I've missed you. I want to talk to you, but I don't know if . . . All I did was hurt you. If I were you, I wouldn't even acknowledge me. Its easier to keep wanting than to actually confront the fact that you probably hate me.
I want to talk
about what happened
without mentioning
how much it hurt.
There has to be a way.
To care for the wounds
Without reopening them.
To name the pain
without inviting it back
into me
If there is a way, I’ll take it. (via life-with-bpd-things)
Being raised in an unstable household makes you understand that the world doesn’t exist to accommodate you, which… is something a lot of people struggle to understand well into their adulthood. It makes you realize how quickly a situation can shift, how danger really is everywhere. But crises when they occur, do not catch you off guard; you have never believed you lived under a shelter of some essential benevolence. And an unstable childhood makes you appreciate calmness and not crave excitement.
Cole arrives at the address he was given. It's a hotel. A more expensive hotel than Cole would ever be able to set foot in with his own money. He gives the receptionist the name he has. She sends him to a conference room, which is how Cole knows he's fucking screwed (hah) before anyone lays a hand on him. For several sick seconds he can't bring himself to open the door. His hand is already shaking just hovering over the door handle.
In the end, he doesn't have to worry about it. The door opens without him. The man's suit looks even more expensive than the hotel. He's Italian, with slicked back hair and the kind of smile that reminds Cole of cold metal in his mouth. Cole can see more people behind him. More men than women. They're all looking towards the door. Towards him. "You're late." His smile grows another impossible inch as he ushers Cole inside. The moment the door closes, the man grabs Cole by the neck and slams him back into the door. Thick fingers dig into his windpipe. His feet might not be touching the floor. Cole closes his eyes and thinks of soap fights with Ricky, thinks of his mom's pumpkin muffins, Yuri's soft voice in his ear.
The man drags Cole by his throat to a low, flat platform in the middle of the room and shoves him down on his hands and knees. A woman ties his wrists down while someone else ties his ankles and jerks Cole's jeans of his hips. He feels the tight pinch of a needle in his thigh and panics. He thrashes, open his mouth to ask what the fuck they put in him. He's choked if by the o-ring they take the opportunity to strap around his head. The edges of Cole's vision goes blurry. His limbs refuse to move no matter how hard he tries.
Then, the first dick is in his mouth. The blunt head of glass dildo is forced into him without much more warning than the sharp, long nails digging into, digging through his lower back. Cole forces his mind to go somewhere, anywhere else. To his first New York Fashion Week, the tiny balcony on his London flat with the daisies and Meredith running the bakery don't the street, to taco parties in New York.
He loses track of how many people have been inside him, how many people have come on him. He thinks he hears the door open and close, people come and go. He's jolted back into awareness over and over when someone slaps him, twists his balls so hard he almost pukes on someone's cock, uses him to stub their cigarette. He's not tracking very well anymore.
He doesn't remember passing out for good. But when he wakes, he's alone. One arm is free, and there's a key right under his hand. His cheek is tacky and stuck to the platform. He turns to unlock his other arm and sees the neat stack of bills on a nearby table.
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