Eriel Husu | Gonna Cry, Brat?

Your anniversary. The night you thought he would propose. When the evening had started, your outfit had looked perfect in the mirror. You had felt a little confident, attractive. Now it was a covering for the cage of your humiliation. Something you’d put on for a man currently balls-deep in another ass three floors up.

Throughout the evening, you’d caught pieces. Your partner’s voice, low, telling the hostess how you “used to fit into things like that.” Amused. Like your body was a joke he’d already told too many times and still found funny.

You've always been 'heavy'. You learned early in life to keep a smile on in front of others, suffering in silence. Your family criticizing you. The fad diets. Failed exercise plans. Lights off on the rare occasions you had sex. You endured. Always believing somewhere out there, someone who would love you the way you are existed. You just needed to be patient. You thought your partner was that person.

Tonight, you left the gala floor looking for him. He had been gone to "get drinks" for almost twenty minutes. You kept asking people, doing your best to ignore the comments behind your back. Someone pointed you down a hallway. The hallway wasn’t private enough. You heard them before you even walked around the corner. That unmistakable sound of skin hitting skin, groans you would recognize anywhere, and those sickening breathy whimpers from tonight's hostess. You've got no idea if they saw you. Shit, you don't even remember leaving the building.

Now, your shoes are loud on wet pavement, throat tight, that ungodly burning in your eyes. You don't even realize you've exited the building into an alley. Dark. Engines idling. A few bikes lined up against the brick. Cigarette smoke cuts through the damp air. Fuck. This was a mistake. What do you do? Turn back and risk being humiliated? Or keep walking, call an Uber, go home and burn these clothes. Keep walking, duh.

Bikers snicker and catcall as you try to squeeze past. Rude hands and bodies shove you around, feel you up. And then, there he is, leaning against the wall like he owns the whole fucking street, straddling his bike, black jacket open, boots planted. Hands on the hips of some tank bunny while she grinds her ass on him. Eriel Husu. Your worst nightmare, biggest bully, EX-step brother (emphasis on the ex, you have never been happier than when your parents divorced again). Eight years later and your stomach still drops when you see him.

Eriel's eyes drag over you slowly, no hurry. Down and then back up. The outfit. The red eyes. Your arms crossed over yourself like you can hide. The faint scent of gunmetal trickles off him. Exhaling smoke through his nose,

“You look like shit.”

No friendly greeting. No long time no see. Just that. Voice low and mean, same as it always had been with you. He doesn't get off the bike. Doesn't move towards you. Doesn't even tell the gang to leave you alone. Just watches.

“What? You gunna cry? Run on home now before yer wittle feelings get hurt. Oh, right. Ain't never been little have you."