The Games We Play At Night

Part Three

I follow him across the field, into the dark. Into the unknown.

We reach the wall of cornstalks and he parts them like curtains, creating a path for us. The tender leaves are silky against my skin. It's not long before we are totally concealed, completely consumed by them. He pauses only to reach back and offer his hand. It's warm and calloused and makes me feel safe. Desired.

I glance over my shoulder. We are far from the party, now. Far from the orange crackling glow of the fire. Here, the air is a cold secret on my skin. I feel delight in the goosebumps prickling down my arms, up my thighs.

I stumble, but he catches me. I hear myself giggle.

Is that my voice? It can't be.

But, it is.

I am happy. Blissfully unaware.

Suddenly, he's pulling me to him, flush against him. He's already hard. I feel it pressed against my stomach. His mouth is on mine—peppermint and cigarettes mixed with the cedar smoke swirling in the air. I let it fill my lungs.

I want to be filled.

My fingers move to the back of his neck. He steadies me, slipping a hand down the front of my jean shorts. My hips start to rock. Our teeth crash together. It hurts, but I don't care. I don't want him to stop. I kiss him harder. He likes this. I know because I feel him smile. His fingers work harder, while his mouth muffles the noises I make. I dig my nails into his neck, ready to come apart.

Behind us.

A noise.

A corn stalk breaks.

We go still, pressed together, pressed into one. My breath blooms into a fog at his chest.

I glance up just as his eyes catch the distant glow of the fire. They're scanning, searching. Shiny and bright.

He whispers in my ear, "Someone's there."

I try to follow his gaze but suddenly, everything's gone. There is no corn field, no fire, no end-of-summer party. There is no him.

I'm surrounded by blackness. The weight of an immeasurable force presses in all around me. I try to move my arms, my legs, but they won't budge. Not an inch, not a centimeter. Not at all.

There's something moving, but it isn't me. Slimy and cold, crawling all over my body.

Wriggling.

I try to scream and inhale chunks of damp earth into my lungs, taste the grit in my mouth. Feel it pressing into my eyes. The pressure. I can't breathe. I'm choking. Suffocating on earth. Buried by it.

Alive.

***

I'm sitting up now, coughing, gasping for air. My hearts wrenching. Matted tangles of hair stick to my forehead and cling to my face. It takes me a moment to remember where I am. When I am.

I'm in my bedroom. My old bedroom, though I suppose right now, it's the only bedroom I have.

The streetlamp outside casts silvery slants of light in through the window. They bend around the dresser, stretch across the floorboards. Dust motes dance under them like ballerinas twirling on a stage. 

I slip out of bed and cross the room, stopping in front of the dresser. I fumble around in the top drawer until I feel the crisp edge of the photo. I carry it into the light, angling it so our faces are lit. Our bright, smiling, careless faces.

How stupid we were. How naive.

With watery eyes, I tear the photo in two... in four... in so many pieces. I crush the glossy bits in my fist, move over to the wastebasket, and watch them flutter down like snowflakes, watch my own face float down with the rest of the garbage.