Mine (Jenlisa)

twelve.

Jennie's POV~

The water stopped steaming. Lisa's hands were in my hair, her long fingers teasing out the knots slowly, carefully. She slicked my hair back with more hot water and all of the thoughts that has been drifting through my mind slowly washed away with the remnants of the shampoo. My suicide. It felt like forever ago. How long had it been? Seven years?

I lied to Lisa. My stepdad had been horrible to me, sure. He would beat my mother and I too, sometimes. But the numbness had started creeping through my body long before then.

The first emotion to go was happiness. It went hiding one day and I thought it would come back, but it didn't. I searched for it for awhile, then one day I stopped searching. I had forgotten what it felt like, or why I was searching for it in the first place. Then I couldn't feel sadness. No sadness, no frustration. When bad things happened, I would had to force myself to frown, as though I cared whether or not a character in a movie died. I didn't care when my tests started coming back with failing grades.

Anger was the last one and I clung to it for awhile, yelling at my mom for my stepdad's faults. Then even the anger left and I was alone with nothing, but a barrier in my brain that kept me from feeling a thing.

Some people can't feel pain on their skin, I read once. They touch a hot stove and don't even notice. It was like that, but with everything. It is not that the feelings were gone, really. They weren't. They wee just buried so deep inside of me that I didn't even want to think about what would happen if they come back.

Sorrow and happiness both, sunken into the tissue of my body. Hiding under layer after layer of skin, invisible. Like an empty box wrapped and put under the Christmas tee to tease. Unwrap and there is nothing left.

Lisa's hand was moving down on my neck now, the washcloth cleaning off every inch of my skin. Here, trapped in this house, trapped in this bathtub. I have nothing else to think about, but the sensation of her hands on my body. I wasn't worrying about getting enough hours of work, or being able to pay off my bills. The only thing that my mind had to think about was her.

And oh God forgive me, she felt good.

Is she evil? Truly evil? Is she good, as she claimed, killing only evil men? I don't know and my body don't care. Her hands moved down and over my breast and I let out a small gasp as the washcloth grazed my nipple. Lisa leaned forward. I could hear her breathing in my ear and her dark hair was partially reflected in the ripples of water. But she didn't say anything at all.

No, she said nothing, but her hands said it all. As she switched the washcloth from one hand to another, her fingers cupped my breast, sliding back and forth; letting the weight sway in the water. Then her thumb moved up, tracing a circle over my already erect nipple.

She knew how I felt. She has to know. My breathing was shallow and she had done this before - back on the table. Now though, she is more gentle, her strokes like a soft breeze over my skin. She cupped another hand of water and I held it to my collarbone where the gold necklace lay against my skin, letting the hot water drip down slowly.

Before, I had struggled against her. Struggled against the straps that held me down. Now there is nothing holding me down and yet I did not struggle.

What could I have done? You might ask this. You might forgive me for giving in. There is nothing I could have done, not really. But the truth is that I had spent the last of my willpower in our conversation and I did not want to fight anymore.

No, it is that I did not want to fight this. Not when the washcloth stroked my nipple so slowly, not when she squeezed my breast slightly and made me moan in the back of my throat. The ache that I had not yet gotten rid of surged between my legs, swelled in the hot water.