The night's silence was shattered by Paul's loud cackle, a sound so jarring it seemed to penetrate the fabric of the tent, encroaching on the fragile peace I'd carved out within its confines. Glenda's voice followed, her words laced with humour yet cutting like a knife. "Shh. The zombie is sleeping," she quipped, her laughter mingling with Paul's in a chorus of mockery.
A wave of heat surged through me, a visceral response to their callousness. What a rude bitch.
Kain's chuckle added insult to injury, his justification for their cruelty - "Well, I didn't know how else to describe him" - only deepening the wound. The pain that shot through my chest was more than physical; it was the pain of betrayal, of having those I considered allies mock my son in his most vulnerable state.
The anger that boiled within me was a tempest, fierce and blinding. How dare they make fun of my son!? My mind raced with indignation, my heart ached with the injustice of their words. Tears, unbidden and hot, blurred my vision, a tangible sign of the hurt that words could inflict. In a desperate attempt to shield myself from their cruelty, I covered my ears, but the damage was done. The laughter, the mocking tone, had already etched a deep scar.
Startled by the sudden presence of another in the tent, my body tensed, ready to confront yet another intruder into our small sanctuary. The realisation that it was Luke, moving quietly across the floor towards me, did little to ease the tight knot of anxiety in my stomach.
As Luke continued his silent approach, stopping at my waist, I hastily wiped away the tears that betrayed my emotional turmoil. Even in the dim light, the outline of his silhouette was familiar, yet it did nothing to dispel the shadow that their laughter had cast over the night. The darkness around us felt heavier, laden with words unsaid and comfort yet to be offered. Luke's presence was a question in itself, a silent inquiry into the depth of hurt their words had inflicted.
Carefully, Luke raised his leg and slid it across my body. The rest of him followed with smooth motion.
I glared at Luke straddling my waist, and felt my face turn hot with unbridled anger. How the fuck can Luke be horny now?
Luke leaned in and kissed me gently on the neck.
Feeling paralysed, I didn't stir. Like scared prey avoiding a predator, I'd learnt over the years that if I didn't respond, Luke would bore quickly.
Luke's tongue slithered to the tip of my ear; his left hand reached behind and enclosed itself firmly around my crotch.
I tried to ignore it. I tried my best to stop my dick from responding. But fuck Luke is good with his hands!
My reaction was instinctual, a firm push against Luke's chest, propelled by a mix of confusion and indignation. "What the fuck are you doing, Luke?" The words slipped out in a venomous hiss, a defence mechanism against the unexpected and unwelcome advance.
Luke's response, a whisper meant to convey desire, only served to heighten the absurdity of the situation. "I want you so badly." The words, meant to bridge the distance between us, felt hollow, his intentions clouded by the unmistakable aroma of whiskey that hung heavy on his breath.
"You're drunk," I accused, the realisation doing nothing to quell the rising tide of frustration within me. Luke's retreat, both physical and emotional, was a small victory, but his words that followed felt like a low blow. "Oh, come on, Jamie. It's been at least six months since we've been intimate," he lamented, a mixture of accusation and desperation lacing his tone.
My rebuttal was swift, "I'm not in the mood," a simple statement that carried the weight of unspoken grievances and buried resentments. Luke's accusation, "That's always your excuse," was a jab at our fragile connection, his words unveiling the depth of his frustration and hurt. "You're never in the mood, are you! Oh, wait. I'm not Ben. Is that it?"
"That's not fair, Luke!" My voice broke, the volume a testament to the raw emotion that Luke's words had stirred within me. His bitter retort, "I know it's not fair!" was the breaking point, a verbal acknowledgment of the chasm that had grown between us.
As Luke stormed toward the tent flap, the finality of his exit left a void filled only by the oppressive darkness of the night. My sharply whispered, "Luke!" was a desperate attempt to salvage what remained of our conversation, our relationship, but it went unheeded.
Alone with my thoughts, the darkness seemed to close in around me, a suffocating blanket of regret and realisation. The bitter acknowledgment of our mutual destruction, "I may have fucked up our relationship. But Luke has fucked up our lives!" was an unheard confession to the empty air.
"I guess that makes us fucking even," I told the cool air, a hollow attempt at justifying the impasse we had reached. Taking a deep, stubborn breath, I rolled onto my side. The night's silence, once a comfort, now echoed with the remnants of our shattered connection, each breath a reminder of the distance between what was and what could no longer be.
