He got the window open and climbed in, leaning back out to pull me up.
“Thanks,” I said, once I had my feet under me. Closing the window behind me, I pulled my shirt taut, frowning at the stains. “I was wrong. They didn’t miss us.”
“I told you. They still have a lot of party in their bones.” He stripped off his clothes, tossing them into the laundry bin on his way into the closet. In a few seconds, he was back with new clothes. “Here,” he said, tossing a few of them my way, “change into these. Those have grass stains all over them.”
I shed the stained clothes and pulled on the new set. They were mine but I wasn’t shocked that they were in his closet. My books were on his table and his shelves. I paid to fill up his car. Our phones were completely interchangeable.
It was nothing new. We’d lost our individuality the very first time we stumbled into that clearing.
“We should order dinner. I doubt we’ll be able to cook anything in the kitchen tonight.”
“Let’s hold off on that. It’s still early.” I pointed out the window. “Let’s wait till about eight.”
He smiled, stretching his hands towards me. “Cuddle till then.”
I couldn’t say no to that. We settled on the bed, pulling ourselves into our signature skin-melding pose. We remained cocooned in silence for about half an hour before he whispered, “You said you’ll hit me. I want it.”
I bit the inside of my mouth. If I showed my reluctance, he would push. “After dinner.”
“No. I want it now.”
My teeth clamped harder. “You know I hate it.” There was no use lying. Our time together was already so limited. “I don’t want to.”
As expected, he pushed. He broke our pose and sat up. I instantly hated the distance and the accompanying cold. But I didn’t want to fold to his desires.
“I saw you. Smiling at the sky. You were happy,” he spat, eyes glinting with that familiar anger and envy.
I sat up, feeling vulnerable lying on the bed. “Is that it? Is that what triggered you?”
“You were happy. Why don’t you want to do something that makes me happy?”
“Don’t ignore me, Jason.” I inched closer and put steel in my voice. “You saw me happy. Is that what brought about this request? You know I hate this. You want to make me unhappy. You want to—”
He looked away, shoulders sagging. “Let’s not fight.”
My mouth dropped. “Let’s not fight? You were about to fight a second ago. About what? Me being happy around you. Daring to smile around you. Not being suicidal like you. Not wanting to hit you.”
I was breathing hard. Good. It distracted me from the infernal distance. He was nearly an arm’s length away and I wrapped my arms around myself to keep from reaching for him.
“Don’t do this. I don’t want to hit you. I don’t want to fight. Let’s settle.” My skin was almost itching with desire. He didn’t move. “For God’s sake, come here.”
My hands shot out and I gripped him by the forearms, pulling him over me. We both shivered and moaned, resettling against each other.
“Let’s not fight. You know I hate it,” I pleaded, my heart aching with vulnerability. “You know I hate it when you pull away from me.” I knew I sounded needy, but I couldn’t help it. “Why do you do this every single chance you get?” A slight tremor set in, and I knew it was too much to hope he didn’t feel it. “You fucking hate me. I know—”
“I don’t hate you,” he interrupted.
“I don’t believe you,” I gasped. “Shit, Jason, you know how much I need you.” My teeth began to chatter, making my muffled words even more incomprehensible. “Do you hate me that much?”
Ever since he told me his plans to commit suicide, I had kept it tight. Never allowing the dam of immense emotions I felt to break. But now, after one…confrontation—could barely be called a fight—I was broken all over.
“I know you struggle, Jay. I know. But…am I not reason enough to give living a chance?” I twisted, trying to nestle closer to him, although that was physically impossible. “I didn’t want to beg you like this. Please, Jay. I need you. You know this. Are you trying to punish me?”
I pressed my lips against his neck, feeling the ridges of his throat with every breath he took. I was truly shaking now. I felt so vulnerable. It was a conflicting feeling. Like a cat exposing its belly to a monster that could rip out its guts or give it the softest pat. The person I wanted to comfort me was the person with the greatest ability to hurt me.
I wanted to pull away from him and untangle our limbs, fingers, clothes, and life. Yet, even this minuscule distance between us seemed canyon-like. I wanted our breaths in sync, and our hearts to beat to the same rhythm. I wanted blood to flow between us in a constant and closed loop.
“I don’t know how to live.”
The words rumbled against my lips, and I bit softly at the skin of his throat, urging him to continue. He did, the words spilling out of him in a great whispered rush.
“I saw you today. The way you looked around. The way you seemed to absorb the sky and the sun and the air. You were happy. You’ve always been happy. I can’t be like that. There is always something preventing me from being happy. You know this. So I figured I’d just give up. Maybe life wasn’t made for me. If I stay like this next to you, I might ruin it for you. Your happiness.”
He was shaking too. I understood this. Jason did not—could not—comprehend happiness. I couldn’t say if he’d ever been happy before, but he knew enough about the emotion to know he lacked it. He knew enough to envy those possessed by it.
He’d told me this so many years ago, long before the desire to commit suicide consumed him. It was mighty selfish of me, but I couldn’t let him go.
“Stay for me.”
“Hit me and I’ll think about it.”
So I hit him. Like zombies lacking a single thought, we went through the motions. He pulled off his shirt, draping it on the back of the chair, and retrieved the small cloth he’d begun to use as a gag from his bedside table. I slid the cane from its haunt under the bed, holding it in a sweat-slick palm.
He laid on his stomach, head tilted so his eyes could meet mine. He knew how much I hated this. Truly, it was not his punishment, it was mine. The price I had to pay for my request.
Swallowing, I raised my hand and brought the cane down in a harsh stroke. The first one was always the hardest. He jolted, spitting out the gag and jumping to his hands and knees. I waited, praying he couldn’t stand it, praying it would end.
No. After a few strained breaths, he lowered himself to the bed. “Again,” he demanded.
I obeyed. Morbidly, we soon found a rhythm. I flogged and he grunted. I wanted him to cave in. I wanted him to tell me it was too much. To tell me he couldn’t take this anymore. I wanted to win this, at the very least.
He didn’t give in. Not when his back was covered in swollen welts. Not when the welts broke, staining the sheets a mesmerising red and soaking them.
I raised the cane once more, staring at the bleeding expanse of his back. This would be the stroke that would break him. It had to be. He couldn’t take more of this. I struck him and he flinched but remained silent.
Again, his eyes demanded.
“Please.” My voice cracked and I lowered the cane, all the muscles in my arm protesting as I did. “I’ve done enough. I don’t want to do this anymore.”
He stared at me, and I feared he would make me continue but he just nodded, pulling himself up. The sheets were stained with sweat, and he wiped his forehead with a shivering arm.
“Food,” he whispered. “Order dinner. Then sneak out the back to get it.”
I wiped my damp palms on my shorts and shuffled over to the table where my phone lay. When I turned back to him, he was sitting upright. I tugged him, careful not to touch his back and resettled him on the chair.
Once more, I went through the motions. I tore the stained sheets off the mattress, replacing them with a fresh set. I urged him into the bathroom, shedding my clothes as I followed him in.
I washed him then washed myself. Once we were clean, I dressed his wounds and pushed him into bed.
“Lie on your stomach.” He watched as I plucked the blood-red cotton wool and bits of gauze off the floor. I folded the gag as best as I could and wiped the cane clean, sliding it under the bed.
I wish I could break this devilish thing.
My phone rang. The food was here. “I’ll go get it and come right back.”
He nodded, muted. The flogging always calmed and soothed him in some strange way that I could not explain. His eyes seemed much rounder and his face much smoother. His gaze was unfocused, pensive and, introspective.
It was after I hit him two months ago that he’d come up with his suicide plan. I wonder what he was thinking of now.
The party downstairs was dimming. The music was no longer bone-thumping, and the raucous laughter didn’t seem raucous anymore.
I didn’t need to sneak around but I went through the back, picked up the food and paid the delivery guy. I took the steps back up, dodging his mom's drunken embrace.
We ate, laughed and winced with every third breath.
Sleep consumed us and as we slipped into unconsciousness, he said, “Do you promise me? When you don’t want me anymore, you’ll let me go? I can’t live like this.”
I nodded. “I promise.”
In the meantime, I would take him around the world. I would show him every beautiful thing I had ever seen and all the beautiful sounds I had ever heard. And if it all, he decided that life still wasn’t worth living, maybe we would meet our end together.