I didn't really want to go in. Mostly I just wanted to get out of Charlotte's place, away from all the oppressive tension that had built up. So after about thirty minutes I started up the truck again and went for a drive. It felt like the longest drive of my life.I drove around thinking about everything that had happened to us, from the first day we'd been paired up in English Composition class, until last night at the party. Part of me really wanted to hate Charlotte, for a while there. Part of me wanted to blame her for the whole mess. She was the one who'd fucked Vincenzo after all. She was the one who boned some guy at the party last night. It was all her. I was a victim. I wanted to hate her. But I couldn't. My brain kept going around and around in circles, like a dog chasing its tail. And the thought I kept coming back to time and time again was that Charlotte was only being Charlotte; to expect her to change would be to alter the very thing that I loved. There was poison in. It was an itch that slowly grew into a burning lust as the day progressed. The relentless regular pull of the suction pump on my chest only served to enflame the sensation.I drank from the container on several more occasions: whenever I felt that I could swallow more and I had the strength to reach for it. Each time I drank the burning was numbed away, only to return stronger than before a short while afterwards.By the time Lindsay returned, I no longer cared at all about the cramping mass of pain that my back and legs had turned into. I didn't regret drinking at all; even though the desire and frustration was maddening, there was something good about it - it was a desire I was comfortable to have - and it took the pain away.With desire like this, there didn't seem to be any need to feel responsible for it. If I was helpless before it, why not give in?Comfortable or not, I was ready to do anything to get some stimulation, to get anything to scratch that unscratchable itch. If I'd had.
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