14. Abel

I wouldn’t bewho I am if I didn’t double my return.

The girls around me chatter excitedly as I pull my phone out of my pocket, my smirk widening when I open my photos app. Someone peers over my shoulder so I curl over against the light beaming through the window, arm snaking around the side.

When my eyes adjust, the three selfies I took in the mirror the other night reflect back at me. The lighting is awful—fucking fluorescents—but there’s no mistaking the glare of cum streaked across my lower face and torso. My baggy jeans are cinched tight around my narrow waist, my crotch obviously wet from where I came, the tiniest peek of my pink boxers beneath as well as a peek of my scuffed Converse untied with the laces dragging on the floor.

Holding my breath, feeling the rush of my heart racing in my throat, I forward all three pictures to Peris—triple checking it is, in fact, his name and number I’m sending them to because nothing would be worse than accidentally sexting my foster mom.

Nope, no thanks. I’d rather chuck myself right under a moving car.

The second I hear the whoosh of them being sent, followed by a delivered mark, I switch my phone to silent and pocket it again just as the cheer coach walks into the room.

“First day of practice! You all know what this means. Let’s pass up order forms for uniforms. We want to get these in as soon as possible. They’re the new design this year.” The rustle of papers fills the room, voices slowing to a mild chatter. I stand awkwardly with my hands in my pockets, shoulders to my ears.

Sierra, the girl from my algebra class, glances over at me before grabbing my elbow and dragging me to the front of the room. “Ms. B.”

“Yes, Sierra?” Ms. Barlowe says without looking up from her clipboard.

“Abel wants to know if it’s too late to join the squad?”

“Abel, what?” she says, peering up through her lens. I feel properly watched as her eyes bat back and forth between mine. I straighten my spine and jut my chin out, refusing to be intimidated, but her next words surprise me. “Oh, absolutely! I’ve always wanted to have a boy on the squad, but no one’s ever given it a chance. Do you have any experience—Oh!” Her lips form a perfect “O” as her hand flies to her mouth.

Sierra and I share a look, to which she just shrugs. “I’m so sorry, Abel. I didn’t mean to assume—your pronouns. What are they?”

My face cracks into a wide smile, warmth blooming in my chest. I like this woman.

“He/him, ma’am. Thank you for asking. I really would love to join the squad. I’ve always wanted to cheer, but I’ve moved around too much, so I don’t have any experience. If that’s an issue, it’s okay. I’ll?—”

“Nonsense. Anyone and everyone can join. I’ll just have, mmm—Sierra, are you okay to work with Abel individually on some of the standard cheers, just to get him up to speed?” Sierra nods, hands clasped behind her back. “All right, good. Here, Abel. You take this; get it filled out and brought back to me tomorrow. For today, you can just watch practice to see how we do things, join in if you care to, and then tomorrow, we’ll go from there. Sound okay?”

“Yeah, thanks.” I take the paper from her hand, eyes immediately catching on the dollar amount for uniforms. I wince, digging my fingers into my temple as I walk away.

“Try not to worry about it. Ms. B is really good at working it out with?—”

“I’m not,” I snap back, a little too sharply. To ease the sting, I smile. “It’s all good.” I shove the paper into my bag as everyone files out of the room, heading for the gym.

“In the fall, we practice outside or in the wrestling room, but for winter cheer, it’s usually in the gym. Only place with enough room for kicks and shit,” Sierra tells me on the way. I nod, only half listening because my heart is currently hammering at the speed of a hummingbird’s.

The heavy gym doors creak open as everyone files into the gymnasium. The sound of rubber soles squeaking on the floor spills out, sharp in my ears. I hold the door open, gaze locked firmly on that slim, muscular body I am now intimately familiar with.

Peris’s brown hair hangs in front of his face, swaying with his movement, eyes never straying from the path of the ball. Thick, calloused fingers wrap around his knees as he bends over, thick lips parted with heavy breaths. He blows air up from between his lips, moving his hair, only for it to fall back into place.

I feel myself smiling—which is exactly how he catches me.

The moment our gazes lock, his pointed, concentrated stare morphs into something akin to liquid fire. And I know it’s not a good thing, but my brain chemicals simply do not care. They scream hot hot hot, fuck me please, over and over.

Peris makes me want to beg.

It’s quite… inconvenient when I have a plan.

I lift my hand in a small wave, murmuring a silent hello and relishing in his cute, confused stare. When the door clangs shut behind me and I join the group, overtly aware of his eyes following me, the coach’s whistle blares out.

“Yep, you can see cheer practice has started.” Whoops and hollers ring out. “Yeah, yeah, shut it,” the coach chastises. “We’re here to practice, not to stare. So, keep your head in it or you’ll run laps till you puke. All right!” He blows his whistle, effectively breaking up the chatter.

Some dude I’ve seen around Peris before walks up to him, dark eyes flicking between me and the floor as he whispers in Peris’s ear. The muscles in Peris’s jaw flutter as he grinds his teeth, hands clenching into fists before he stretches his fingers wide.

After a sharp nod, the guy pulls away. “Who’s that?” I lean back and turn my head slightly, not asking anyone in particular.

“Who, Peris? I thought?—”

I shake my head. “No, not Peris. The other dude.”

“Oh, that’s Gabriel Avalos,” another girl responds. I don’t even spare her a glance as I watch Gabriel walk away. He’s tall with dark, curly hair, brown skin, and a pretty fucking mouth.

I curl my lips inward, running my tongue along the dry skin as I watch his biceps flex, arms reaching out to catch the ball launched in his direction.

Ms. B says something to my left, but it’s nothing more than fog as the basketball team takes their positions, and the coach blows the whistle. People move around me, forming their three long lines, pushing me toward the back. I lean against the padded wall, behind the backboard, with my hands shoved in my front pockets.

Someone lurches, shoes squeak, feet hammer down the court. And all the while, I watch Peris’s friend. The way his long legs turn, moving with blinding speed as he chases after the hoop, his curls flopping all the while. His fingers curl over leather, arms lifting. The ball soars through the air and sinks into the net.

It bounces across the floor, right toward me. I bite back a grin as I step forward and reach for it. My skin prickles with the intensity of various gazes. “Hey,” I say softly as I drop the ball into Gabriel’s awaiting hands. His eyes are so dark and so pretty as they flick between mine before he glances back—toward Peris, presumably.

“Uh, hi?” he responds, like it’s a question. My face splits into a grin.

“I’ll see ya.” I wrinkle my nose with a wink before turning back to the practice I’m supposed to be focused on.

Two hours pass in a blur of repeated chants and hand movements. By the time it’s over and everyone starts to disperse, I’m edging on a migraine, and my arms ache.

All I wanted was to wear the skirt at one of Peris’s games.

This is a lot of work and only day one. “Better be fucking worth it,” I grumble as I grab my bag and start the walk home, now in the dark with the early setting sun.

The house is quiet as I step over the threshold. Elise already left for work according to a text sent thirty minutes ago, so I have the house to myself—which isn’t out of the ordinary, but it still feels strange. In a way that’s wrong. Like if I’m left to my own devices, I’ll somehow fuck everything up.

The feeling squirms in my veins, thick and sludgy. I hastily make my way to my room, not releasing my breath until the door is closed behind me, lock turned. Dropping my bag to the floor, I rifle through the second drawer in my dresser until I find one of my lighters.

Fitting it into the curve of my palm, I take a change of clothes as I pad softly across the carpet to the bathroom, holding my breath once more until this door is also shut and locked behind me.

I’ve never been able to lock a door before in my life.

The relief I find with such a simple action quells part of the small, broken kid inside of me, but this… swell inside of me is unbearably intrusive. It’s been quiet for a while. Feeling… safe has brought a new kind of stillness to the shadowy fingers grasping for atonement.

But they are still there. Always there. Twined around my veins, looped through my intestines, and burrowed into my spinal cord.

My head falls back between my shoulders, stilting my breath as it’s forced through a tighter tunnel. A sharp pain radiates in my left shoulder, up into my neck. I roll against it, gaze casting from the white ceiling down to the pink lighter still clenched tightly in my palm, now warm.

My breath comes out a little faster in anticipation as I tighten my fist against the glossy, smooth cylinder.

It’s been a long fucking time since I’ve felt the sting. Nearly two months—the longest I’ve ever gone without—and if that’s not unimaginable, I don’t know what is.

How has it been that long, and I—I didn’t even realize. Not until now. Not until?—

I rip my clothes off with haste and plop down on the toilet lid, hissing at the cold against my naked body. It creaks as I shift around, unsticking my skin, eyes unfocused, nerves fried.

I didn’t need it because I was in pain—and now, I’m not. I need it to breathe. To remind myself I’m really alive, that this is all happening.

A focus. A center.

Toes flexing for purchase against the tile floor, my thumb slides over the metal ridges, tracing each groove with my nail before I push down. There’s a sharp hiss, followed by a flicker of static and then a small wave of heat.

I watch the tiny flame flicker around, glowing in bright, blurred colors. I wave my hand around the flame, through it, above it as my mind flashes back to the very first time.

On. Off.

In. Out.

I time my breaths with the flick of the lighter, the sharp ridges on the wheel biting into my swollen thumb. My ears hone in on the fizz of the spark igniting the flame, and my nostrils flare with the scent of flint burning.

I want to close my eyes. They’re heavy with exhaustion—the bone-deep, itchy kind. Going on four days without a wink of sleep. But I know the moment I slip, I’ll sink into the deepest pits of unconsciousness, and this isn’t the type of home I can sleep soundly in.

None of them are, really.

The harsh intake of a snore has me tensing beneath the blanket stretched around me. It’s paper thin, the flame flickering in front of my face more than enough light for me to see through the goddamn thing.

It does nothing to fight off the cold, but it’s something. And something’s always better than nothing.

When my thumb starts to sting, I release the trigger, letting the lighter dangle between my index finger and thumb. I stare at it in all shades of gray as it sways back and forth.

What if…

Don’t think, a sharp, nasty little voice screeches in my mind. It’s not the first time I’ve heard it—in fact, we have conversations often. After all, what else is there to do when one’s living in a hell they can’t escape?

Using every ounce of strength I have left in my riddled body, I press the stinging metal to the crook of my arm. I have to sink my teeth into my tongue to block the cry from spilling out and causing irreparable damage.

All I taste is copper and elation.

The heat fades fast—too fast—but the dull ache it leaves behind makes it worth it. Makes it compulsive.

I lose track of how many burns I give myself. Over my forearms, my thighs, even my calves. The inner thigh hurts the worst—the most sensitive skin just in the crease.

Through another flickering flame, I glance down at the red welt on my arm, at the others scattered over my body. With the promise of smiley-faced scars, I sigh, hating them as much as I need them.

Sometimes, trying to find my voice in a cesspool filled with hundreds of others gets a little… complicated.

When the skinof my thumb starts to char, I release the stinging metal with a relished hiss, blinking down at my blistered skin.

Do it.

With wide eyes and lungs filled to capacity, I flip the lighter between my fingers and shove the metal down against the soft, sensitive flesh of my inner thigh—just below the satiny skin where my leg meets my groin.

“Shit,” I groan at the initial, fuck this is stupid, why would I do this moment. But then, my eyes light up with adrenaline, then roll back with relief, and I start the process over. I lose track, never pausing in my tedious technique until my gaze blurs, the color white fading in and out in heavy, drugging waves.

When I can no longer keep a grip, the lighter slips from between my fingers and clatters to the tile floor. I stare at the pink stain as I sway, hair tickling my spine before I slump back against the tank of the toilet with a moan of comfort.

I’m not a masochist. Well… maybe I am, but this has never been about that, per se. It’s actually more of the opposite. The need to feel good when everything else just… hurts so fucking bad. Pain for pain. A reminder that I am the one who chooses what affects me.

And the sting of the welts, the twisted, gnarly, smiley faced scars they leave behind help keep that reminder alive.

Especially now that things are… warped. And confusing. I need it now more than ever, I think.

Dizzy with a buzzing vacancy, I release a shaky breath and swipe up the lighter to drop it atop the counter before jumping in the shower to wash the stain of the day down the drain.