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I hadn’t made any arrangements for the following day, and as
I took the short walk from my front door to Stuart and Karen’s house, the
apprehension that swept over me was almost suffocating, as was the fear that
violently churned in the pit of my stomach.
Sleep had, surprisingly, greeted me fairly quickly the night
before; my mind had not yet fully digested what had happened. But as I neared
the destination, inching my way forward, my head became awash with the
frightening details of the encounters I'd had over the last couple of years.
The photo sessions with Ropeman, the sexual contact Stu had
subjected me to; I began to wonder if it was all part and parcel of normal
adult life. But mostly, I was scared of them.
Afraid that if I didn't show up, one of them would say something to my
parents about what had taken place. And
truth be told, I was terrified. Stu
frightened me more than anyone I'd ever met.
Karen opened the door and gave me a warm smile. It wasn’t
the sickly smile of Ropeman, nor was it the twisted grin I’d seen on Stu’s face
the previous day, but I still felt an almost irrepressible urge to smack the smile
clean off her face. She was evil; not nearly as intimidating as Stu, but evil
just the same.
I walked past her and strutted into the lounge, my blond
spikes erupting from my skull in all their glory. “Alright Stu.” he looked up
from his paper, his bright blue eyes seemed to sparkle, and for the first time
I noticed just how scarred his face actually was.
Karen came up behind me, I felt her hand on my shoulder, and
“Don't I get a kiss then"?
I didn’t know where to look, much less what to say. I’m not
sure if it was visible, but my whole body felt as though it was physically
shaking. I tried to make a joke of it and simply kissed her on the cheek,
quickly rubbing my lips with the back of my hand and pretending to be sick,
mimicking the actions of a four or five year old child.
After sitting on the sofa, I asked Stuart if it was okay to
turn on the CB, which was on a small table between where I was sitting and his
armchair. “Leave it off for the minute,” he replied, “maybe we’ll put it on
after a cuppa.”
Before I could do or say anything else he told me to stand
in front of him, telling me I was wearing my studded belt all wrong. I did as
was asked, and he began rubbing my crutch.
UK Link
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1345890328&sr=8-1
US Link
