Bring Me Home

His hands encouraged me, lifting and lowering, and I felt myself tightening, shocks of pleasure shooting from my thighs, my spine, all directed to that one magical place. It was the pure sight of him that tipped me over. His mussed-from-sleep hair, blue eyes, toned arms, rings digging into my thighs… “Oh…God!” I cried, my clit erupting, pussy dripping, squeezing.

“Ahh,” Hugo groaned. “Fuck yes.”

Legs weakening, my pace had slowed, but Hugo took over, drilling me from below, his cock plunging deep and fast. I couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see. I could only feel what he was doing to me. I yelped in surprise when his hand grabbed my neck, pulling me down…and then he kissed my lips, hard and passionate, just as his cock pulsed and spilled inside me. “You mean everything to me,” he said, his legs juddering beneath me.

I sighed, smiled a satiated smile, and dropped my forehead to his. For a moment, as my arms and legs tingled from the after effects of orgasm, we hugged, rocked together in blissful silence, savouring our bodies being one. And then I pulled back a little, swept the hair from his eye and said, once again, “Happy birthday, Hugo.”

He grinned, kissed my nose. “Yeah. Yeah it is.”

Fourteen

Hugo

I needed some time alone before guests started arriving. Helen understood, as always. In the master bedroom, after changing into the suit Drew hated, I sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped on top of my knees, and simply…breathed. Looking up, I caught my reflection in the mirrored wardrobes. I looked good from the outside. My eyes were bright, skin clear. Clothes sophisticated, jewellery cool. I looked like a normal person. Nothing about my appearance portrayed the carnage taking place in my mind.

I should’ve been better now. Getting there, at least. But I still felt so tired. And guilty. Guilty because I couldn’t love Helen the way she deserved. I couldn’t make my heart race when she walked into the room. Sometimes, I didn’t even notice. Others, with her in my arms, I loved her so much it felt like I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see the future she talked about for us. She wanted kids. I couldn’t risk that, couldn’t risk passing on the curse of my mind to another person, an innocent kid. I wouldn’t. Yet, I’d nodded along with her hopes and plans anyway. I’d lied to her, let her believe in a love story that couldn’t exist because I was too selfish to feel the pain of watching her heart shatter.

“What the hell have you done?” I asked, as if the face in the mirror would answer. My existence felt like a betrayal to everyone who had ever tried to help me. Helen, especially, had dedicated so much of her life to supporting me, to trying to understand…and I still felt like this. I was wasting her time. Seeing my gift from her propped up against the closet didn’t help. My first guitar, the one that had belonged to her grandfather. I couldn’t believe she’d held onto it all these years. I’d never expected to see it again and, now, there it was, my initials still carved into its worn and scratched body. It’d brought me so much joy, that instrument. Absorbed so much pain. When I’d held it this morning, I felt…nothing.

I hadn’t come back here for help, though a part of me knew I needed it. I hadn’t expected Helen to ‘save’ me, to love me all better. I’d come back because Helen was the missing piece. The dream had been too expensive. It was worth nothing without her to share it with. I came back because I’d hoped her dreams were missing a piece, too.

I came back…because I was fucking stupid.

I couldn’t be saved. I couldn’t get ‘better’. Sure, the new medication would kick in eventually, maybe even soon. My mood would even out. I’d see colour again. My heart would start racing for Helen. Until the next time. There would be a next time. There was always a next time. So…what was the point? I was tired of waiting for it. Sick of accepting scraps of momentary happiness, if that’s even what it was. I wasn’t sure if I knew what true happiness felt like. I’d always hoped to, strived for it. If I had a cat…then I’d be happy. If I could perform on a stage…then, I’d know. If I achieve this, do that. If I saw Helen again…

It was almost a relief to accept that I wasn’t supposed to know. People like me weren’t made to feel it. Instead of happiness, I simply had times in my life where I wasn’t desperately sad…and that had been fine, until now. I’d never needed more. But now, with Helen back in my life, if I didn’t know what happiness felt like, how could I reciprocate it? What could I offer her other than a lifetime of anticipating my next downfall?