Part 7
I stared dumbfoundedly at Paul, my heart shattering into a thousand pieces. I silently pleaded with him, my eyes widened and almost frighetened, begging him to tell me that what was in front of me was only my imagination. Praying for him to relieve the awful agony in the pit of my stomach. He made no move to speak, instead standing almost immobilized in the corner, his smooth chest rising and falling with every jagged breath. He was pleading with me in exactly the same way, and I realised that not even he was sure whether any of this was real. He was just as perplexed as I was. Whatever had happened between them was beyond his control, and he was flooded with shame and humiliation.
I turned my gaze, almost in slow motion, to Tim. He was settling back into the bed, mine and Paul's bed, with one arm folded behind his head and a smug grin. The bastard. The fucking bastard. He'd been telling me that he would eventually have Paul in his clutches again, but I foolishly shrugged his threats away, believing the love that Paul and I shared would create a sort of protective barrier, that could stop Tim from throwing stones into our otherwise calm and peaceful pool. Whatever Tim had done to Paul to make him do this, it would have to have been very powerful, something that would deprive Paul of any ability to object and fight him away. His obsession with Paul, and his selfish determination to claim him as his own, had turned him into a beast.
A rage began to descend on me. I snarled at Tim, my hands balling into fists.
"Who the fuck do you think you are?" I asked as I squeezed my fingernails into the palms of my hands, ignoring the pain that followed.
"I feel sick," Paul mumbled, bowing his head and rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. Tim reached over the bedside and scooped up his trousers, pulling them onto his legs.
"Well, that's certainly not what you said last night," he said in response. Once his trousers were fastened, he stood up and walked over to Paul, hooking a finger through his towel. "Come on, Paul, you have nothing to hide from me. I've seen it all before."
Paul sneered and spat in his face. "And you'll never see it again! You're SICK, you hear me? And get your fuckin' hands away from me!" He slapped Tim's hand away, giving him the deadliest glare i'd ever seen. Tim wiped the spit off his face, shrugged and continued to dress, turning his attention to me.
"He's hot and cold, you know?" he said, pulling his shirt over his head. "One minute he's all over you, and the next minute he's spitting in your face. I'm amazed he hasn't turned on you yet."
I walked over to him and swiftly punched him on the cheek, my temper taking over yet again. "I should fuckin' kill you!"
"Yeah?" He straightened his back, looking down on me menacingly. "Go on, kill me then."
"Tim, get out," Paul said firmly, his hands on his hips. "This has gone far enough."
"Excuse me?" Tim dismissed me with a glare and turned to Paul. Paul tried the best that he could to maintain control, keeping intense eye contact with Tim.
"You heard me. If you don't get out of here right now, i'm going to chop off your fucking kneecaps with a meat cleaver."
"You don't have the guts. Or the balls," Tim retaliated, but he took one step backwards. He was beginning to surrender. About time, too.
"Tim, when i'm through with you, you won't even have balls. Not that you had any in the first place. Now leave."
Tim switched his gaze from Paul to me, and then back to Paul. His smirk was quickly fading.
"GO!" Paul shouted, pointing to the door. Tim turned to me, but I simply folded my arms across my chest and raised his eyebrows, daring him to take me on. But his shoulders were now sagged in defeat.
Grabbing what was left of his clothing, he gave Paul one last look, mumbled, "I'm not through with you," then left. Paul and I waited in silence, staring at one another, until we heard the front door close. When it did, Paul heaved a sigh of relief, flopping back onto the bed.
"Thank bloody God that's over," he said. I, however, wasn't so optimistic. I sat beside him on the bed, tracing circles on his palm.
"This isn't over yet." I took a deep breath, a headache steadily approaching. "Paul, I can't take this anymore."
"What?" He sat up and wrapped an arm tenderly around my shoulder. "There's no more to take, Rich, he's gone."
"But he'll come back. No matter how much we tell him to fuck off, he's just going to keep coming back. As long as we're together, he won't give up."
He began to massage his thumb into my shoulder. "So what are you saying?"
For the second time in five minutes, my eyes filled with tears. I truly didn't want to say it. I'd pretended for so long that everything was going to work out for the best, that Paul and I would live a long and happy life together. But now I could see that this just couldn't happen. Not for us. There were too many obstacles, each one tougher to get over than the last one. It was all too much for me to handle. I didn't want our love to be a lifelong struggle. By saying what I was about to say, I could stop the struggling. I couldn't put Paul though any more. I hadn't stopped loving him - I never could. But it wasn't fair on him, or me, to continue like this.
I took his hand in mine and kissed his fingers softly, willing myself not to cry.
"I'm saying we should break up, Paul."
Part 8