Metal. I never got used to that taste.
I spit the thick liquid from my mouth before more began bubbling in my throat. As my eyes found themselves in the reflection above the sink of the dingy motel room I had been staying in, I couldn't help but wince.
Some old wounds never really healed, and bringing my hand to the wide scar beneath my left eye feels like a sickeningly literal reminder of that.
It was then that the burning in the back of my throat began again and the taste of metal flooded my senses. Thankfully this time I made it to the toilet. It was humiliating. I couldn't stop the feeling of his eyes burning into my skin from just beyond the doorway.
It was always like this. I flushed the red-black liquid down and tried to ignore his judgment. His "concern" came in a harsh whisper, promises that I'm improving or telling me to call my family.
I knew I was dying. That realization came when I was ten. Long before puberty, out of spite I guarantee, left me dwarfed and flat, almost two dimensional against more realized backdrops, I knew my body would be lucky to survive to twenty.
Miraculously I hit that goal and kept running, figuratively.
Stripping out of my newly ruined top and rummaging through the discarded pile on the floor for a suitable replacement I looked back at him several times while he spoke, unimportant and droning, making himself larger and condescending with every new word.
The only thing he had going for him was his hair, dark and thick, clashing harshly with poorly tanned skin and ugly almost yellowed eyes. His teeth were crooked and riddled with cavities from only eating sweets or drinking soda.
Bright side his skin was nearly perfect, aside of a cluster of scars on one side of his ribs from a surgery long forgotten.
He was okay in bed too. Well, my metric has devolved into who is either well endowed enough or forceful enough to make me vomit after. Not a high bar all things considered but I was happy with it.
Sadly as long as we had been doing this I had never asked his name. By the time we meet up I'm generally too worked up to care. He's always been easy game.
His massive frame cast a shadow over me when I opened the front door. Apparently the look on my face wasn't clear enough so I spoke.
"This was lovely but I have places to be."
His sigh was expected. "Did you not hear a word I said?"
"I can hear you better when you're walking away. If you need me you have my number. I'll be here for a while."
There he goes again, making everything about him and his feelings.
Instead of watching him run his mouth I glance around the room, looking for anything else to focus on.
He left his wallet on the nightstand again. He's either very forgetful or to concerned with defining our nonexistent relationship to notice.
When he stops talking I look back to his face, calm and in control, at least he thinks so, I open my mouth to speak when he cuts me off.
"Just move in with me, Luce. Better than holding up here, avoiding your doctors and family, setting up one night stands to steal money from strangers." He must have noticed my expression because he then added "I've always known. After the first time I'd rather you afford this place and be at least somewhat safe, as opposed to homeless."
I took an unsteady breath, weighed the pros and cons of moving in with this conniving piece of work and asked him politely to leave.
When he was gone, in his car and down the road, I crawled back into my lumpy, some spots too hard and others too soft, bed and made the maybe problematic but entirely reasonable decision to pull the blanket over my head, take my phone from the pocket of my jeans and open my messenger app.
I open my most recent conversation and give a quick "not making it today." I'll hear about it later, but right now I can't feel my fingers, and that can only mean I need sleep.