Unzipped

I have this therapist. She tells me to locate my feelings. 

Don’t try to analyze them, just locate. 

Are they in your head? Your eyes? In your lungs? Your stomach? Your heart? 

I tell her that they’re in my fucking feet. 

“We have to go back,” she whispered. “Mari said so. It’s your birthday.”

“I don’t want to fucking go back,” I muttered, gripping hard at my wheels.

“Well, if you don’t want to go back, let’s go find cake somewhere else. You’ve gotta have cake on your birthday.”

What a thing to say right now. “How old are you?” I questioned, eyeballing her blatantly enough to make her blush. Fuckme, she didn’t look old enough. Looked too sweet and too soft. Too perfect. There were only smooth curves and flawless, creamy skin. If I could walk, I’d leave my footprints all over her.

“Twenty two,” she whispered, slowly stepping closer as though she was trying not to spook me. “How old are you?”

“Thirty one,” I grumbled. “Look sweetheart, you’re probably really nice and someday you’ll make some guy very, very lucky, but I am not that guy.” My zipper was obviously on the wrong side of my body. And even though they’d opened up my spine to try to fix it, they couldn’t.

“Tell me what happened to you,” she stuttered, but her eyes never left mine. She was biting her lip hard enough to chase away the pink and her hand fluttered between us, landing soft on the grip at the back of my chair.

“No,” I snapped. “Go back to the party, tell Malice you couldn’t find me.” I tried to pull away, cursing under my breath as she clung tight to the handle of my chair, letting me go nowhere. She dug her heels and held on tight, fingernails buried in the rubber grip of my chair, stubborn as fuck.

“Please don’t go,” she stuttered.

“You’re just holding on to make a point,” I hissed. “I’m not some goddamn volunteer project. You don’t get extra karma points for putting up with me and my mess, so step the fuck off.” 

Read it here: Unzipped 

Heavy angst warning. 

Graphic language and lemons. Mature audiences only.