The Short Story Scrapbook

If Loving You is Wrong, I Don't Want To Be Right

(01/15/20)

(1.5k words)

They were both members of a gang. Rival gangs. Two powerful rival gangs. Lesser known members stuck between climbing towards the top and trying to find a way out because deep down this isn't the life they really wanted. Somehow they met, if they asked each other, neither would really remember how. But they both felt inexplicably drawn to each other like moths to flame. A dangerous choice but tempting nonetheless. They were supposed to be rivals but every other night they found themselves in each other's arms in some seedy motel. Each one different from the last. She'd jokingly whispered into his ear, as they sat underneath the window, golden hour dancing across the room and their skins making the moment more intimate, about how many shady motels actually existed and how long they'd have to meet like this in order to visit each motel. They laughed softly together, scared to disrupt the moment.

Most nights were spent bandaging each others wounds, each trying to play it off like it doesn't hurt as much. As if the wounds weren't physically draining and mentally damaging. But both of them knew. They spoke in soft hushed whispers, leaning close enough to each others ears almost as if they were afraid of getting caught.

Those nights they spent lying on either floor or the bed, reflecting on how they ended up here in the first place. It was laughable. She wanted to be a pastry chef and he wanted to be an art student. They both saved up a little money here and there, that was unnoticeable to their respective gangs, to fund their future dreams. It was unspoken between them about how unlikely it would be for them to even make it out of this alive.

"I swear I wasn't always like this." He whispered one night, his voice heavy and thick with unexplainable sadness and guilt. She said nothing, not because she didn't have anything to say, but because of how much she understood. She squeezed his hand a little tighter and scooter a little closer and they quietly stared out at the midnight sky. And it was true. They weren't always like this. They used to be young naive kids. Not knowing what went on in the dark when most of the world was asleep. Not realizing that most monsters where actually in the form of humans. They looked the same and bled the same. They used to be people who quaked at the single sight of violence on a tv screen. But now they were those monsters that parents warned their children about. The kind of monsters who inflicted damage on others without the blink of an eye. It was killed or be killed kind of lifestyle. No one ever really remembers how they got here.

And some nights it was hard to think. It was hard to form a single coherent thought. Because even though sometimes they were monsters, they still felt. And some things hit harder than others. Those nights were spent drinking the hardest liquor they could find, drowning their sorrows and guilt at the bottom of a bottle.

They giggled like small children and make reckless decisions. They got tattoos for each other. For him, she'd gotten a small paint palette tattoo on her wrist. The palette was filled with his favorite color. Different shades of green. And for her, he'd gotten a tiny cinnamon roll on his ankle. And if any one looked close enough, they'd see the frosting drip down to spell her initials. Not that they would know what it meant. And if the shady tattoo artists saw the symbol of their gangs tattooed on their arms, he didn't comment. It was a stupid, reckless decision that could get them both killed. But the adoration in each other's eyes when they unveiled the surprise tattoo made it somehow, stupidly, worth it.

They'd never touched deliberately before, always finding themselves touching somehow at some point without even thinking about it at all. Like a red string of fate, pulling them together and wrapping taunt around them both. But this time was different, she sat in front of him, knees pressed together. Eyeing him as if she were taking him apart piece by piece mentally. He didn't necessarily feel uncomfortable but her unwavering stare made him raise both eyes in question. She raised her hand towards him and the warmth of her eyes didn't make him tense up. She touched his neck, reaching her thumb closer towards the center of his adam apple and caressing a discolored line across his neck. He angled his head slightly to allow it and she stared at it for awhile before glancing back at him.

"Will you tell me a story?" She whispered, voice low, afraid to break the content air around them. He knew what she wanted and he didn't hesitate before speaking

"It is sad." He said, tone light. It was something not unknown. Each scar held a story. A nightmare that they often dreamed about almost every night.

"I know." Was her simple reply. And he launched into the story. Voice still soft despite his words. A drug deal gone wrong. The dealer was more sneaky than they thought and their leader sent him in as bait. The man had a knife to his throat and added more pressure than they thought he would. The man was promptly shot in the head by their best assassin and the rest was history. She swallowed at the images in her head but said nothing.

They had both been in positions where they almost died and the cliche questions that most people asked aren't necessary. So she promptly removed her leather jacket, showing a black tank top underneath that exposed her upper chest, shoulders and upper arms.

"Pick one. I'll tell you a story." She gestured towards herself. He ran his eyes across her exposed skin. Taking in intricate tattoos, knife wounds, old bullet holes and a couple of burn marks. He reached across and danced his index and middle finger against a bullet wound that looked fresher than the rest.

"This one." She grimaced as if remembering the pain. Boss was in a bad mood and shot her in the shoulder. Reminding her that she expendable amongst the other 100 other members of the gang. A lesson learned indeed. Keep your head down and your mouth shut. You mean nothing.

Again no extra words were exchanged, just meaningful glances and minimal touches. The touches were warm and gentle. A warmth that hadn't been felt for a long time. It brought along an honesty and truths that hadn't been spoken before. And they spent the rest of the night telling stories as if they were at a camp, surrounding a campfire, telling fictional stories. Except these stories weren't fictional but they were very much horror.

And because people like them didn't get happy endings, it wasn't long before someone from his gang found out. Blackmailing the couple. He hurts her or they both die. And he doesn't want to. In a black and white world, he'd found her, his gray area. Except she wasn't gray, she was shades of warm brown and cozy yellow. His safe house. His home.

But she understood, of course she does. This the only way they'll both make it out with minimal damage. And next time, they'll have to be extra careful. They aren't kids, they've been in this lifestyle long enough to know how to cover tracks.

And even though it physically pains him, he has to do it anyway. And it's the worst thing he's ever done. The last thing he ever wanted to do. And they'll spend the next time bandaging each wound carefully with gauze, whispered apologies and unspoken affection because even though they both knew it had to happen, it won't lessen the guilt each time the other winces at their bruised lip or struggles to take a breath because of a broken rib.

And he'll lay next to her, carefully in an uncomfortable motel bed, and he'll talk about how he wanted to paint red sandy beaches and sunset purple skies - not red blood staines and purpling bruises especially across the skin of the one he loved - holy crap.. I love you

And when she smiles, her entire face lighting up, eyes swimming with the same emotion and unshed happy tears. He'll say it again. And again. Until his voice reaches an octave she'd never heard before. Not really loud enough for the outside world to hear but loud enough for it to resonate through her ears and to the tips of her toes, warming her from the inside out.

They'll both lay on their sides, carefully in her case, and say it again and again until their voices are back to a simple whisper. And their noses with brush against each other until finally their lips do too. Pressing carefully, mindful of her bruised lips. And it wasn't like fireworks or an explosion of cherry blossoms like those cheesy romance books would describe it.

No, it was like a soldier coming from a long hard grueling war, into the arms of the ones he loves most. Every stress. Every hardship. Melted away. It was like coming home.