CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: BODY

It is of the nature of desire not to be satisfied, and most men live only for the gratification of it.

-Aristotle

There was something cold against my back and a heavy, painful hand on my broken arm and a tongue on my neck that I knew I didn't want it there.

It was like chains were holding my legs down and even as I kicked out, it didn't move the body, the heavy body over mine.

And I'm crying, sobbing in fact and I can't stop but there's a heaviness to my lip, like I was recently hit and my head is throbbing.

He's hurting me, that's all I can think about.

I'm trying to fight it -I'm trying, I'm trying, I'm trying.

But it's not working.

All around me, there's walls and I can't control anything and I'm ticing but I can't hear a thing and I'm scared.

This is a nightmare. I know it's a nightmare, I can't control it, I can't control myself. I need help.

Clark is here and he looks distorted and there's more than two hands touching me but they're only his.

Thrashing around doesn't work, as I can't hear anything he's saying but I can feel as his lips move on my skin in a snarl, making me tense in fear as I gag. I can't move and I can't help myself.

Fingernails dig into my thighs, making me scream as they sharpen to an inhuman point just to make me bleed.

"Castor." Clark says but that's not right -that's not right. He doesn't know my name. And if he did he wouldn't say it like that, why is he yelling, why is he yelling at me?

His hands, warmer hands, maybe they're not his but they're still hands on my body but they don't hurt and it's confusing.

I'm supposed to be hurt.

Yet it's not painful.

"Castor," That's not his voice. "Wake up!"

This isn't right.

The walls get closer but the pain in my arm changes, the weight of the body fades.

And I gasp.

It's just a nightmare.

"Star," Jasper floods my senses but I'm all too aware that I'm still crying and I don't have contacts in and I can't see anything but that's probably for the better. The hands on me felt too real, it was too real. "You're safe, okay? You're s-safe."

I'm not.

"I'm here, it's Jasper." Jitterbug. "You're safe."

The pain in my wrist changes from the sharp burn of a break to the stinging of cuts and I recall the sound of a breaking lamp with a flinch.

Jasper's over me, holding my other arm to my chest but only holding onto my other hand- -due to the cuts- -but I don't doubt he still got blood on him, not to mention the blood on the bed. One of his legs hold down my own, effectively pinning me to the bed.

He doesn't relax when I stop fighting against him, but rather moves a bit off me.

It takes me a moment to realize how bad I'm shaking.

All it takes is one single glance to his watery, mint-colored eyes for me to break down crying.

I'm so pathetic.

My boyfriend hugs me, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't afraid to hug him back.

"W-what happened, Star? We, we need to-" Jasper takes a deep breath, pulling away from me to angel us both to sit up. "We need to w-wrap your cuts."

Fuck.

I guess more scars don't matter at this point.

Numbly, I feel so overwhelmed and numb right now, I look down to my wrist.

There's a few good cuts, one deep one that's almost to the dip of my elbow, but not quite. My hand feels tingly, and a quick simple flex of my fingers makes my arm shake more.

The lamp is broken on the edge of the nightstand, pressed against the wall, which I guess is how I hurt myself, forcing my arm against it, probably more than once if my twitching arm has anything to say about it.

I know I'm ticing at the moment but the only time I can bother to pay attention is when my head jerks -which is more forced than anything.

Speaking doesn't quite work as when I got to tell him okay, or I'm okay, or something equally untruthful, I can't even make a sound. So I shut my mouth and glare down to my wrist.

Every time I get like this I hate myself more.

From the time I was 7 to 15, I was in behavior therapy to help lessen and control my tics so I wouldn't hurt myself or others.

Mostly because I used to be a lot worse than I am now -but I don't doubt that the heavy bullying I went through motivated my parents into making this decision either.

While going through this process, I've had to change my medication a lot, for anxiety, for depression, for the OCD tendencies and for mood stabilizers in general, sometimes even just to sleep.

Without me knowing about it in advance, a few of those medications gave me hallucinations or made me worse.

One of those triggers something in me that gave me terrible nightmares, nightmares that made me wake up screaming that scared my mama, one that had me squirming and clawing myself that made Papa have to hold me down, ones that caused Circe to move out of our room.

All it takes is one day of me skipping medicine, one day of me over exerting myself, one panic attack during the day to make me have night terrors.

Clark Marshall was one of my bullies, and had been for years.

I was an easy target, and I even knew that back then. Not that I was the only out kid at my school, not by far as Clark himself wasn't straight- -but raised by homophobic parents- -yet I was the only gay kid on my football team.

The weird kid with Tourette's who's not all the way there.

That one uncaring bastard with an affinity for fighting, so it didn't matter if we hit him anyway.

Alpha Rex, the worthless guy who can't catch a ball right or pass a math text.

Twitch, who might hit you for no reason or bite you if given the chance.

Spaz, the kid who can't say what he means and even if he could, it wouldn't be anything important.

School was torture for me, quite literally.

On days Clark and his pathetic teenage gang weren't verbally berating me, they'd see how long I could last being hurt before I tried to fight back. Even though, eventually, I never did.

It wasn't worth it.

Clark was the kind of guy who would call me a fag and then force a kiss on me to prove that I'm not faking it for attention. He invited a different kind of terror into my life, one that got me...hurt on multiple occasions.

My football team would use practice as an excuse to hurt me -I can't count how many concussions, sprained ankles or hurt wrists they've given me, even when they weren't supposed to go after me during a play.

Hockey was a completely different thing -most of those guys were cool, save for one who kept throwing me into the wall, but it was surprisingly the sport I got hurt less when playing.

My nightmares went from monsters in my closet to being held down by Clark or beaten by my football team while the walls closed in around me.

Now I feel pathetic and stupid, overwhelmingly stupid, from being affected by something like this still.

It's been months since anything has happened, literal months where I haven't actually seen his face, or been hurt by them.

High school is over, they can't hurt me anymore.

Why am I still fucking scared?

Reality hits me like a truck again when a sharp sting shoots down my wrist, making my flinch and jerk, but Jasper's hand holds my wrist still.

"S-sorry, there was a piece of glass still, um still i-in your wrist." He stammers out, then continues to put gauze down before wrapping it. It's not long before he finishes, wiping his hands clean on the damp towel. "These are water proof if you, if you need to take a shower. I-I know that um, it helps me?"

Nodding, doing what I can to communicate when trauma still holds my voice silent, I hold the wrist of one of the hands above my own, gently hold his jaw with my other hand and rest my forehead against his.

Eyes closed, I relax a bit until he pulls away, giving my cheek a gentle kiss. "I'll go start it then."

Pulling my sweat and blood stained tank top off, I slowly stand -knowing not to push myself.

My anxiety medicine is easy to find, I take four.

It takes me a few tries to get the right drawers opened, but I find my sweatpants and tank tops- -which I put together, for obvious reasons- -and then fish out some boxers.

After this, I slide my glasses on, not caring about how weird I look with them on.

At the moment, I think if I allowed myself to feel things to the full extent I'd probably break down.

Me and Jasper pull open the door at the same time, making him stumble a step back. His eyes drop down to my chest, making him frown.

"You're scratched -and bruised?"

Oh...I must have done that in my sleep, but I can't tell him that, so I just lift up my still-shaking hand to show that I did it myself.

I'm not sure if he understands, but the musician does nod and step around me.

"I-I um, I don't know if you can call me if you n-need help, so um? I don't know, I'll be close, yeah -I'll be close."

All I can do is nod.

It just matters that he's here for me.

The shower helps, not in the sense of the blood and sweat I got on myself, but because it makes me feel safer.

I know the hands, the mouth and the saliva that were touching me weren't real, I know that but I also know I could still feel it and the disgusting itching on my skin after it happened came back.

So the shower helps.

Getting into different clothes does too, and I don't even stop to see the damage I did to my body before I pull the tank top on.

Halfway through my shower, I heard a door slam shut, so I'm pretty sure that Bar Red is here and checking on his kid.

The worst part isn't that I hurt myself, it's that during my nightmare, when I didn't know it was Jasper, I probably hurt him too.

If I didn't, I still scared him.

Like most days, I avoid the mirror when I get out -now aware enough to notice my phone in a plastic bag next to the sink, a robe out for me to use as well as a towel.

How bad does Jasper think this is?

This is normal for me, but the razors are hidden.

I pull the clothes back on, leaving my glasses on the counter so I can put contacts in.

Opening the door, I either expect Jasper to be there or nobody at all, definitely not for Jasper and his dad to be there staring at me from the couch.

For some reason, the sight of another person just makes my anxiety spike up and it causes me to quickly shut the door.

I knew he wouldn't be on the bed, but having to walk across our room only

After a few moments of resting against the door, I open it again and make myself step out.

Seeing how concerned Jasper looks, like he was crying too, I force myself to speak, stumbling in step. "I'm um, I- -in Eden- -I'm, just, I-"

Making myself pause, I take a few breaths and run my hand over my hair, trying to get control of myself but a tic makes me grab a fistful of my hair before relaxing again.

"Jitterbug," I finally get out. "I'm sorry."

"Star," Jasper continues to frown, sitting up fully. "You don't have to apologize."

"Before this conversation kicks off, I'm going to go," His dad says, standing up. "Take care of yourself kid, yeah? See you later, or whenever the fuck I get around to it. Call me, little J, and remember what I said."

What did he say?

Knowing him, it wasn't anything bad.

But that doesn't mean my anxiety still isn't bad enough to convince me otherwise.

My boyfriend sits with his lap available, arms open. "Come 'ere, I know you're still scared.

As much as I could, I kept my pain to myself as talking about these things never helped me as much as working it out myself did, which led to many misunderstandings in my family.

Fly probably knows more about it than any of them, and that's not because I told him but more because things he would see.

These actions fed my depression.

Me knowing better, knowing people would miss me or that they would cry didn't change how others told me I wasn't good enough like this.

It didn't change how when they said "Like this." all I heard was "Alive."

That part of my thought process has gotten a lot better over time, even if the relief from pain never lessened.

Hiding my pain with Jasper is never an option, so I don't disagree with him, just walk up to him and give him a hug.

He wraps his arms around me without hesitation as I climb onto his lap to hold him close for a few moments, letting me pull back.

Holding his face in my hands, I give him a short kiss, sighing against his lips.

"I needed that."

Needed to feel the lips of the man I love, instead of someone else's. Because I choose to kiss him, and I enjoy it.

Not because I'm forced.

"Did you take your medicine?"

Nodding, I press myself close to him and hide my face against his neck, breathing his more than relaxing scent. He's safe, and everything about him reminds me of that. My eyes water again and previously, I hadn't realized how relieved being with Jasper made me on a physical level.

"Do I smell good?"

I let out a short chuckle, "Like mint."

Jasper hums, "Is that a bad thing?"

"Not- -in Eden- -at all." Does he not remember the tattoo on my hip?

"You always smell like bread and limes."

Bread makes sense, seeing as I'm a baker, but I have no fucking clue what's up with the lime. I'm too tired to question it, and I don't really care.

But I do care about the carefully gentle way Jasper's usually heavy arms are around my waist, as one hand runs along my back.

"Did I hurt you?"

"No." This better not be a lie, as it's really easy for me to hurt someone. "You're a god, but you're tiny."

How insulting.

Scowling, I sink deeper into him. "I am neither of those things."

"Liar." The musician pauses, moving his hand up my back only to run his hand through my still-wet hair. "Are you okay, my Star."

I...like it when he calls me that.

And I wish he'd do it more.

"I'm- -Christmas lights- -okay as I can be." This wasn't a lie, this honestly could have been a lot worse.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Just, just hold me, please."

Because after all, he's already helping me.

Pressing his forehead against mine, like I did earlier, Jasper relaxes under me and it entices me to do the same.

I'll be okay.

Jasper will make sure of it.