Memories That Still Haunt Us

Chapter Forty-Eight:

This is the same place we last met. When I weakly texted him back when I was in high school, practically begging for his attention. I sent the message through teary eyes as I hid away in the bathroom at the party Lake dragged me to. Not that I didn't love a good party back then. But I had just turned sixteen, and I felt all wrong. Like I wasn't meant to be here. Nothing felt right. I was miserable all the time. Nothing made me happy. No amount of sex or attention.

I wanted the teacher's attention. I wanted him to bring me back to his place and mix me a drink, as I felt like an adult putting on a record for us to listen to. I wanted to have love again—the kind of love that was so consuming and possessive that it controlled my whole life—my entire existence. It was confusing going from having my days consist solely of him to being completely deprived.

When he replied to my message, I fled from the house, heavily intoxicated, and moved as quickly as I could to meet him. Dropping everything, once again. Only for him to coldly greet me, fuck me in the back of his car, and then tell me to stop contacting him. I broke even more after that night. Splitting in two and going down a path there was no coming back from.

Now, here I stand in the same cemetery, waiting anxiously for him to show. I'm so nervous, I feel ill again. I didn't even ask why he wanted to meet me. Why didn't I ask that? Would he really message me out of nowhere just to have sex with me again? Or is there something else?

The cemetery is dark and eerie. I look at the old, eroding plot stones before me. The night is cold, and I fold my arms tightly across my chest as I lean against my car.

Headlights appear down the road, growing closer, and my heart begins to thud in my chest. I debate getting back in my car and leaving before I encounter him. But my feet are rooted. Eyes locked on his vehicle.

I try to remind myself that I'm not the same sixteen-year-old I once was. I'm different. I'm not as weak. I know how to navigate men.

But every attempt to cling onto some sort of power vanishes when I see him get out of the car. He's gained some weight. His hair is fully gray now. I imagine him on top of me. His once-brown hair tickled my forehead as he kissed me sloppily, his mouth tasting like cheap whisky and school lunch. Little droplets of sweat would drip down onto me, rolling down towards my lips, leaving behind a salty taste. Every time we had sex, I bled, sometimes for days afterwards, because he was so rough. Because my childlike body wasn't prepared to have grown-up sex. The blood never seemed to bother him or prevent him from doing as he pleased.

Standing before him, I'm not myself. I'm not the twenty-year-old who's become a whole new person without him. I'm somehow back to being the fourteen-year-old version of me who felt small and weak in his presence. I'm powerless—silent. At his mercy.

I grab onto my wrist with my other hand and begin to feel faint. I'm afraid to move.

He stuffs his keys into his jean pocket and stands just a few feet from me, his eyes scanning over me like a lion scanning his prey. He's remembering just as I am. Except, I'm sure his memories feel much different than mine do. Does he see me and feel disappointed that I'm grown now? That my body has changed and matured? Does he wish I was still a kid that he could control?

"Reign, thanks for meeting me." He says it in a dull tone, as if this is the last thing he wishes to be doing tonight.

I swallow hard and nod limply.

He clears his throat. "Despite the circumstances, I am happy to see you."

"You are?"