My Mark of Death

If I had known that doing that would create this mess I never would have. Late that night, doing our routine, closing spaces, breaking our oath to the lord, I made the mark. It was common place for you to tap on my window, for my hand to tug on my lamp, and for my tired steps to drag towards the window to let you in. I never disliked it. You showed up needy and hungry and I was just so excited that you wanted me. Leaving that spot on your adam’s apple allowed me to convince myself that this was still exciting, and new, and positive, and something I wanted because you wanted it. The layering over your adam’s apple tinted with a patch of red that slowly bled to purple over time. I thought you would hide it, rock a turtle neck to avoid exposing yourself as a sex-enjoying slut. That’s what my sister always told me to do, but I guess, now that I think about it, you never had a sister, or any siblings, to tell you that. Boys must have more confidence, especially more than some non-binary weirdo like me. It’s not weird, I shouldn’t be like that to myself, but come on me. Get a fucking grip. When he showed up to school he showed, danced it around in front of everyone as if he was looking for a reason for his girlfriend to despise him more. I could hear their whispering everywhere, infecting the air around me. Their words crawled up the small tunnels on each side of my head, and nested themselves into the small, pink, squishy think that controls my miserable functioning. The hellfire was too much for me. Excusing myself from english, felt like an eleven year task with the ancient woman attempting to teach over the insulting sentences spewing out of ever teenagers mouth that day. Whore, slut, and any other unholy word one would use to describe someone with an OBVIOUS hickey. Once I got out of the smallest room imaginable, I crawled myself over to the bathroom across the biggest hall imaginable. I was tugging at the air that had somehow liquidated into mud or maybe quicksand is a better word. I felt swallowed, small, impossible. Everything felt impossible, I felt impossible. My breathe was gone, my lungs had probably fallen out of ass from the night before. The walls of the bathroom had nothing to stable myself with, gripping solid wall isn’t possible so I sat down and avoided looking up into the mirror to see my panicked face. Once the bell rang I knew I had leave so I picked up my fallen bag and somehow crawled my way out of school and to the park down the street. It was the park we had met at, he had kissed me at, and the park he’d made so many promises at. It calmed me though, my lungs had regrown, my legs had restabilized, and my brain had fought off their overbearing words. Suddenly, hands pushed the swing I had peaceful been sitting on. I could tell they were his, how could I not. I remember hearing him talk, but I can never remember what about. Nothing serious. He told me he didn’t do serious. How could anyone do serious with me. This wicked, self-centered alien that can’t chose a fucking gender.

It was probably fun for him to dance around that he’d been fucked the night before. Especially, fun in front of his girlfriend whose eyes somehow managed to sink deeper into her skull every time I saw her again. I should’ve stopped, I should’ve cared more about everyone else. I should’ve cared more about her, but he probably would’ve found another person to rub in her face. But what if he hadn’t. What if he’d only settle on me and if I had cut it off this wouldn’t of happened. God I could never understand what his deal was. He made sure she knew he was with another person. Rubbed it in her face, all over body. He stained her with the shame of not being good enough and it showed. Showed through the cuts that occasionally slipped from under her skirt, the cigarettes she stashed in her bra with the outline of the box getting more obvious every time she skipped a lunch period and probably family dinner too. I knew she was dying and I went along with it. “Not your fault” I said to the bathroom mirrors whenever I felt the slightest bit of courage while panicking.

I hadn’t known until the funeral that she had actually died before the car crash. She had slit her wrists in the car and her mother was trying so hard to help her from the drivers seat that it sent them into a life-ending ditch. He went to that funeral, spoke at it even. His tears seemed real, his words seemed real, and that mark on his neck was definitely real.