Burning Moth

Chapter Six, Part Three - Purge

Maybe Nicholias had the makings of a hero, but the drugs played one hell of a kryptonite.

By the next morning, Superman was still demanding that I leave, and in between the hot and cold flashes, the nausea, and the shakes, he also begged. Nicholias and I both knew as soon as I walked out the front door, he was home free to raid whatever opiates he had stashed, and snort the withdrawal away. But I had spent over half my life with an addict, and knew how to stand my ground.

I would not, could not, let Nicholias feed the beast.

That night was the first time I crashed in a guy's bed, without getting my jollies beforehand.

All through the wee hours of the morning, I nursed him–pulling up the covers when he had the chills, wiping his face with a cold rag when the hot flashes came, cleaning up his vomit when he couldn't make it to the bathroom. And when the fever hit, creeping so high that he twisted in his sheets, forgetting who I was as he mumbled at me in Italian, still I was right there with him.

Welcome to my childhood.

When morning hit, I finally left his side, fumbling my way around his kitchen until I managed to heat a can of tomato soup on the stove. But Nicholias was still too ill to eat the food I brought him. He was coherent, but the detox left him drained, unable to do anything but curl up on the bed and beg me once more to leave him alone. But I knew abandoning him would kill him faster than if I stayed, so I pulled an Ace from my slave, and did the one thing for him that had always worked for my mother.

Like his sweetheart, I ran him a nice, hot bath.

Tip number one when assisting in a detox–make your patient comfortable.

"This is useless." Nicholias, shook his head, staring down at the water like I had prepared him a tub full of mud. "I'm fine. I don't need you doing this for me--"

"Uh, presumptuous much? Who said I'm doing it for you?"

He rolled his eyes. "Why else would you be here?"

"For me! You know, despite my bad behavior, and marijuana usage, and foul language, and the rude things I like to write on restaurant receipts--underneath it all, I have a conscience. If I leave now, and you die, it's not on you, Nick, it's on me. And unlike some people, I am not ok with being a killer."

I waited, but Nicholias still refused to budge, wounded, like a puppy whose tail I had jammed in the door.

Sighing, I edged past him and to the tub. It was big–Jacuzzi size–large enough for two. I turned around, raised my eyebrows at Nicholias, and pulled my shirt over my head. Feeling me up in the dark was one thing, but seeing me half-naked was another. Maybe I wasn't good like other girls, but I was bad where it counted, the way I filled out my Vicky See underwear noteworthy proof.

I wriggled out of my jeans and stepped into the water, sinking into its warmth, until my shoulders disappeared. I closed my eyes, smirking at the after-image of Nicholias' amazement.

"Fine. Go cry to your mama then. Tell her you couldn't make it in the real world, loser. Close the door on your way out." I sighed in false relaxation, wishing for a mojito and a couple slices of cucumber, better yet–a good excuse to leave. What I got instead was a visitor, tangling his legs in mine.

I opened my eyes, grinning at the defeated, half-naked boy sitting in his boxers across from me. Even with the hollows beneath his eyes, and the limpness of his hair, he was stunning– and like him, and all other beautiful things, something about the nature of his kind implored me to smash him into pieces. The fact that he had denied me the opportunity was utterly disappointing–but also strangely thrilling, and made me want him all the more.