London's Guard Is Falling Down

𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒

[𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐍]

𝐈 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐓 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒, 𝐈 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃
tell the curiosity on my face was evident from the way she looked at me.

She finally looked away to her plate of spaghetti.

"So . . . um . . . You never talk about . . . your family," she stammered.

I sighed and looked away from her. Why couldn't she bring up a different topic?

"If I hit a nerve, I'm sorry. You don't have to talk about them," she assured me.

Beginning to feel frustrated with myself, I put my face in my hands, muttering a few curse words.

"I'm sorry," Paris whispered softly.

Damn it! I made her feel bad. "No, no, you didn't do anything."

I looked up at her to see the sheepish countenance that stung my heart.

"You really didn't say anything wrong," I told her. "You really didn't." I could tell she didn't believe me.

I shouldn't have let my personal problems affect her.

"Family is sensitive topic for me," I continued. "If you ask me questions about my family, my answers are going to lead to more questions from you. I know this because I know how you are, you're inquisitive. I'm sorry, I'm just not ready to share anything about myself with you, anyone, for that matter."

I shook my head, annoyed with myself and the vague mindset that I had. Why couldn't I be a normal person and just open up for once?

"It's okay," Paris replied. "You don't have to trust me yet, but I trust you. So if I tell you some personal things about myself, will that make it easier or at least comfortable for you to open up a little?"

"I doubt it, but you can try."

"Okay," she breathed. "So, Darion and I went to the same middle school. I hit puberty in sixth grade, you know, so of course some parts of my body got bigger. Darion and I were obviously friends. He invited me to a seventh grade party where they played seven minutes in heaven. He and I had to go in the closet, but we were in there for about forty minutes. He kept telling me how I was different from the other girls in my grade and more mature than them, and then he asked me if I could touch him or if he could touch me . . ."

I pushed the thought of Darion and Paris being intimate out of my head. It made me angry.

"I told him no, he kept asking though. But he ended up stroking himself in front of me, and, his other hand was, like, massaging me."

I didn't like that.

"Massaging you where?" I demanded.

"Here," she mumbled, gesturing to her breasts.

"After that, I let him do it often at school in the janitor's closet. Up until seventh grade when I asked him to stop and he did. I think he only stopped because I threatened not to be his friend anymore though."

"He molested you . . ."

"It—it wasn't necessarily molesting in a sexual abuse way, c—considering I let it happen."

"You can't give consent when you're in sixth grade," I muttered.

"I know, but—"

"I don't want to talk about this anymore." I stood up, disregarded my plate and went to my room.

Anger had already taken over me as soon as Paris put her and that bastard Darion's name in the same sentence. I wanted nothing more than to hurt him, not even kill him. Killing him would be the easy, and the joy I'd feel for doing so would go away quickly. Simply making him suffer inhumanly would be better, much better.

I couldn't take it anymore. I just wanted to hurt the bastard so much for touching Paris and manip-ulating her and taking advantage of her naivety . . . . and even simply asking to touch her!

Finally, enough was enough and I decided to get out of the house. I didn't want to take any car, instead I ran to nearest corner store.

I bought a pack of Marlboro cigarettes and a lighter. I flashed two hundreds before the store clerk asked for any ID. He scanned the lighter and the pack of cigarettes in silence.

I took my purchased items and left the store. While I walked, I lit one cigarette, taking the first puff did not conciliate me. I only began to feel angry with myself for storming off the way I did. Paris opened up to me and I just left . . . . Cowards do that, pussies do that.

That's when I realized I didn't deserve Paris's trust, her friendship, or her even though I wanted her badly.