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The number eleven used to be an omen of sorts to me. Until I met you. Now let me start at the beginning. Maybe then you'll understand why I'm thinking about exiting your life for good this time.
On my eleventh birthday, I learned what it was to be a woman. Not because of the hormonal changes my prepubescent body was adjusting to. And not because of the way the boys in my class looked at my growing breasts as I made my way to my desk every morning. The meaning of womanhood came with a cold serving of the truth, with a side of birthday cake.
It was the night I walked in on my mother crying outside the bathroom door, knowing my father was fucking our next door neighbor right behind it. She saw me, I saw her. Her gaze had been filled with defeat and temporary relief, as if she'd been waiting for me to be old enough to understand why so many women were so good at hiding their pain. They had to if they wanted to survive. Pain was a jungle full of uncertainty, if you didn't learn how to adapt to your surroundings, you'd get voted off the island.
I spent the next eleven years burning with silent rage for anyone who reminded me of my father. The men I met came and went just as easily as he did. He lost my mother on my twenty-second birthday. He didn't know he lost me long before that. But I lost myself the night my mother told me she was consumed with an unhindered freedom she hadn't realize she longed for during the divorce process. I never understood why people loved each other just to let each other go so easily, so carelessly in the end. I wanted no part of it. I wanted nothing to do with breaking my own heart for the sake of keeping something as intangible as love.
To say I became distant from them and the world was an understatement. All the self-induced isolation did was get me to graduate grad school early, and caused me to get a high paying job that I hated. Misery became my favorite tool to repel anyone who thought it would be easy to get under my skin. It didn't work on you. I resented you for that. But hatred was such an aphrodisiac to me. And I used whatever was at my disposal to capture you, just to let you run free when I was done. I guess I was more like my father than I thought.
Why couldn't you have been like the rest of them? So easy to dispose without a second thought. Why did you have to burn your way through the seams of my frostbitten heart? I would have my answer tonight. But only if you were ready to give it to me.
My heels are clicking against the hardwood floors of your loft as you remove my coat and gesture for me to mingle at your engagement dinner. You were full of irony and sultry smirks. I had to have you again tonight. One last time. I needed to set you free from me. I needed to set me free from myself.
You hand me a clear drink an hour in, and my smile fades the moment your arm wraps around your fiance's waist. Our eyes collide as I gulp down my drink and you send me a warning within your heated gaze. You know exactly what I'm going to do. And you know it's going to happen soon. It was your last attempt at resistance, at playing the role of dutiful boyfriend. I came here to ruin everything and you were trying to stop me. No one had ever cared enough to try before.
I excuse myself from our mutual group of friends and your beautiful fiancé and catch a glimpse of agony in your eyes before I turn and head for your bathroom. Images of what my mother had gone through the night of my eleventh birthday party briefly crossed my mind, in an attempt to humble myself and contemplate my actions. I didn't want to hurt your soon-to-be-bride. I didn't want to hurt you. My body never cared about these things. It was a subtle fire set ablaze underneath your gaze and I was too selfish to let myself care.
The second I reach for the zipper holding up my dress, I hear you knocking on the bathroom door. My heart is pounding, the adrenaline coursing through me as I turn the doorknob to let you in. Your handsome face and dominant nature was a lethal combination. I’m already dripping wet when you spread my legs and lift me up against the bathroom door. My fingers work on your belt while yours work on tugging my breasts out of my dress. Your hungry mouth suckles and nibbles on my nipples, causing me to bite my lower lip. Desire pools at my core, making me run my fingers through your hair as you rip my panties off and slide your cock right into me.
You're solid and eager when you reach my g-spot, rolling your hips enough to send my mind into a frenzy. As you pound into me, I picture all the times you walked in on me doing this in our old bed, with different men. Each and every time the growing disappointment in your gaze left me feeling something I've never felt before. Remorse. Guilt. Regret. I didn't expect love to still be hidden behind all the doors I shut in your face throughout the years. But none of it mattered at the moment. Your love belonged to someone else now.
Your lips attack my neck, leaving behind wet kisses until they manage to find my nipples again. You suck on them until you get a frustrated moan to escape my swollen lips. Once your goal is reached, you hold on to me and bend me over your vanity, plunging into me from behind. I couldn't hold back a loud whimper any longer, and you knew I wouldn't care if anyone else heard it. So your hand covered my mouth as you fucked me from behind, each thrust harder and deeper than the last until we both reach our highs and recover from the last mistake we'd ever be able to make, closing the last door we've held open for too long.
I turn around then, you pull me closer to your chest, placing one single kiss on my forehead before I tip-toe to kiss your lips. You've always wanted more than I could ever give you, but tonight, you've left me in your shoes, seething and sulking in my defeat.
Eleven used to be my favorite number. Before you came along and made me remember who I was before I learned how to hide my pain. And I hid it so well too. From waking up tangled in between the sheets of strangers to the moment it took you leaving me for good to realize you were in pain too.
Tomorrow is my birthday, you're getting married to someone who isn't me, and I've grown tired of being the broken woman crying in silence against the bathroom door.