miller byrne, district one | finished

"It means I love you, child. Each time I strike your flesh, I do it out of love. You're a wild thing, and though I must punish you, each little drop of blood that leaves your skin is just a symbol of my affection."

I'm not sure why the voice of Miss Bradshaw, the the head of my former orphanage, rings in my ears as the young man I met during the earlier party kisses my lips and presses his fingertips (accidentally) against the light bruises on my arm, but the sound of her olden words causes me to break my lips away from his own and gasp.

"Did I hurt you?" he asks, suddenly and worried. I shake my head, fixing my trademark grin back onto my lips and exhaling.

"No, no! I'm fine! I just got a bit dizzy, I guess," I offer, laughing awkwardly. The young man, whose body consists of smooth skin (skin without bruises, that is) over sinewy muscles that closely resembles my own, shrugs and goes back to his romantic affairs. Though I continue on with the motions as my hands and body stay focused, I can't help but let my mind wander into the clouds of thought that seem to always hang over my head.

Not many a time did I think of Miss Bradshaw, though she did play an important role in my history. When my mother and father adopted me, I guess I sort of pushed her out of my mind. She had struck me many times, causing me to have bruises and delicate scars that last to this day, but I guess I never really took the time to view the whole severity of the ordeal. The normal eye would deem them as mere cuts and scrapes won from years of training, but I know the secrets that lie under each blotchy scar.

(or so i tell myself)

I don't think Miss Bradshaw ever meant anything bad or abusive when she hit me, truthfully. She always assured me that it was a labor of love. Her beatings were never meant out of anger and disgust, I feel. She promised me that each blow that pounded painfully against my flesh equated to love, and as gullible as I am was, I believed her. My mother and father were curious of the cuts and bruises when they first brought me home, and due to my innocence and gullibility, I never once told on Miss Bradshaw. After all, how could one dare betray someone who loves them?

I won't lie, Miss Bradshaw's fists had also left some damage on my psyche. Not only did I begin harbor a craving for physical affection from any male or female who offered it, I started to relish in the feeling of pain. Most of my lovers never cause much damage, but for the ones who bruise my skin and cast fatigue over me, I relish in their love. Maybe I'm a masochistic freak, or maybe I'm just trying to be loved in the only way I know how to be.

It's really not all that hard to find people to engage in romantic actions with, due to not only being adopted by a wealthy enough couple, but also having good enough looks. People seem to flock towards my awkward grin and even more awkward stance. My blue eyes stare out with innocence, and my voice flows out with gullible stupidity. Maybe I'm just one of those precious kind of guys that are just too adorable to pass over, but either way, I'm willing to accept any kind of company.

I can't help if I'm oblivious or a little too forgiving, which obviously plays a part in my always being submissive. It's not that I'm afraid to take charge, but I don't want to hurt anyone. Hurting someone means that you love them, and though all I want is to be loved in my own right, I do not know if I myself am ready to love. 

I'd rather a stampede of lovers trample me over and rip me to shreds than harm another. I can't really be worthy of loving someone back, honestly. I'm a stupid boy with an innocent smile and a knack for letting anyone and everyone strip him raw.

(how i love it, though)

Maybe I'm a common ol' fool, but at least I'm loved. Inhaling a raspy breath, the boy to whom I am currently entangled with speaks in a gruff tone and breaks me out of my pitiful train of thought.

"You sure I'm not hurting you?" he asks.

"No, I promise. I'm actually enjoying it. Trust me," I say.