Ian 22

Ian,

Since I gave him initial consent this summer, Adam drugs me periodically and without warning.  Generally, my coffee in the morning, only slightly more bitter than normal.  

In the half hour or so that follows, I can feel myself get drowsy, and I submit to what he's given me, some drug I've never determined the origin of, and fall into something close to sleep.  

The process, he assures me, is important in disassociating from the information we're trying to lose, at a rapid rate, and complying with the alterations he's making to time and space.  They are strong, and quickly metabolized to nothing under the rate of flooding endorphins we force on ourselves.  

I come to myself in our bed, which is a shifting haze between one room and another, like attempting to delineate one color from it's gradients in a rainbow.  I move my limbs heavy-feeling, watching Adam's mischief slip into something haunted and not amused.   

In the afternoon light, which becomes quickly dusk, I smile at him something lazy, laying somehow at once in the back of a pickup truck, and a bed of a motel.

"Hey, hey," I sing soft to him, to tell him I'm awake.  

"My, my," he answers, rasping.  "Rock and roll can never die."

"Are we gonna die, Adam?" I ask him, the color of me warming rapidly to the expression I have of a girl inside me, and throbbing from the lightest color of the clouds out our window to the darkest and most starved shade of blood that exists.  He lifts with the claw of his hand the front of his hair and he looks at the floor.  

"Not tonight, Evie," he says, as he undresses from his suit of himself to become the boy he named Frances but cried once and admitted was named Ian.  "I don't think tonight."

"I have to be home early," I remind him, feeling the girl I'm stepping into and the delicacy of her fears.  

"I hear," he drawls slow.  "I gotta have the pickup back soon anyhow."

He crawls across the hot metal toward me, the sun beating down, and the uncertainty of his mouth reaches mine.  The weight of him between my legs means some promise that I'll never die alone how my mother will, and I cringe at the thought he might find out about her feeding all those cats out back.  

"I love you," he admits, his eyes low.  He doesn't meet mine, some ghastly black eye blooming on his face.  

"I love you," I choke back, tears sticking in my throat.  I touch the place I'm sure his father hit him and I feel his fingers tug at the waist of my panties.  

"Adam?" I ask him, and he answers.

"Evelyn."

Through the floor of the truck, I am pulled or dropped into the experience of the next girl, Argentinian, behind her house, on a pile of wood that Adam's thrown his coat over.  The feel of him pushing inside me is as foreign as it was 20 minutes ago, as it will be again in 45.  He says something in Spanish, his eyes confused and frantic, and touches my face with his thumb, which he withdraws and sticks in his mouth as if he can taste my skin.

An older man than usual, he's self-conscious, the leather of his car squeaking under my knees as I climb into his lap.  

"You.  You.  Evelyn, you don't have to do this," he says embarrassed.  

"I want to," I convince him.  My nylons tear on a piece of plastic broken on his gear shift.  

"Oh," he fusses.  "Oh, I'm sorry," and we laugh before he slides inside me, the shock on his face telling me that...

"Shit," he almost yelps, while I breathe out, slow my panic, work through the pain of penetration to try to accept him despite the vise it feels he's trying to pry open with his will alone.  He wipes his dark hair off his face, and pulls his t-shirt from his back, stuck with the sweat of the summer night.  

He paints onto us each passing offered virginity, with a persistence I've come to expect from him, when some unknown conclusion is at stake.  With each passing entrance of him, into a place I previously had no knowledge, I become aware in parts and torn pieces, that he has effected me in a fundamental way; where I touch a dark place inside me is now different.  But rather than recoiling from that change, he presses my fingers into it, to hold it up to some light, to show it to me, and caress it with careful fingers.

I soften in some place inside, where I become that which he can affect.  The lowest girl of me, the one eager for his affection and murder at his hands, softens to some animal gleam in my eyes.  Enduring him and the things I feel had been altered or affected becomes something I show him, the same as I hold the lips of my pussy open for him to see where to fuck me.  

Into the third or fourth day, according to us, he begins the same.  His eyes are startled, showing me things without words.  

"Evelyn, look..." Frances pleads.  Things I shouldn't know about being a boy and being a virgin, and the arms into which you fall, and how you can easily forget the difference between your woman and her pussy and the place of your birth, and the last man you killed.  

"Adam?" I ask him again, my voice worn from the moans and hoarse.  Soon, I'll be silent and we'll have only our bodies to tell what's real and what isn't.  Unable to protest, he'll feel my contract or protest in my shoulders, and stop what he's doing, if he feels like it, if the pain is avoidable.  

"Evelyn," he sighs back, grunting in his throat against what I think must be an orgasm he fights from some depth of him.  

In waves, the affection ends by a crashing against him some conviction of all I am and all I have inside me to give, and it begins again with a soft and timid understanding that nothing ever ends.  

Everyone, all those people...they never stop.

Love, 

Annik