The Answer

“Why am I always the bad guy?” he asks. The voice is muffled, this time by white fluffy hotel pillows, but it always is. I think about answering his question, instead my mind wanders to whether he knows how many people have done the same thing to the same pillow and if he knows where the pillow that cradles that mass of brown and blonde hair has been. I pull up the blanket that wouldn’t be so scratchy if I had shaved my legs and slide down to curl up where the corners fold and tuck underneath the mattress. “Do I get an answer?” I close my eyes, letting out my exasperated sigh, the one I know he hates but always feels so good, and slip away.
Behind the thick black bars of steel that are supposed to prevent entry but only prevent escape is the blinding light of fluorescent light bulbs. The wattage only gets brighter when you’re around. I can’t see you because you blend in with the pipes clang and rubber smell, but your presence is always felt. I know you’re there in the corner, probably rubbing the cotton of your shirt in semi-circles against the lenses of your glasses right as the fog of your breath starts to disappear form the middle out. You’re smiling at my squinted eyes that search for signs of humanity—not you. My breath stops short with the tightening grip around my wrists and the lips against my earlobe. “Whore.” The sweat from my palms is lubrication enough to pull free from you but nothing can counter act the collision of your knee and my back or of my head and the floor. My eyes scan the room rapidly freezing on your belt on the floor and the knife lays closer than that. I know you wouldn’t hurt me, not like that, but at the same time my heart beats heavy in my chest and I can’t breathe without labor as you lean forward and whisper, “Come now, don’t cry, you know you wanted this.”