Own Me

Chapter Nineteen

"It's okay to be sad. I've been trained to love my darkness."

-Lady Gaga

♔ Chapter Nineteen ♔

"The shower's just there," Thom said, pointing into the en-suite in the corner of his bedroom, or what used to be Tom's mum's room. It was a pretty big room, but like most teenage bedrooms now. Maybe a little tidier. It looked almost like his bed hadn't been slept in for a while, kind of like he wasn't really living in here. It almost reminded me of a guest room, but I pushed those thoughts away as my eyes flushed over to the door in the right corner of the room.

"Right. Thanks," I muttered, feeling only a little uncomfortable. I mean, I know he was a stranger, but now I was in his house, about to be naked.

Usually, this kind of thing felt normal for me. I'd been invited back to a guy's house before, obviously many times, but never to not have steamy sex. It felt almost surreal to be invited back for something other than my body. I wasn't sure why, maybe I was just so absorbed in this ugly lifestyle of mine that I couldn't escape the mindset of a prostitute. But whatever the case, I had to remind myself that that was what I was. He knew that was what I was, so what exactly was he expecting from me?

To find a guy lying unconscious in a back alley in the scruffy side of town, find out he'd been attacked, and that he was a rent boy, and then later invite him back to your apartment for things that didn't involve dick action - it was very unusual behaviour.

Not that I didn't want anything to happen. I wouldn't mind it, in any case. Thom wasn't exactly ugly, and maybe he would help me forget. He was actually kind of stunning, in a sullen and heartbreaking sort of way. Every time I saw his eyes, pain reflected back at me. Brown gobs of pain. When I looked at myself in the mirror, that was usually what I saw too, staring back at me.

When he smiled, I could tell it wasn't entirely genuine, because pretending to be happy was easy enough once you got the hang of it. God, I sighed. Fletcher was right about me having a type. Broken, abandoned, heartbroken little things. I clung to them for dear life. Well, I suppose, better them than any other kind of guy. At least with a broken person, there was a good chance they wouldn't leave me.

He liked to make jokes, I realised. Rude jokes. Inappropriate, often sexual jokes. I think he used them to mask some kind of inner darkness he was trying to keep at bay. I didn't pretend to know him, I think I just understood his pain. What kind of pain it was, and how it affects you. It tears away at you every day, makes you rethink everything in your life. It forces you to block people out, become reclusive and weary and anxious.

"I think there's already a towel in there," I heard him saying, while I shuffled myself quietly into his bathroom.

"Okay."

"I'll get you a change of clothes for when you're done. You're probably about the same size as me."

"Thanks."

I closed the door to the bathroom, although not entirely. I'd noticed that from a specific position, and if you looked in the reflection of the mirror, you'd get a rather saucy view of the shower. And of course, being a tease, I made sure to put on a show. I was so used to people staring at my body now, so used to being naked around strangers, used by strangers, that I didn't really have any issues with my body being seen by random people.

As soon as the shower turned on, my worn out clothes had dropped to the floor and I stepped into the sparkling warm water with ease. And it felt good, to scrub myself of last night's bullshit. I scrubbed so hard all over my skin, the honeyed smell of shampoo perfuming the air. Bubbles were all over my body, my skin red from scouring at it. I'd ripped his sponge, by the end of it, but I couldn't stand the feeling all over my skin. Like I was dirty, filthy, that he was still all over me, his hands and his disgusting body.