In His Arms

One

      He parted her legs with a fluid flick of his wrist. It was as if he'd done this to her a million times over with how easy it came to him. There was no hurry. He knew that when he came to her bed, she'd take him in hungrily enough for the both of them.

      His hand tore her t-shirt open and discarded it on the floor. The motion said that clothes were never allowed when he was around, and she didn't protest. The shirt meant nothing to him, but he took his time shimmying her pajama shorts down her legs with only two fingers.

      Suddenly, he stopped halfway into undressing himself. He leaned over the bedside table, grabbing something unknown from the top drawer. Their presence in the top drawer meant they were readily available. They must've seen a lot of wear and tear in the dark bedroom. The familiar clink as he roped her arms around a wooden post on the bed frame silently made each of his movements seem like they were in slow motion, taking too long, making her impatient.

       There was a tense moment between them where they both knew what was coming next.
    
      He finished taking off his pants, springing—

      My back stings with the fire of a million ants biting me all at the same time. The feeling sends me sitting straight up in the middle of my slumber despite the ungodly hour on the clock. My hardened fist rubs the spot where I feel like I want to tear my spine from out of my body. I groan at the touch, the massage hopeless.

      I should've known that the pain wouldn't go away like my doctor said. Mistrust in healthcare professionals ran in my family. I blame them for corrupting my viewpoint on the white-coat freaks. I believed in modern medicine in the same way you believe in the grass between your toes—but I hated doctors. My grandma always called them 'salesmen of death.'

     What a weird dream.

      It wasn't the first of its kind to pollute my mind recently. When I'd walk down the sidewalk of my college campus and make prolonged eye-contact, or interact with a customer at work for a little longer than usual, or some guy would hold the door for me as I left the grocery store and I'd smell his cologne. All of them would have their own dream.

      I wasn't sure who this one was about. We never got to the good part of the dreams, anyway, but my curious mind can't help but wonder whose body my subconscious was picturing on mine.

      My body had been acting strangely in many ways. The back pain I couldn't understand and the vivid dreaming weren't my normal. I blame my college dorm bed for the shitty sleep that probably contributes to my pain—as far as the dreams...I'm not sure. It has technically could be that I'm deprived in that part of my life (try spending twenty-one years deprived).

      Sloane sleeps peacefully across the room from me. I'm glad my stirring didn't wake her. I can tell from the heaps of dirty clothes stuffed into various drawers that she doesn't want me to know how exhausted she truly is. Between the two jobs and extra classes she's juggling, I always worry that one of these days she'll snap.

      But for this single moment, her chest rises and falls without the weight of the world crashing down onto her.

      I wish I were more helpful. I wish I could be the kind of roommate that does all the cooking and cleaning, keeps our schedules on track, makes sure the other is showering and hydrated. I think we all have the capability to be that kind of person. But if I can't be her for myself just yet, it's hard to be her for Sloane, or anyone else for that matter.

      My feet slide into my slippers. We aren't supposed to leave our rooms this late, but if I do not get some fresh air I think I will go insane. Two clicks of elevator buttons later, and I'm realizing that this time of night is my favorite. It is so...untouched.