#forbidden lessons

That man, his brother, who bears no resemblance to him, shuffles around the foot of the stairs. You push the door shut and face him. He works incessantly at the table along the side of the staircase, brushing it with a long handle duster. He recoils suddenly and buries his nose in the crook of his elbow, expelling a thunderous sneeze.

"Uh," you feel a tingle yourself, "let me get the windows."

You scurry over the window to the left of the front door and pull back the heave drapes one at a time. The stirring of fabric releases another cloud of neglect. You stand on your toes to untwist the clasp and push the hinged panes outward.

You're out of breath as you cross to the other, doing the same and letting in the afternoon sunlight. Thor continues his diligent dusting, turning over a vase to dump out the build up within.

"Uh, I never knew Loki had a brother," you begin awkwardly.

"And I didn't know he had… you," he grins, the words amicable despite their intonation.

"Well, really, he doesn't… he's more stuck with me, I think."

"Ah, of course, why else would he leave you here," he turns to fix a frame on the wall, "apologies for the state… things have… gotten ahead of me."

"It's fine," you shrug.

"Would you like to put some music on?" He waves to you with the duster and points through the archway to your right, "my father left me his collection."

He directs you ahead of him with the sweep of his arm. You hesitate but go into the dark expanse of the new room. You hear a click and crackle and dozen bulbs light up overhead. A mosaic shade houses the glow and warms the space.

"There," Thor stands beside you, pointing to the corner before stepping ahead of you.

He goes to what looks to be a chest of drawers. There is a door to one side but no others. He nears and clutches the top, popping up the thin wooden lid to reveal a record player set into the peice of furniture.

You approach as he nods, "records are inside," he says.

You run your hand along the wooden door, the front woven with thin slats. You hook your finger into the handle and ease it open with a squeak. You bend to look at the collection within.

"Choose," he orders, "I'm not very picky."

You nod and thumb through the album covers, settling on Judy Garland at the at Carnegie Hall. You take it out and wipe off the front, holding back a sneeze. Thor offers to take it and you hand it over as he reads the title.

"Ah, one of my mother's," he beams as he slides out the record, "you have old-fashioned taste."

"I… guess," you clap your hands off as he puts the needle on a flips the switch.

"Please," he hovers his hand above your shoulder and stretches his arm towards the long couch, "you needn't help. You should keep off your feet."

He cross the room and shakes out the throw, thumping on the cushions to knock out the dusty residue. He hums and clucks.

"It'll do for now," he turns to you, "please, I will fetch some of… some old books."

"I don't mind. I'm not very far along, you know?"

"My mother would faint to think I let an expecting woman lift a finger," he shakes his head, "do you like tea? Oh, what kind of tea can you have…" he puts a finger to his chin, his matted beard straggling down to his chest.

"Let me make the tea," you offer.

"Little mouse," he puts his hands up, "you must relax," he pats the arm of the couch, "I promised Loki I would look after you."

"But…" you swallow your argument. It is his house. He might be embarrassed to share the mess with you. Better he cleans it himself, besides you're very tired. "Alright," you relent and come forward, "thank you, Thor."

He smiles and doesn't move until your sat in the corner of the couch. He retreats, almost reluctantly, and you languish in the rich crooning of Judy and the buzzing awe of her audience. You lean your head in your hand, you elbow over the rest. You can't help but think how sad this place has been after seeing its occupant.

He mentioned a woman, Jane. Perhaps his wife, and his parents. All gone. You suppose he needs some hope. His excitement nips at your dread. How can your life sentence be his chance to start again?

You hear distant clank and sit up straight. You shimmy to the front of the cushion but keep from standing. He can manage himself, you just have that inherent need to help.

Your eyes rove the darkened edge of the room. A spacious den with bookshelves along one wall, two armchairs to match the sofa, a long coffee table on an intricately patterned rugs, a console table behind the sofa and a bench before the unlit fireplace.

"I found some herbal tea," Thor announces as he startles you, "hope you don't mind blueberry."

"That's good," you accept as he comes around with a dainty tea cup on a saucer. It looks ridiculous in his hands.

"Right, yes, books," he puts it on the square table by your elbow, "you like reading?" He goes to the bookshelves, "I suppose you have the pick of the lot. I'm not very attached to any of them."

"Thanks," you say again, "really, it's so nice of you–"

"I will have a room ready for your tonight," he declares as he spins on his heel, "yes, you need somewhere to sleep."

You don't have much. Thor found some clothes for you, freshly washed along with the bedding. Some loose cardigans, a few oversized dresses and some wool stockings. He apologised profusely that it was all he could get for you. You assured him it was fine but he was less than content with your affirmation. You're flattered by his concern.

You settle in, exhausted but without reason. You didn't do much aside from read an old book about a woman on an ocean liner, travelling to a new life. Every time you tried to help, Thor firmly but gently ordered you to stop. You'd hate to disrespect his home so you obeyed.

Little by little, the displacement fades away and you doze off. You sink into a deep sleep, on your back, snoring loud enough to hear in your dreams. For once, you make it through the night without waking up, but when you do, you hear a sonorous rumbling from the hall.

It takes a moment to remember where you are. You stare at the blank ceiling and let your eyes travel down the wallpaper. You roll onto your side and sit up with a groan, folding back the flannel sheet and thick quilt. You rub your shoulders and stretch out your neck as you stand. Ugh, you feel gross.

You rub your stomach as it boils. It isn't going to settle. You put a cardigan over your borrow nightgown and twist back the creaky oval handle of the door. You step out into the hall, the floorboards cold against your soles.

You turn towards the bathroom and as you make your way down, the low deep mutter comes clearer. You slow down even as the constricting in your stomach gets more urgent.

The door is slightly ajar. You can see Thor's shadow moving on the other side. There's another bathroom on the first floor, you might-- nope, you can't make it.

You knock on the door, more frantic than you mean to as you clap a hand over your mouth.

"Huh!" Thor grunts and the door swings open. He holds a wide brush with a furrow in his forehead as he faces you. You wave your free hand as you desperately clamp your other palm against your lips.

He moves and ushers you in with his arm. You don't think of how cramped it is as you race past him and flip up the toilet lid. You drop to your knees and hug the bowl, wrenching without restraint as your insides spasm.

"Oh, mouse," Thor grumbles over you. You wince as his large hand touches your back and he bend over you, "get it all out."

You have no choice. You heave until you're empty then hang heavily over the contents of your stomach. You reach up shakily and flush. Breathless, you accept a washcloth from Thor and wipe your mouth.

"I should've warned you. Any blood of my brother will cause trouble," Thor jokes as he gently squeezes your shoulder, "here."

He offers his hand and helps you to your feet. He cranks the four-pronged faucet and lets the water flow. You rinse your face then your mouth, before reaching for your tooth brush. He hovers behind you, his hands clutched over his large stomach as he watches you in the mirror. You spit out the toothpaste and look at him.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt," you saw as you wash the bristles.

"Not at all, I was only..." he raises a hand to rub his neck, "I... was trying to deal with this... rat's nest."

He lowers his eyes and you see how his cheeks turn rosy. You look at the counter and see the broken comb and the brush he held before. You glance at him again and notice a few shakes smoothed out.

"Oh, uh, did you... did you have any conditioner? Or coconut oil?" You ask as you face him. "It will help with the tangles."

He pets his beard meekly and stares at the floor, "I didn't think of it..."

"Can I... Can I help? It might be easier than doing it yourself."

He blinks and peeks up at you, head still tilted down, "you would do that?"

"Sure. Why not? I'm kind of an expert. My barbie's used to get all matted," you shrug.

"Hm, I suppose I wouldn't be able to get the back... my next option was the razor," he says grimly.

"Oh, no, we can handle this," you grab the brush, "so... let me see if I can find anything to make this easier..."

"I shall find a chair," he suggests."

You look around the bathroom but only find shampoo and soap. Not of much help. You hear Thor approach from down the hall and he enters with a wooden chair and a jar. Hr presents the latter to you as he plants the former on the tile.

"Oil," he announces proudly, "might be a bit old..."

"That'll do," you smile and twist off the cap.

He lowers himself onto the chair, his shoulders straight and set. You near as scoop out a little oil with your fingertips. You take a lock of hair and grease it up, putting the brush to the tails of it as you start to work out the knots.

"It's easier if you start at the end," you explain, "then you don't make new knots."

"Oh," he utters. "You know, you don't have to..."

"Please, it keeps my mind off of how crummy I feel," you say, "and really I don't mind."

"Mmm, I shouldn't have let it get so bad."

"Nothing that can't be fixed," you use your fingers to loosen some matting, working closer to the scalp.

"I suppose..." he murmurs and you notice his shoulders relax just a little.

"You have beautiful hair," you say, "it's a nice colour. Thick. Not like Loki's."

He snorts. You let yourself laugh as you continue on your task. He shifts but doesn't pull away.

"He's adopted, you know?" Thor says, "if you can't guess."

"Ah, well, that's... interesting," you comment; that might explain a few things. "I don't have any siblings."

"They are both good company and the worst," he chuckles, "how's it looking, mouse?"

Monday comes, the only day you have two classes, and you slog through it as the snow begins to recede.

You ignore your phone aside from the brief reassurance that you're alive to Bucky. He tries to keep up a conversation but you won't. Even if you knew what to say, you can't.

Tuesday, an early morning. Made harder by the prospect of Laufeyson's lecture. You won't give up, not again, not because of him. Hopefully he and your mother destroy each other. At least, you can dream.

You sit near the back, slumping down as you chew the end of your pen. You could sleep right there. Lately, you've been so tired, more than ever. It must be the ever gray sky.

You're dismissed with his usual reminders of pending assignments. The only one you've still not touched among your classes. You rise with the rest of the students and exit through the back.

You remember this hallway. Where you cried, where Barnes stumbled upon you. You press on and descend the south staircase, intent on a London Fog latte from the cafe attached to the engineering centre.

The line isn't very long as it's barely noon. You claim your drink and wander out onto the icy campus. You wander a bit out of the way, admiring the statues and art installations you never noticed before. It's aimlessness without reason. You should just go back to your dorm.

You toss your empty cup in a bin as the wintry breeze wisks over you. Clouds shifting overhead, footsteps cracking the ice on the ground.

You follow the path down the tunnel beneath the library, the steps edged with ice and snow, treacherous and vacant. You sense a shadow, that looming sense of pursuit that crept closer and closer the longer you drifted around.

Your phone shakes before you think of it. You slip it from your pocket and read Bucky's name as it pulses. Should you answer? Why would he be calling?

You hit the green dot and drag your thumb. Before you can lift the speaker to your ear, a voice fills the tunnel, like a villain in his lair.

"Your mother isn't what I expected. She does speak overly much. Unlike you," you keep the phone at your side and turn cautiously. Laufeyson stands at the bottom of the steps, "I wouldn't have guessed who she was if she hadn't gone on about her pathetic daughter. Poor thing threw herself from a bridge."

"Leave me alone," you murmur as he strides closer.

"I would've sent her away with all her chatter but… couldn't resist knowing of her unfortunate relation."

"I said, go."

"You didn't exagerrate," you hear noise from your phone but he can't for his monologue, "she could drive me to a similar precipice."

He snickers as he stops in front of you, his hand trailing up your zipper. You wince and he latches on to keep you from retreating. He yanks you close.

"She’s a lot livelier than you," he taunts, "not as tight though."

"Shut up, leave me–" you grab his wrist and try to pull him off, "please–"

You drop your phone as he jolts you again. You grasp his arm in terror, boots slipping on the ice.

"It's been so long, pet, I hardly think I can accurately compare–"

"Shut up!" You shout, your holler bouncing around the tunnel, "get off!"

You struggle with him, stomping on his toe clawing at his chest and arms.

"Oh, do calm down," he lets you go so fall on your ass and bite your tongue, "too much trouble for a thing like you."

You get to your knees, puffing in a panic, nerves pinging wildly. You don't think, just run. You twist and stumble, pumping your legs in arm as his sinister laughter follows. It's so surreal it feels like a movie, a scene in some softcover rag.

There's honking and screeching of tires as you sprint across the road. You don't stop until you see the river. You pant and stare at the ice floes floating on the surface.

Of course it wasn't a coincidence. Professor Laufeyson it rotten to the core.

💚

It's not until you sit in your dorm, examining the cold scrapes and scratches on your fingers, feeling the bruised impact at the base of your spine that you think of the phone. You left it on the ground. If Laufeyson didn't notice and take it, it was surely cracked on its descent.

As you mull over what to do about the phone, ignoring the nagging and much bigger issues, a knock comes at the door. You hesitate. It could be your mother though you wonder how she got past the front door. Well, the freshman are always lax with letting in strangers.

You cross the room and brace yourself. You're not ready to face her, to think about him and her together. You've been avoiding it diligently.

You open the door, almost unable to react in your shock. It's Professor Barnes. He looks unhappy, as irritated as you've ever seen him.

"I… I lost my phone, I'm sorry if you text–"

"I heard it all," he lifts his hand, your phone in his tight grip, a spiderweb crack at the corner. "I went and got it myself from that jackass."

"What?" You gape and bring your hands to your throat as it constricts, "you–"

"I heard everything. How could you not tell me it was him? How could you– let him hurt you?" He's barely able to get the words out in his fury.

"What did you do to him?" You squeak.

"What he deserves," he snarls and holds out the phone.

"I'm sorry, I tried to stay away but…"

"You're apologising? Don't. He owes you one but–" he inhales through flaring nostrils.

You reach slowly for the cell and his eyes fall to your hand. He clings to the phone as he stares at your chafed hands. You gulp as he reluctantly lets go.

"How did you get in?" You ask at last.

He looks you in the eye, "nothing would stop me from getting to you, understand?"

You don't.

What happened to the chill and charming professor? The self-assured man with his easy humour? This person in front of you is vicious and paranoid. For the first time, he scares you.

You nod as you can't lie out loud. You swallow and glance over the phone.

"We'll get it fixed… or a new one," he promises.

You have your phone gripped in your hand, fingers tight to the point of pain. You drag your feet along the carpet, the diamond monochrome pattern making you dizzy as you watch your boots land one in front of the other, untied and nearly slipping off. 

You hit the elevator button and stumble through the doors as they slide open. You lean against the silver railing at the back of the elevator and it stops at the next floor. 

A couple gets in, entirely ignorant of your gray existence. You drop your hand down to your pelvis as a pang radiates through you. You close your eyes as the faint scent of wine mingles with the overwhelming stench of his sweat.

How could you let it happen again? How could your mother? How could he?

Your eyes wet and you wipe them roughly with your knuckles. The doors ding and the couple step out. You follow in a lumber, dazed and directionless. You look at the large clocks, wrought of silver rings and long tapered hands ticking silently. It’s past midnight.

“I know she’s here,” the deep voice plucks at your mind. You look up, it’s one you know, one you don’t expect. “Please, I know it’s against policy but I need to know–”

“I told you, sir, I just started my shift. Even if I knew, I couldn’t…”

You curl your shoulders as you try to shamble by unseen. It’s too late. Bucky senses the movement and turns away from the front desk. He marches at you before you can react. You flinch and shield yourself with your hand, cowering as you whimper.

“Sunshine, where’s your coat? It’s freezing–” He stops beside you as you shy away, hiding behind your fingers, “what’s wrong?” 

He hovers his hand behind you, as if to balance you but doesn’t touch you. He looks you over and gently wraps his hand around yours, raising your phone as your fingers are still locked around it. You couldn’t figure out how to use it in the rush of horror.

“Why didn’t you answer me? I texted you after class and– I assume your mother is staying here?” He tries to wiggle away the phone but your fingers won’t release. He lets you keep it and your arm falls heavy back to your side. His jaw clenches as you watch him numbly, “sunshine…” his voice is gravely, uncertain, “your jeans–”

You look down. The bottom of your sweater is rolled and uneven, the tee shirt underneath peeks out from one side and your fly is wide open, the elastic of your panties twist down crookedly. He clears his throat and buttons it, awkwardly pulling it together with his one hand, before zipping it quickly.

“What happened to you?” his tone shakes, “sunshine, you have to tell me? Something…” he reaches up to cradle your face and you wince, a bruise along your cheek as you recall Laufeyson’s cruel slap as he turned you over. 

Your eyes well as you block out the scene. Your lip quivers as the hours of torture lurk like shadows in your head. He didn’t stop. No matter the begging, no matter the crying, the pleas for your mother to wake up and be what she never was. 

You grasp Bucky’s wrist and force it down. You bite down as you breathe with a rattle, “please just get me out of here.”

“What happened?” his throat grits as he speaks.

“I want to go. Please, let me go,” you beg, “please, don’t make me stay. Please, Bucky, please, please, please…” The words tumble out with your tears, a manic chant scratching in your throat, “please…”

“Okay, sunshine, shhh,” he coaxes you and lets you cling to his arm, “we can go, alright? It’s okay, I’m here.”

You nod and gulp. You grip him. He scares you too but maybe he’ll scare away worse monsters.

“Sunshine, you gotta let go, just for a minute, okay?” he tugs gently and you obey. He unbuttons his coat and with his one arm, waves it up and around your shoulders to hang there, “we gotta keep you warm.”

You don’t react as the heat of his coat and his scent swathe you. His lips thin as his jaw squares and he presses his hand to the small of your back to guide you out. You limp with him, trying not to show how much it hurts each time your thighs touch. 

The cold flows under the hem of his jacket as he ushers you to his car. You don’t pay much attention as he helps you into the passenger seat and buckles you in. He once more caresses your face but you won’t look at him.

He sighs and snaps the door shut. He gets in the driver seat and silently starts the engine, flicking on the heat and fiddling with temperature. You slouch against the door and stare out at the dark sidewalk.

He drives slowly away from the hotel as you shudder. You turn your phone over and light up the screen, filled with the notifications of his endless messages. You’re so stupid. You should’ve answered earlier. Should’ve said something when you caught that uber. But how could you know?

You didn’t tell him anything. Not about your mother calling, not about going to see her. You cross your arms as realisation clutches at your heart.

“How did you find me?” you whisper.

“Huh?” he utters.

“How did– How did you know where I was?” Your voice tremors.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He stops at the light, his blinker clicking loudly as he waits for his turn, “I have to keep you safe. I told you. Anyway I can.”

You blink and let the phone slip between your legs and land on the seat, “the cell?”

“Your mother says you’re a history major, conveniently, I teach a few courses,” Laufeyson smirks and deliberately scoops a forkful of potato into his mouth, sucking the silver clean.

“Oh, maybe she’ll be in one of your classes,” your mother slurs as her empty glass wobbles onto the table and she reaches for her burger, smashing the top bun onto the patty, “that would be so cute!”

“I… I might change…” you say evasively, too rattled to come up with a full lie. You let the words flutter away.

“Perhaps,” Laufeyson slithers, “wouldn’t that be interesting? Certainly, I’d have to keep an eye out for her.”

“Oh, you’re so sweet,” your mother says before biting into the burger drunkenly. You look at the brim of your plate, focusing on it, “looking out for her already.” She speaks through a full mouth and swallows harshly, “mmmm, you know, there’s a boy, she won’t talk about him but I saw the message!”

“Mom,” you snap, “it’s not–” you sniff and shake your head, “he’s a friend.” And not a boy, you think.

“Friend?” she sticks her tongue out, “she’s old enough. When I was her age, no one would’ve called me a virgin–”

“Mom! Stop,” you warn as you drop your fork.

Laufeyson chuckles and moves her hand from his arm, squeezing it until she flinches, “really, Donna, you’re embarrassing the girl.”

“Ow,” she rips her hand from his, “I’m only trying to help her. What is she gonna do without a man to take care of her? I don’t want her to go through what I did…” Her voice cracks and she leans her forehead in her hand, sniffling dramatically as she leans on the armrest of the couch.

“Now, darling, she has lots of time,” he coaxes, “but let us not make it any harder. College is a difficult time.”

Your eyes flick up and you glare at him. You hate how easily he can pretend. His mocking tone has you gripping the chair and you grimace, “you didn’t mention what happened to your face.”

He pales and his grins falls. His throat constricts and he sighs, “an unfortunate left turn down on Bradley.”

“Ah,” you accept as you hold his gaze defiantly, a thumping behind your ears growing louder and louder, “you should be more careful.”

“Perhaps I should,” he growls.

A snort comes from beside him and draws both your attention. Your mother’s slumped over the side of the couch, snoring loudly with her mouth agape. You roll your eyes and stand, setting aside your plate on the low table.

“I should go,” you say, “tell her I said good night–”

“Where are you going?” he’s quick to his feet, quicker even as he catches your wrist. He pulls you back before you can turn away, “the night’s only begun.”

“Let me go–” you yank as his hold on you gets tighter, making your fingers tingle, “get off! You– you– bastard!”

“Did you think that brute would scare me off, huh?” he grabs you other wrists and jerks you close to him, “how long did you wait before you opened your legs to him? Was it easier for him? Certainly, I opened the door for him.”

“Stop,” you squeal as your hands number, “you’re hurting me–”

“And look what he did to me,” he snarls, “you certainly have a type.”

You whimper as the bones in your wrists groan, “mom!” You cry out as you look past him, “mom, wake up!”

“She won’t wake up, I made sure of it,” he moves to block your sight of her, “it’s just us, pet.”

“No! Get–” you try to twist your arms free of him, “I don’t want you–”

“You could’ve fooled me,” he sneers as his legs hit the table in your struggle, the dishes jangling loudly atop it, “you’ve been begging for my attention, you’ve got it now.”

“Stop, please, let me go, I didn’t– I didn’t tell him to do it. He heard— on the phone–”

“Oh, shut up, you stupid girl,” he barks as you wrestling with him, writhing in his grasp as he angles you around. 

You free one wrist and he swiftly frames your throat with his hand. You gulp and squeak as you try to push his fingers away. He twists back your other arm as he spins you, keeping his hand at your neck, squeezing until the air traps in his grips. 

He walks you along the table as you drag your feet, bringing your heels down desperately as you try to stomp his toes.

“Pet, if you behave this will go much easier,” he warns as he shoves you onto the couch.

You catch yourself against the back of it as he forces your knees up. You push back, trying to break his vice-like hold on you. He climbs up behind you, pushing his legs between yours as he kneels on the cushion. He leans in, crushing you against the back.

“Get–”

You throw an elbow into his ribs. He grunts but it doesn’t deter him. His nails dig into the tender skin of your throat and he tugs at your jeans, feeling gruffly around your front, picking at your fly as you swat at him.

“Don’t do–” you wheeze and he chokes you tighter, muting your words.

You cough and reach out, touching the edge of your mother’s robe sleeve. You pinch the silk and tug. She slouches further down, still snoring as he tears down the denim past your ass. You gasp and swing your arm over your shoulder, your nails catching his cheek as you claw into his flesh.

He snarls and snaps with his teeth, biting down on two of your fingers. You try to cry out, a strangled rasp as his grasp doesn’t falter. He shoves your panties down to your thighs. Panic pulses in your veins, rising like a violent tied to drown you. 

There’s no way out. You’ve lost. You close your eyes as tears bubble up and trickle down. The nausea swells in your chest, knowing your mother is right there but can’t help you. That she helped entrap you in his clutches.

His belt flicks against your ass as he loosens it, tails of his dress shirt tickling your bare ass. He bends you under him as he leans forward. He guides his tip along your folds and you shake violently, weeping as you cling to the couch and hang your head in defeat.

He thrusts into you meanly. Your dry walls scream as he jolts your body beneath his. You quaver as his hand slips from your throat, snaking his arm back to pin your shoulders as he raises himself, flesh clapping against yours between furious grunts. 

Impatient, not like the first time. Not when he cared enough to lie. There’s no gentleness, no care. It’s vengeful. It’s cruel.

You sob as your hand falls down and brushes against your mother’s limp one, “mommy,” you sniffle, “mommy, please wake up, he’s hurting me…”

Why are you here? Why wouldn’t he take you home? 

You don’t say anything, only standing there as he pulls the jacket from your shoulders. He slings it on the coat rack and sits on the low bench, removing his boots as he nods to your own. You sit beside him and slip off your boots.

You move without thinking, mimicking him again as he gets to his feet. He takes your hand and guides you further inside. The loft, condo, whatever it is, is spacious but cozy. Vintage woods, oaky tables, an amber leather couch with a soft fleece throw over the back. You get only a brief glimpse through the fuzzy daze.

He guides you through another door and sits you down. You feel along the porcelain seat of the toilet as you watch his figure move around. He bends over the large tub and water spills out loudly. He stands and faces you again.

“You should… try to calm down, a hot bath will help,” he suggests, “I have some bubble bath or bath bombs…” He opens the cupboard below the sink and pulls out a pink pouch. He puts it in your lap, “everything you need should be in there.”

You look down and unzip it carefully. There’s soaps, shampoos, creams, and everything else. Even a toothbrush. All new, all untapped. Why does he have all this?

You don’t ask. You’re tired of the questions. Tired of trying. You just want it all to be over. 

“Go on,” he backs away, “I’ll be close by so if you need anything, just call my name.”

You stare at the open zipper, “thanks,” you don’t look up.

You wait until his shadow moves and the door gives a soft creak as it shuts, but not all the way. You reach in and take out the cherry parfait sundae soap. The bottle is extravagantly decorated, the lid looks like a swirl of whip cream. The girl you were months ago would’ve thought it was cute.

You set the bag on the counter and stand. You got to the door and push it shut with the handle. It doesn’t meet the frame as Bucky catches it from the other side.

“Sorry, sunshine, but I need you to keep it open for now, just a little,” he leans his weight on it until you relent, “for your safety.”

You feel the stab in your chest, “you think…” your voice trails off and you shrug, “alright.”

You don’t have the will or energy to argue. What’s the point? No one ever listens to you. No one hears you. You’re nothing in this world. An unwanted baby, a controlled child, a neglected teen, and now a forgotten shell. 

You turn and leave him at the door. You got to look into the tub. You know what he’s thinking. He thinks you’re going to hold your head under and let the air out of your lungs, swallow down the water until no bubbles rise. You’re not stupid enough, you know that you will only ever be a failure.

You peek over your shoulder and he gives you a look, something almost sad, but something else you can’t name. He steps back into the hall and pulls the door, leaving several inches between the edge and the wooden trim. You face the bath again and twist off the faucet as the water floods the basin.

You pull off your sweater first, dropping the wool to the tile. You can still feel him groping you through the thick knit, the way he squeezed and pinched. You peel off the tee shirt and add it to the floor, your bra is folded under one breast still. You unhook it and let it fall.

You shove your pants down, socks rolling in the ankles and sliding off your feet. You stumble and catch yourself. Your walls ache and burn, your thighs throbbing from the bruises, your ass too. Your hip bones hurt as you struggle to push down your panties, you feel his cum still wet on the cotton.

You kick them away and go the tub’s edge. You lift your leg over the side, leaning on the porcelain as you bring the other in and carefully lower yourself into the steaming pool. You groan and lay back against the wall. You close your eyes and let your hand brush down your stomach.

What are you going to do? It’s too late to protect yourself. You recall the large pill you took in the car, Laufeyson’s coldness as you chugged down the water. How little he cared even this time. You wonder if maybe it’s intentional. That he wishes upon you even the pain of carrying a child you could never want. Yourself, a child nobody wants.

You take your wet hands and smear them down your face, dampening your skin. You hide behind your fingers and suck in air, a sob rushing from you, unrestrained as you begin to bawl. You can’t hold it back. No matter how you try, it tears from you like a deathly bellow. 

Your body quakes as you let out every ounce of grief, the feel of his hands on your neck, the noise of your flesh smacking against his, the pain that hollowed your bones. You weep until you have nothing left, until you sink down into the water, only your face above the surface and stare unfeeling at the ceiling.

Empty, you just lay there, the water cooling around you, eyes and cheeks puffy, throat sore and tight, head thrumming. You feel the crack as it rents through you. You reach to wipe your eyes with your wet hands, soothing yourself until you can breathe.

You grip the side of the tub and pull yourself up to sit. A dark speck shades the corner of your eye and you look over as Bucky stands in the open door. He holds a towel under his arm.

“I only came to bring you this,” he says and you shy away, covering your chest, uncertain if he can see it above the tub, “I can put on some tea?”

“I don’t want any,” you croak and hang your head.

“Alright,” he accepts and sets the towel down on the counter, lifting the pouch and brings it over to you, “here.”

“Mmm, thanks,” you grumble, bending your legs to hide from him.

“I’ll make up the bed. That’s what you need, sleep,” he says.

Your mother paces as she shivers dramatically. You don't miss how she eyes a guy in a letterman jacket and ear muffs as he passes along the other side of the lane. You roll your eyes. You don't have the energy for this. Or her.

She doesn't notice you until you're coming up the short walkway. She smiles as she presses her burgundy leather gloves to her cheeks.

"Oh, honey," she rushes at you, sweeping you into a hug. She rocks you, jarring you. You can't remember the last time she's done that. She doesn't even do it when she's drunk, "you're okay!"

"Mhmm," you part and stare at her.

"Imagine my shock when I turn up at the hospital and they tell me you've been discharged!" She exclaims.

You frown, "that was weeks ago..."

"And they let you out already?" She blusters, "oh no, no, no. Honey, I could've lost you. And your grandmother, she almost had an attack. All my friends send their well wishes of course. Stacey, her own daughter is in therapy too."

You say nothing as you dig out your keys. She rubs her gloves together, trying to gather warmth from the friction as you unlock the front door. She nearly bowls you over as she shoulders ahead of you.

"It is so cold," she goes on, as she does, "this place is so quaint." She looks around the lobby with the corkboard of notices and the television screen that plays a pre-programmed rote of policy warnings. "My god, you would've gagged to see my dorm. Lovely little flat with a balcony. Of course, grandpa, you know, wasn't stingy about anything."

You point her up the stairs, to tired to pluck up a response. You're entirely content to let her ramble and say nothing. As usual.

As you enter your dorm, she throws up her hands dramatically.

"This place is a disaster, honey. Oh, you need to take care of yourself. Living like this no wonder you--" she stops and tuts at herself. Having the shame at least not to finish her sentence.

She peels off her gloves and shoves them in her pocket before unbuttoning her faux-fur trimmed coat. She hangs it on the back of one of your two dining chairs, and unzips her knee-high boots.

"Mama's here now, I'm going to make sure all is in order," she takes out her phone and flicks her thumb, "smile, honey, let me get a picture."

"I don't want--"

The flash goes off and blinds you. You grumble and turn away as you strip away your own winterish layers. She sits on the foot of your bed and bounces, feeling the lumpy mattress.

"God, no, this is awful. Not to worry, I'll be staying at the hotel. The suite is wonderful. Oh, I have pics," she keeps her phone out and searches with the pad of her thumb. She beckons you over as her eyes glow with the reflection of the screen.

You watch her go through each image; a large tub with jets, a balcony overlooking the snowy city, a vast front room and elegant bedroom, a full bar and kitchenette. It make your dorm seem even smaller.

"You know, I just couldn't make it sooner. I was down south when I got the call. A nice little getaway with all this snow," she carries on as a notification pops up from her Insta, "and this hot guy to keep me warm! Oh, the cuties I've seen around here."

You hide your chagrin as you go to the small kitchen and put the kettle on the burner. Her voice carries shrilly as she sings of her exploits and you move around amid the operatic performance of narcissism. You slide your phone from your pocket and check the time.

'Get home alright, sunshine?' Bucky's message pops up. That's the first time he's sent a second text in one day.

You black the screen and don't answer. You will in a minute. You cross the room again and go to lean against the counter as you watch the old tin kettle thrifted from the campus charity shop.

"Oh, you got a new phone?" your mother stands and strides over to lift your hand and examine the lilac phone, "a newer model than mine! Oh, how'd you manage that?"

"Trade in deal," you lie. She's easy to trick because she never really listens.

"Oh, wonderful," she smiles and lets you go. She turns to open the cupboard, "you've any wine?"

"No, I don't..."

"Of course, you don't drink and after everything, I suppose alcohol isn't the best thing. I heard about a bar on campus! Oh, and one at the hotel. Maybe tonight--"

"I don't have much of anything. Maybe you should just go."

"Honey?" she sounds almost hurt, "I'm your mommy, I worry for you," she comes to face you and smushes your cheek like a child, "the trouble you've put me through. My heart! Why would you ever think to do what you did? Don't you ever think about anyone but yourself."

It stabs deep. The twist of the blade already buried in your heart. You give a weak smile and look past her, "I'm sorry, mom."

"Oh, aren't you!" She cries out, pulling you to her again, "to think all that I've put into you. Just to get you here. To college and you want to throw away all my hard work. Ugh, honey, you are young, you will see, it gets better."

"Thanks," you say grimly into her shoulder as the kettle starts to whistle, "mom?" She releases you and you step around her to move the kettle from the burner. "Tea?"

"Oh, no, I hate the stuff, you know that," she raises her nose in disgust, "I think I have something in my purse."