Chapter 8. Crying In My Shoulders

Unfortunately I've never been one to voice things, and yet on some level I think she knew my feelings for her. And if there was a single common thing about abuse survivors, often one has a hard time sorting out their feelings for other people. I'm one to assume even poisoners have feelings for other people. Almost to an exaggerated degree. You find yourself growing gradual disdain for the guardian that was suppose to take care of and protect you. Remember, I was there once. I just got out of the house in time, and never had those desires since. And so while I don't exactly approve of slipping cyanide in someone's coffee, it is an understandable feeling to me when someone continuously spanks you and never letting up.

And yet, despite my insistence on cooking, and her more strongly insisting I haven't died so far, although I might give it weeks at the most.

Yet whenever I am home she is happy to see me now.

A very different girl from the one I met. She was a lot dirtier then, but now if I describe her appearance her skin tone is paradox of tan and pale, she looks as if someone who could be more dark skinned like a Spaniard, and yet do to lack of exposure from sunlight she is so pale. And her hair is as dark as a black rose. Her body was a petite skinny hour glass shape, with the larger end around the bottom and smaller on top. Her hair the gently trimmed shoulder length darkness one associates with a guillotine cut having grown out over the last six months. I asked her why she kept her hair at that length. "It reminds me of how close I came to losing it all." And I knew exactly what she meant, teenage girl there really did.

Even their heads.

Hey don't look at me like that, I tend to pay attention to what I like. Even if they aren't a good person. Especially guillotine cuts. We embrace for the midnight bed, under the glow of the lunar light shining over the mountains.

You know how it is when you date an ex poisoner without the ability to poison.

I hear her loading up a shotgun, so I wake up. But instead of pointing that gun at me like I was expecting (I will not kill in most cases, but will out of self defense), she is instead putting the shotgun in her mouth.

So for the first time in my life I was forced into the situation of having to talk somebody down from suicide, not exactly something I was experienced with. I had poisoned myself about three times before meeting her, and I was barely in a mental state to help. And yet the adrenaline rush made me take the shotgun from her hands, and she fired it to the ceiling.

"Why were you going to do that, I was going to miss you." I said.

"Nobody misses me, I have nobody." And then she passes out onto the floor, convulsing and hoping that I wouldn't spank her. And I didn't, that's just not how you treat anyone in that kind of a mental state.

And then I hugged her gently.

I allowed her to cry in my shoulders.