SAINT JUDE

It’s Friday night and you’re in a good mood.

“Come on, get dressed,” you say. “Let’s go to that bar you like so much.”

You put your hands on my waist and smile wide. You’re three hours late and already drunk, and you need beer like I need a lobotomy, but I can’t say no. I have to find another way.

“What about a movie instead?” I show my teeth and hope I’m smiling back, hope you can’t feel the sweat under my shirt. “We can rent something. A comedy.”

“I wanna go out.” You press your fingers into my waist. “We can watch movies at home some other time. You like the bar more anyway.”

I don’t, but it doesn’t matter. We play this game every night and you never tell me the rules, but I’ve learned the most important one: you are right and I am wrong. I look into your eyes—what are we pretending tonight?

“Staying home is fun,” I say. I give you my best doe eyes and bite my bottom lip just the way you like. “We can do lots of things at home that we can’t do at the bar. Don’t you want to?” And I hate myself for saying it, hate myself for what comes next, but it’s better than the alternative.

Because if I back down and we go to the bar and I have a few drinks, suddenly it’s midnight and we’re playing a different game. Only this time I’m drunk, and I won’t say the right things. I’ll lose. I’ll drink more. I won’t want to remember what happens next.

But for now, you’re in a good mood. Let’s keep it that way.

You dig your nails into my hips and lean in, nose inches from mine. “You don’t seem like you want it.”

But when have you ever cared about that?

“I do, I do.” I put my hands on the base of your neck, curl my fingers around the collar of your shirt, twine them into the chain of your necklace. That old thing you never take off. You even wear it in the shower. “Come on. It’ll be quick, then we can go.”

We won’t—and that’s why I let myself say it. You’ll be asleep afterward. One punishment instead of two, three, or four. I’ll take it.

You pull me closer and our chests touch. Lips trace my jawline. “Show me you want it, then. Show me how much.”

This is the one game I’m good at. I have to be. It’s the only thing that satisfies you, quiets you, makes you forget.

I kiss you and your lips are chapped, stained with nicotine. You walk into me, pushing me, and I stumble back with our lips together, one hand out to catch the wood-paneled wall and the other still wrapped around your necklace. You moan. I kiss you harder.

Your knee: between my legs. Your fingers: in my hair. My eyes are open, vigilant. Yours are closed.

Then you grab me and hoist me up, my legs around your waist, and I scrabble to hold on. My lips break away and I grasp at your neck, falling back against the wall. Something snaps.

No. Oh God, no.

Your necklace dangles from my hand and the clasp is somewhere in this shaggy carpet, its fibers thick with remnants of us from the last time I did something so unforgivable. You drop me and I barely catch myself. You take one step backward, and you look at me with the eyes of a paramedic, someone who has seen more than anyone ever should.

But this isn’t a dead body. It’s a necklace.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to, I swear.”

I hold it out, and you stand there like time has stopped. I’m already trembling, and I can barely speak.

“I can fix it. It’s just a clasp—I can buy you one tomorrow and it’ll be fixed.” I coil the metal in my palm, brush my thumb over the stamped pendant of Saint Jude. “First thing tomorrow, I'll fix it. I promise. I promise.”

You still don’t move. Are you even breathing? I lean to the right and your eyes follow me, calculating. That look you get when you’re planning something you’ve never done to me before.

My heart beats faster. I can take the fists, the nails, and the belts, but your mind is so much darker than mine and I’m terrified to lose myself in it.

“Let’s go to the bar,” I say. “I’ll buy you as many drinks as you want. I’ll drive. You just relax.”

But every muscle in your body looks tense and I don’t think even a shot of ketamine would make them loosen. I put the necklace on the dirty counter and turn around. Give up. Placate. Retreat.

“I’ll get dressed. We can go right away.”

And I lift my foot, but that’s as far as I get. You grab me by the neck and your breath is hot on my ear. Now I’m the one frozen, staring at the cobwebbed ceiling, jaw so tight my teeth might crack.

“We’re not going anywhere. Not yet,” you say. “Get down on your knees and count to ten.”

I fall and my knees hit the floor, and God that hurts a lot more than shag carpet should. You grab my hands and force them behind my back and I can’t even rub my wound, won’t even try. I don’t move except to breathe. I’ve learned that rule too.

“Count,” you say. “Out loud. Do it.”

Footsteps recede. I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry and my saliva is thick.

“One.”

Drawers open and close.

“Two.”

Metal against metal. You’re rummaging around in the kitchen.

“Three.”

Why are you in the kitchen?

“Four.”

Metal against metal again, but now it’s grating and horrible and I think my ears might bleed.

“Five.”

It keeps going. So loud. Nails on a chalkboard.

“Six.”

Footsteps again. I look at the front door. Deadbolted. Chain-locked. How many seconds would it take?

“Seven.”

No, leaving would be worse. Leaving is always worse. Like the first time you hit me and I stayed with my mother, and the next time I saw you

“Eight.”

you cupped my cheek with your soft hands and pulled me in and whispered how much you loved me and

“Nine.”

said that you would die without me, kill yourself, wrap a noose around your own neck and hang from the dusty rafters, and I’d find you after work one day blue and soiled and dead and

“Ten.”

this is why I can’t run. And this is why I love you so much.