Abuse (24 page)

“I have seen what a laugh can do. It can transform almost unbearable tears into something bearable, even hopeful.”

— Bob Hope

~~~

Grant Wilkinson

I’m stunned. The sight of Renata’s crying disarms me completely. I’d rather give myself a vasectomy with nail clippers than cause her pain. Some protective male instinct kicks in, overriding my reserve. I act without thought, which is so unlike me.

“Come here,” I say and pull her into my arms. To my consternation, Renata begins to cry even harder. A shudder of grief shakes her body. My shirt is wet with tears as she burrows her face at my neck and shoulder.

“It’s OK,” I say quietly. “It’s OK. It’s OK.” I murmur over and over, as I pat and rub her back soothingly.

How hideous would it be to wake up next to someone you love and find them dead?

Renata’s tears begin to slow but she doesn’t let go of me. Her blonde head rests on my shoulder; her warm breath caresses my neck. Occasionally, her breathing hitches in a soft little hiccup sound.

We stay here embracing each other. I comfort her, still murmuring “It’s OK” from time to time. I’m not going to pull away unless she does. I want her to stay right here. She feels like Heaven in my arms.

I am so going to Hell.

I shift to give myself more room as my swollen cock throbs. Here I am, enjoying holding her while the poor woman’s upset. I feel bad for her, and bad for taking advantage of the situation.

I recognize Renata’s pain—I’ve experienced it myself. A dark memory has surfaced in her mind. It’s weighing her down with the force of it. I swear to God I can feel it. It’s as if Renata has cast a shadow over me with her black mood.

How would André deal with this?

Renata finally backs away from me, finding tissues in her pocket, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose. “I’m sorry,” she says and the sadness in her eyes tugs at me.

I frown. “What for?”

“For getting so emotional.”

“I don’t see how you could’ve helped it,” I say, and then I give her a smug, self-satisfied smile, determined to lighten her mood. “Besides,” I raise my eyebrows. “I got to hold you.”

Renata’s expression brightens. “So you did. I noticed that too. You made me feel better. Thank you.”

I stand up, take her hands and pull her to her feet. “C’mon,” I say. “We have to go find a swing set. I’m pretty sure there’s a playground somewhere over there.”

The sound of Renata’s surprised laughter eases my heart. This time, my palm isn’t sweaty when I take her hand. This time, holding her hand feels like the most natural thing in the world.

I intend to hear her whole story sometime, as much as she wants to tell me anyway—but not now. First, I need to cheer her up.

While holding her, I thought about what André might do in this situation. From what I know of André, it seems to me he’d comfort her and then make her laugh. The swing seems like a classic André diversion. It’ll give her time to compose herself and consider what, if anything, she wants to tell me.

Anyway, that’s how I figure André would handle it.

We find a playground and nobody’s using the swing set. We’re alone. Perfect. The swing is made of rubber and Renata sits easily upon it. As promised, I push her. When I do, she giggles adorably. I’m elated by the sound of her happiness. I push her again and again until she’s soaring, way up high.

Laughing joyously with her blond hair flying, she looks more beautiful to me than ever. She’s a vision, so lovely to behold.

I get on the swing next to her and we begin to compete, racing each other to see who can go higher. By the time we’ve had enough, we’re both grinning and lighthearted. The shadows have gone. Renata’s back to being herself once more.

I’m pleased because I pulled her out of her sadness.

I think André would be proud of me.

“Facing one’s past can be a perilous activity. For the client, joy
must
exceed misery. Personal successes
must
far outweigh losses. Pleasure
must
exceed pain. Always.
Always.
To do otherwise is a failure of the counselor.”

— André Chevalier

~~~

Grant Wilkinson

As we leave the playground, we see a soft serve ice cream vendor. We both choose plain vanilla without chocolate, nuts or sprinkles.

“I thought I was the only one who was happy with plain vanilla,” I say, but what I’m thinking is, Renata and I are curiously alike in more ways than I ever dreamed. Both boring. Both damaged.

“Nope,” Renata says with a big cheesy grin. I watch her long tongue lick her ice cream and my relentless hard-on—which had gone down while on the swing—instantly returns.
Shit.

“You touched me without being nervous,” she says.

“Yes.”

She flashes me a sexy grin. “I liked it. A lot.”

“Me too.”

“We’re making progress.”

“You’re a good counselor.”

Renata laughs. “No, I’m not! I shouldn’t have reacted like that. Showing all of that emotion was extremely unprofessional.”

“Oh?” I raise an eyebrow. “André got really angry with me once.”

Her blue eyes widen. “No—
really?”

“He even yelled at me.”

“No way!” Bouncing rapidly on the balls of her feet, she's practically jumping up and down with excitement to hear that André isn’t perfect. I decide to explain the whole story.

“He told you… of my situation?” I ask.

“Yes. Childhood sexual abuse by a man,” she says without a moment’s hesitation. Undisturbed, she takes another lick of her ice cream.

I struggle not to flinch, but damn it to hell, I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it. Hearing of my shame causes adrenaline to spike my veins. It makes my heart race—but not in a good way.

I can tell André taught her. She’s so nonchalant and forthright on the subject. There’s no trace of shock, horror, pity or bullshit. Her attitude is casual and interested. No fuss. No muss. Her outlook is refreshingly pragmatic. It’s a ‘
Well, it happened. OK, let’s deal with it,
’ attitude.

Renata’s natural serenity gives me a sense of security. I feel as though I could tell her anything and she’d take it in her stride.

I swallow nervously and take a deep breath. She calmly waits while my pulse slows

“So, the thing is,” I explain. “I was feeling incredibly guilty. I’ve learned guilt is the status quo for victims of abuse. Abused people and particularly abused children, blame themselves for their abuse. In their hearts, they feel they deserve it. They
know
it’s their fault.”

“Oh yes,” she nods her agreement, biting into her cone. “That’s so very true.”

My own ice cream cone’s beginning to drip in this heat. I take a moment to lick it a few times so I don’t get sticky fingers. It’s hopeless. I have to eat it all before it melts all over me. Our conversation waits while we both finish our treats.

With my cone gone, I sigh and begin again. “When I was working with André, I felt ashamed and I just couldn’t seem to get over it. I guess my whole, ‘I’m a bad person’ or ‘I’m a monster’ attitude really bugged him. I think that would eventually annoy even a saint, right? So, André suddenly jumps up and starts pacing back and forth while swearing in French.”

“No!
Really?”

Grinning, I give her a long, slow nod. “No joke.”

“I love it!” She gasps with a giggle.

Renata’s eyes are bright and happy with excitement. I love to watch her; she’s so animated and alive. André’s
unprofessional
behavior tickles the hell out of her, just like it tickles me.

Who’d have thought I could find it in me to laugh when talking about this subject?

“Then what happened?” she asks.

“He really lost it after that. I’ll never forget it. He actually yelled at me. He said,
“If you must be ashamed, find something to be justifiably ashamed of!
But do not feel shame for this!”

When I quote him, I sit up straight and do a pretty good imitation of his mannerisms and French accent.

I don’t know if it’s my fake accent or the story, but for whatever reason, Renata bursts out in whoops of uninhibited giggles. She’s really laughing now.

She finally stops snickering long enough to choke out, “But he’s always so perfect!”

“No,” I say. “He just likes to
think
he is.”

We both crack up even more over that. Our shoulders shake and we bend over holding our stomachs. André’s unique personal antics are an “in” joke. Only people he’s worked with would fully understand.

I take her hand again but she puts my hand on her shoulder, wrapping her arm around my waist once more. This time, her closeness feels natural and we’re able to walk comfortably together. There’s a bond between us now, a tug of companionable affection.

I’m wildly attracted to her, but it no longer feels so awkward. This persistent and intense sexual pull I feel toward Renata’s nothing new. I'm getting used to it and can now accept it. It’s not so very wrong after all.

Honestly? I’m beginning to realize what I feared, was her perfection. I was afraid of hurting her, or somehow tainting her with my screwed up crap. Now I know she’s already damaged. Just like me, she’s lived through a ton of shit herself.

Renata can deal with the evil, ugly parts of my life. She can understand them better than anyone can. Why? Because she’s been there.

This amazing and seemingly perfect woman has her own painful scars. I should've known better than to judge a book by its cover.

I wrongly assumed that because Renata
appeared
to be perfect, she was innocent and pure. How ridiculous. After all, before my injury, I looked good on the outside—even though I was a complete mess on the inside. Still, I’d never have guessed Renata grew up living on the streets.

In my mind, I was the monster with power to corrupt and poison. Renata was a princess, pure and perfect, who was at risk of being harmed by me. Now, I see that for all her outer beauty, there are monsters inside of her, too.

“I’d like to hear your story sometime, Renata, when you’re ready to tell me,” I say.

The look she slants up at me is sexy and playful. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours, big guy,” she says in a seductive, mischievous tone, as she bats her eyelashes teasingly.

“Deal,” I agree with a smile. I love this naughty, flirty side of her.

God, I want her.

Renata stops walking and turns towards me. “I’d like to seal our agreement with a kiss,” she murmurs.

I stop smiling and sober instantly, as I stare into her crystal blue eyes. They’re filled with an intoxicating mixture of affection and lust.

Monster! Pervert!
My internal voice snarls.

I
never
kiss on the lips.

I’ve maintained this lifelong courtesy, because I don’t want to contaminate anyone. I know where my mouth has been.

Still, I’m frozen in place. I hold perfectly still as Renata moves closer. I feel a stir of wonder as I look into her compelling blue eyes. They’re dark with passion.

My God, I long to hold her. I've never wanted anyone or anything more than I want her.

We’re both less than perfect; we’re both tainted by our past. I can’t ruin Renata—she’s a survivor who’s suffered and experienced ruin already. Her heart’s been broken and her mind has known madness. Just like me, somewhere in her childhood, evil has touched her and darkened her soul.

What could I do to her that hasn’t already been done?

I never kiss… and yet, I desperately long to kiss her.

I try to relax the coiling tension in my body, but I can’t. I’m too tense, too uptight. Renata trails her fingers gently down my scarred cheek. I’m surprised by letting out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I’ll never get over the sensation of her caressing my damaged face. It feels
so
good.

Once more I’m captivated, captured by her touch. She’s tall, maybe only an inch shorter than I am. She moves even closer, wrapping her arms around my neck, drawing me nearer. My hands move to grip her shoulders as her breasts meet my chest. Her hips and stomach push deliciously against my erection.

I’m so incredibly aroused.

With effort, I manage to subdue my impulse to groan with pleasure. But then her lips gently press against mine and I can’t help the sound that leaves my throat—something between a hum and a moan.

Her skin is so soft and warm. Her scent thrills me.

And her kiss is incredible.

I shut my eyes with the unbelievable sensation of Renata kissing me. For one breathless moment, everything stops.

I let myself sink into that sweet, gentle press of her mouth, that powerful symbol of love and acceptance. Renata makes the kiss brief, just a gentle press of lips, before pulling back to study me.

Her eyes have darkened with arousal, yet her expression is concerned. From our time together yesterday, Renata knows I don’t kiss on the mouth. She’s making sure I’m OK with this. I feel so safe with her. I’m sure she’ll push me, but I’m confident she won’t push me too far.

How did she get this way? How did she become so sensitive and loving with such a lousy upbringing?

A thought strikes me abruptly. If
she’s
OK—then, maybe
I
can be OK, too. My heart fills with hope. With Renata’s help, I can change. I can get better. I can
be
better. She’s the perfect example of how
not
to let a shitty childhood ruin your life.

My heart is so full—my barriers are down. I can't hold back and I don't want to. She sees me and accepts me for who I am.

“I’ve never known what this is like,” I whisper in an awed sort of wonder. “I’ve never felt this close before.”

Renata’s brows knit. “What? With a woman you mean?”

“With
anyone
.”

She tilts her head in a questioning manner. I can see she doesn’t understand me. She waits quietly, patiently trusting I’ll explain.

Renata’s possessed my mind, my body and even my tarnished soul. She moves me deeply. Profoundly. She's found something good and right inside of me.

The goodness inside of me is something I've always kept hidden and safe from everyone—even from myself. I don't think I ever realized it existed… until today. I have Renata to thank for that.

What a gift.

What a rush.

What a woman.

We stand face to face, so very close. “I’ve never known such an incredible feeling,” I whisper to her. “I’ve never experienced such happiness.”

This can only be love.

“It was just a little kiss,” she says in a teasing voice.

She meets my gaze as I give her an amused smile in acknowledgment of her humor. She’s opened my eyes—and my heart. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her. I want to give her the world. I want her to be happy. I want her life to be everything she wants it to be—everything she deserves.

Yesterday, I’d thought maybe Renata had somehow lightened my darkness with her own perfection—but that wasn’t it. Now, I’m aware of goodness inside of me. André was the one who first touched upon it. Renata’s managed to bring it out, exposing it further and setting it free.

André and Renata see past my scars and hang-ups. They see me as I am.

Through their eyes, I can too.

The problem actually isn’t the evil that's happened in my life—it’s
keeping silent
about evil, being afraid or ashamed to speak of it—hiding it away and burying it deep inside.

Evil deeds and lies—kept hidden—ruin lives. Secrets give evil the power to grow.

In the same way malignant cells need be cut out or they will multiply and destroy a healthy body; I’ve come to realize a person needs to be free of toxic secrets. Hidden, buried and unseen, secrets are a weighty burden. Every day they grow darker and heavier, disastrously poisoning a healthy mind.

My father told me not to tell anyone of the games we played. I kept silent, but not just because he told me to. I realize now I hid the truth for reasons of my own.

For me, concealing such wickedness was an act of love. It’s something a
good
person would do. I buried everything, hoping to keep such terrible knowledge away from others.

Why?

Because I didn’t want anyone else to suffer from the ugly truths I knew. Those truths damn near destroyed me. I didn't want to risk the destruction of others. Nobody deserves that.

My actions were automatic and instinctive. Unfortunately, when I became tainted by so much hidden inner darkness, I think I became confused. Now I realize what's been going on.