Dirt

Motherlode of Morphine

    “Do you need me to kiss it better?” I mocked sweetly, puckering my lips into an obnoxious kissing shape and holding back laughter.
    Trevor flicked the side of my head and gave me a look of sheer disgust before quipping, “I’ve got something else for you to kiss while you’re down there sweetie.” With the stress now alleviated from my body I found this incredibly funny, I laughed aloud half nervously and half hysterically, still unsure of whether or not I would have to throw up my organs within the next few minutes.
    “Here, we’ll use my dress to make dressings, pun intended.” I snickered at my own terrible joke, “I know you don’t like it anyway and I honestly just don’t give a shit about it.”
    “I don’t like anything you wear, I’d much rather you wear nothing.” He grinned at me and I grinned back. I hacked off the edge of my dress until I had a neat strip of vodka soaked cotton and wrapped it in an orderly manner around his thigh as he kissed at the back of my neck. I never supposed flesh wounds and attempted medicine were a romantic affair but apparently they were.
    As I attempted to tie off the bandage he bent forward, running his fingers up my thighs and what was left of my dress; I quickly formed a knot with the two frayed ends of cheap cotton and grasped at his hands, “What do you think you’re doing?”
    “The dress; I don’t like it, you don’t like it, so why are you wearing the damned thing?” He snickered, tightening his grip on my legs. I couldn’t help but crack a smile, what an odd time for him to express his affections.
    I let go of his hands and poked at his stomach, “To be honest I’m not really a fan of anything you wear either.” And then his hands were gone, pulling off his shirt and flinging it across the room.
    “Then I’ll never wear anything ever again.” He decided, once again leaning forward and planting kisses onto my neck. I laughed to myself; there was something so utterly perfect about this highly imperfect person, I simply wanted nothing more than to admire his every word and action for the remainder of my lifetime.
    I lifted my dress from my body to return the favour and also told myself in that moment that I would never wear anything ever again either. Minding his freshly wrapped dressings, I made myself a comfortable seat in his lap and began eyeing the rest of his torso for injuries I would not have seen otherwise while he buried his face into my chest and fumbled with the hooks on my unsightly pink bra.
    He had a number of darkened and slightly inflamed areas that were clearly from brute contact with a blunt force such as a fist or steel-toed shoe. Even though it had only been a number of hours since I had last seen him  they were already darkening into shades of blues and purples too beautiful to be as painful as they appeared to be.
    I ran my fingers over them delicately, finding more of them scattered around his ribs and back in an array of strange constellations. “You need to put ice on these.” I informed him as I shrugged off the bra he had been grappling with, “I wasn’t aware you had a part time job as a personal punching-bag.”
    “Ha ha, very funny,” his voice muffled into my hair, “If you actually want to make me feel better just fuck me already, do you know how fucking many pain-killers the brain releases during sex?” He laughed, pulling at my underwear in a fashion I thought might tear their seams apart.
    “Yes I am well aware of the effects of endorphins. Is it that unreasonable for me to assume you have a motherlode of morphine stocked somewhere around this place though? Who needs endorphins when you’ve got an arsenal of drugs.” I kissed at his shoulders, laughing still.
    “Don’t kid yourself, you’re 10 times better than morphine.” How is it possible that these simple words made me want to burst into tears? Of course I didn’t actually burst into tears but I felt a twinge of an outburst on the tip of my being. How could I possibly deny this man anything? I was absolutely wrapped around his finger, hanging on his every word and stuck to him like gum on a filthy boot.
    In a strange fashion I felt fearful for myself, not only because I knew I would never be this happy again in my lifetime even if I won the lottery, but also because I knew I was losing my sense of self. Given a normal relationship this wouldn’t necessarily prove problematic; becoming so attached to someone that you feel that they’re a part of you can be a very rewarding experience, but clearly this wasn’t what anyone might consider a normal relationship.
    I didn’t want to reveal how deeply what he said had touched me, nor give away the deadly concoction of emotions brewing within me. I brought my hands to his face, cupping it as you would a shaken snow globe to admire the graceful falling artificial flakes, and I kissed him. I did it softly and with depth, as if thanking him simply for existing, and for all that he had done for me thus far.
    I held his face still so that I could kiss him for as long as I saw fit, which was somewhat prolonged time for a single kiss. And still, no matter how hard I tried the very same lump rose in my throat and I knew that if I opened my eyes there would surely be tears there. I absolutely hated my lack of self control in the face of my own emotions.
    I let go of his face and leaned my head on his shoulder so as though he wouldn’t be able to take notice of my nonsensical teariness. “I missed having you around today.” I told him, somehow managing to keep my tone of voice somewhat casual.
    He let out a laugh, likely already aware that I was feeling overly sentimental, I being the terrible liar that I am, “I missed you too sugar-tits, now lighten the fuck up. Christ, you’d think I fucking drugged you again or something.” At this I smiled and took in a deep breath, pushing back my overwhelming irrationality.
    “I’m actually never like this, I think being around you brings out my hysteria.” I scoffed, bringing my head back up to look him in the eyes.
    “Yeah I tend to get that a lot.” He smiled back before returning to the task of getting me completely nude, which he soon succeeded in completing and I returned the favour to him.
    I wondered why I felt this strange sense of owing something to him; was it because he was seemingly the first person I’d encountered who had made the effort to treat me with unquestionable kindness? There was no doubt in my mind that I was in love with the man, could that be the cause of this debt I imagined I owed, a favour for loving me or an apology for my love being unable of attaining any definite permanence?
    It was quite an experience to be a more dominant lover, a role forced upon me in a way, considering Trevor’s injuries. I felt empowered and yet highly insecure, conscious of my every movement as if in one fell swoop I could suddenly destroy everything.
    He told me he adored me and that I was a goddess, he spoke words poetic enough to convince me I was making love to Petrarch and not unkempt trailer-trash. In another lifetime he could have been a tragic hero of a writer, high in opium dens crafting fantastic thought-provoking tales combining hilarity and misery and praised for his truest-of-true depiction of depraved human nature, something he was all too familiar with.
    He also told me to hurt him; a request that had me momentarily taken aback, and though I did not care to cause him any pain if it meant a greater pleasure than I had to comply without question. I knew by whatever standards of pain a man such as Trevor had experienced that my attempts at hurting him, if it could even be referred to as such, were tame to say the least.
    I found it difficult to take myself seriously as I pulled at his hair and clawed at his chest with flimsy fingernails. I tried my hardest to not to laugh as I bit at his neck and dug my nails into his backside; I felt as though I were enacting a scene from a terrible erotic film. At least he seemed to enjoy it, if only for the comedic value of my performance, I had always believed laughter to be a necessary part of any relationship and especially for relationships of a sexual nature.
    My stomach sank in my abdomen when I accidentally drew blood from his already mangled lip and tasted the distinct metallic bitterness of blood on my tongue. There was something oddly romantic about that moment as I observed the blood on his lips and he mine before we immediately enveloped ourselves in each other, blood and all.
    Afterwards we were in and out of sleep for some time on the sofa, waking up only to reposition ourselves and toss and turn over beat up cushions. It was late in the night when we finally got up to drink beer and eat cheeseburgers in bed, watching late night infomercials and cackling profusely.
    It was around 2 in the morning when there was noise from outside the trailer, a car engine and headlights intruding on our festivities and causing Trevor to have to get up and peer through shaded windows in a most careful and quiet manner that was quite unbecoming of him and that I had never seen him use up until that moment.
    I grasped at his arm as he brought himself to a standing position from the bed and looked him in the eyes with unspoken pleading, “It’s nothing.” I told him, and still he motioned for me to be silent as if having mastered some keen 6th sense that altered him to malicious intent.