Haunted

The night smelled like trash.  Somehow, I always come back to that.  I was standing there outside the door, trying to get the courage to raise my fist those impossible few inches and knock.  The whole hallway smelled like trash and musty sweat.  Boys dormitories have a very particular musk.

I close my eyes and there I am, again.  I knock, three agonizing seconds, and there you are.  Your eyes are what drew me to you in the first place, but I don't know if I really saw them that night or if I'm just imagining being caught in their deadly blue gaze.  Somehow, I'm inside the room and on your bed.  You remember how you stole an extra twin XL frame and mattress from the closet down the hall?  You pushed them together, but with a deceptively large gap between.  I know I loved your body.  I know I loved your smell.  But somehow, it's the moments right before we touched that are forever etched in my mind.  The sweet anticipation, the hairs in my arms standing on end at the thought of your breath on my neck.

God.  Was it really all that cliche?

You taught me how to kiss, stopped once and looked down- I was terrified that you had noticed my lack of experience, but you simply said "I like the way you kiss." I know it happened months before, but somehow that feeling is tied to that night.

I was wearing slippery pink underwear printed with stars, they wouldn't stay where I wanted them- though I wasn't even sure I wanted them there anymore.

Damn you.  Damn you to hell.  I wonder if the conclusion had been as thoughtful as the crescendo, if that might have made a difference.  Maybe, if you could have been sweet and gentle, I would have been able to box the whole thing up and remember it (and you) fondly.  But not so.  Now, you are my Mr. Wickham.  You are my heartbreak.  Other people hit me, raped me, isolated me- but you are the one I'm still mad at.  Why?

Maybe, if it had been good and kind I would have stood up to him later on.  Maybe I would have been able to let go.

But time is marching relentlessly forward and I'm not 19 anymore.  And yet, somehow I can still close my eyes and feel your almost-kisses on my neck and smell the trash.

God damn it Tim.  God fucking damn it.