You watch, just outside the door, knowing it’s wrong. It’s wrong morally and wrong in your heart too—for a multitude of different reasons. This is not something you find attractive; you’re certainly not watching this because it arouses you. Actually, it’s pulling at the tears until they’re sliding down your cheek and curling up under your chin—clinging to you like you’re clinging to the chaste, ignorant thoughts you had before.
The door is cracked just a bit and you’ve only come to talk to this man, but things have since changed. Every part of you tingles to step in and shatter the scene unfolding, but you just don’t have the right to do that. This man hates you. He hates the curse on your face, your bleached ‘old-man’ hair that makes you stand out like a freak in a crowd, and probably your smile is what he hates most of all. This man loathes your presence in every way, even if you don’t feel the same for him.
But you wonder, as you watch his black hair splaying across the mattress and spilling off the side; who does he hate more: you or himself?
You cover your mouth so you can’t make noise, because it’s hard to listen to the angry growls and the reverberating sound of an open palm colliding with his fair face. Worst of all, he doesn’t fight back. He isn’t even protesting. He takes it while you watch and you don’t understand why.
It hurts your heart in strange aching ways that you can’t explain and you have no right to feel this way. You’re not chaste either, but you would have never expected this. One proud person that you thought was untouchable; was giving his body to be used like a cheap whore to a complete stranger.
He makes a low moan and you slack against the wall—you can’t watch this anymore. You can’t watch his self loathing, in fear of what you might actually do if you continue. You fear the desire to protect him—because it’s strong—even though he needs no protection and he may hurt you if you try.
So you slide down the wall and wait. Somewhere in this, you’ve lost the ability to move and you know you should; because if he catches you, he’s going to kill you for daring to make this a spectacle. It’s very obvious that he’s hiding this thing he’s doing—judging by the time of night it is. You would too in his position, if you was degrading yourself to this level.
Another body leaves the room and you’re not even acknowledged. The man who’s used the person, that you might have accidentally started to care for, is apathetic. He is just as apathetic as the man who leans out that door just after.
“If you wanted to watch, you sick fuck, you could have had the decency to come in and close the door instead of displaying my privacy.” His voice is cold and cutting, accusing and not wrong about it.
“I didn’t want to watch,” you reply, almost bitterly; but mostly it’s a numb feeling.
“Then what the fuck did you think you we’re doing at my door? You have a problem.”
“I just…” What did you want to say? You almost lose it at the tip of your tongue because you’re choked up here in thoughts. “I just wanted to remember what it was like. To hate myself so much that,” you pause and try to focus on the present, right where you are, “… it could drive me to this sort of self destruction. Then maybe,” you look at him and you’re sure he finds you pathetic, “then maybe I can figure out how…to heal your wounds too.”
The long moments of silence pass between your words and his reaction; and he looks at you with an expression that you don’t think you’ll ever truly grasp, but all you know is the drops rolling off his face are as real as your own.