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MATTHEW HELSING*
"Do you know what it's like to kill a man, without remorse?"
That question ran itself over and over again through my mind.
I had just finished grading my last paper for the psychology class I taught at the local community college. This paper I had finished reading was disturbing and it was haunting my mind.
The paper was full of juxtapositions; some points were full of emotion, anger, sadness, fury. Other times, it was devoid of emotion, almost dead, scary.
For someone to write like that was amazing, showcasing definite academic potential. However, besides the grammar and set up of the paper, the content was highly disturbing.
The content of the paper was full of rape, murder, loss of innocence, hatred, death of the soul.
I got shivers just thinking about it.
The following week, I handed back the papers. When I called the name Colton Barton, I felt surprise come across my features.
The man wasn't a dark, brooding, gothic person, like I expected him to be. Instead, I saw before me a tall, thin man with a lean, athletic build, short light blond hair that stuck up slightly without gel, pale-blue eyes, a narrow long nose, a defined jaw, a serious expression that seemed to be constantly frowning.
He appeared to be the type of guy everyone loved throughout high school and college. You know the type.
His eyes met mine when he took back his paper. He paused, before he fully took the paper from my grasp.
The pale color bore into my green eyes. I was mesmerized by the look he gave me, full of questions, full of sadness. His eyes showed me his life. And his life had not been all good.
It haunted me further.
With that look, I knew the paper was not a fictional piece, but a piece of truth, a piece of his life.
A lump formed in my throat, feeling sympathetic towards the man. I knew what he wrote in his paper, he had endured.
I knew he was strong; but he was also weak.
I was drawn to him.
I wanted to speak with him, get to know him, hold him, caress him.
This feeling was unknown to me. But I could not avoid it, could not escape it, could not run from it.
I felt drawn to him.
I do not think he felt the same way.
After our moment had passed, his face hardened. He ripped the paper from my grasp and returned to his seat. For the rest of my lecture, every time my eyes flitted in his direction, he stared at me blankly.
He was still so beautiful.
I think I loved him. I did not know him, but I loved him.
He was fascinating.
He was mesmerizing.
I wanted to know him. How would I accomplish such a feat?
How?
The beauty of being a professor in college was office hours.
The next paper assignment was purely a textbook assignment. The first paper was just something for me to gauge their writing style. I gave the students freedom to write whatever they pleased, as long as there was some structure.
On the second paper, I did not give Colton a grade. Instead I told him to see me.
I did not think he would show for some reason. But he did. A man of honor, I thought. Not a rebel like his posture and gait would indicate.
He came in, brooding as usual, his face serious, not cracking the slightest of smiles as I welcomed him warmly. He took a seat. He did not say a word.
I spoke first.
"Mr. Barton, you're probably wondering why I called you in today," I began, looking into his bright eyes.
Beautiful eyes. More beautiful if he would smile.
He waited for me to continue.
"Well, your paper was great. You're a very talented writer. Excellent work," I said.
It was the truth; his second paper was good. He had a great grasp of how to put together an analytical piece. But I was referring to his first paper, the paper full of rape and murder.
The paper that haunted me, plagued me.
In turn, he was the person that haunted me.
The kid was smart. He knew what I was doing and what I was talking about. He leaned back, stared at me, not uttering a word.
"You got an A," I said.
He said nothing still, just looked at me. He made no move to get up, although most students would have at this point.
Then something miraculous happened.
Colton smiled.
But it was no victory on my part.
It was an eerie smile. One that was cold and did not reach the eyes. It chilled me to my core. I was tempted to tell him to leave.
"Professor Helsing," he said in a raspy, yet deep voice, "do you know what it's like to kill a man, without remorse?"
The question that plagued me, haunted me.
He was toying with me. Testing my reaction. I bet he was used to scaring people off, but not me. I was too fascinated with him, his beauty, his written words.
"No," I whispered.
Colton leaned back, losing his smile.
"It's liberating," he whispered.
My face must have registered shock.
"Unless mentally unstable, murder locks a person within their own prison, built by the human mind. The capacity of guilt to trap a person, to kill them day by day, minute by minute, second by second, even in one's sleep, it never ends," Colton said in a dreamy voice.
"But to kill a man without feeling remorse or guilt, it is a form of freedom," he said, meeting my eyes head on. "To go on with life, it is freedom."
"Colton, is the paper true?" I asked hesitantly.
"Yes," Colton said without hesitation.
I inhaled sharply, "Did you kill a man?"
"Yes," he said, with no hint of regret.
"Did he really do that to you?"
"Yes."
Colton's ice-blue eyes bore into mine again. The bright color hurt me. But it was a pain I was willing to endure.
He did not scare me.
He did not disgust me.
I admired him.
I loved him more.
He fascinated me.
He was the strongest person I had ever encountered.
Over the course of the semester, I watched Colton closely. His papers were always amazing. He passed the course with flying colors.
Yet I noticed something about his behavior during sessions. For one thing, my class was lively and small. Students engaged openly and said whatever was on their mind. Many times, the conversations and dialogues were full of humor.
Often, I laughed.
Colton never did.
That serious expression was etched on his face forever. I wondered what his face would look like with a smile on it. Not a cold smile, but a genuine one. I longed to see that on his beautiful face. I wondered if he smiled before his attack, before his innocence was lost. I wondered what it looked like. I was sure it was beautiful. Like he was. I was sure it enhanced his beauty.
I did not know Colton Barton. I did not know anything about him.
Yet, I loved him. With every fiber of my being.
Was that possible? To love without knowing?
I never thought it was possible before. But I had been proven wrong.
With that angelic face that did not smile, my heart was his.
The following semester, I taught three psychology classes. One was an introductory course; the other two dealt with family and crime. I was ecstatic to see Colton in both of them.
I met his eyes on the first day; a silent message transpired between us.
My love.
I had missed him over the winter break.
His eyes, his story, his words haunted me.
Our relationship remained one of student-teacher. No words were spoken, during or after class. I graded his papers; they were a joy to read. A joy would be a stretch. It was a fascinating endeavor to read his papers. So much was put into his writing.
His entire soul and heart. I could feel it. Perhaps that was why I loved him. His heart went into his writing. When I read his writing, I felt his heart.
How I loved Colton Barton.
I realized I was meant to become a professor-so I would one day meet Colton Barton, the love of my life. Even if we never got together, I was happy to have met the love of my life.
His blue eyes watched over me as I slept.
Something interesting happened during the semester.
Someone fell in love with me.
Not my beloved Colton Barton. But a different student. One with energy, joy, happiness, and excitement that permeated through everyone and everything he touched or encountered.
He was infectious. He was beautiful. He was the epitome of life. He bounced when he talked to me. His body twitched as he spoke. Life radiated off of him. His innocence filled his entire being. He was youthful, but did not experience life.
I did not appreciate him like I did Colton.
I warded off his advances, even though Zachary visited me often.
I often received admiring glances from students and faculty alike. I was young. I was not even 30 yet. I had just finished my doctorate studies and gotten a job immediately. 5'10 with a genetically lean frame, pale skin, sandy brown hair, and bright green eyes, men and women hit on me consistently.
I even went on a date three weeks ago with a middle aged professor who had a wonderful personality, made me laugh, and had lots of stories with which to entertain me.
Yet my mind was on my blond beauty whose smile had escaped him.
My life was ruined because of him. I could not have him, but I could not live without him.
I was trapped. With my mind and my heart.
Zachary asked me out to dinner. I was not surprised. Unfortunately, I had to turn him down. He looked heart broken; but I knew it would be a mistake to lead him on. It would cause him more hurt. He deserved someone who could love him entirely.
That was not me. For my heart was already taken. By a blond man who did not outwardly acknowledge my existence.
Zachary remained friendly afterwards, although I kept my distance from him. He visited me during office hours; we talked. He ended up being a friend. He was an interesting person. But I was careful to make sure it remained in that stage and only in that stage.
Life went on. And I dreamt of him.
Colton. My Colton. Who haunts me in my dreams.
The semester would end soon. I did not want it to end. I knew nothing of my Colton. Would I ever see him again after this semester? I could not bear it if I never saw him again. Seeing him four times a week, for an hour and a half each time, was enough for me to get by. Without that precious time with my love, my heart would ache.
Why?
Because I loved him.
I did not give my heart away like others did. I kept it guarded. Vulnerability was overrated. Colton had reached through the cell walls that guarded my heart and stole it, like a robber that vanished with a prize diamond in the night. How did he complete such a task? How?
His eyes.
His writing.
His words.
His past.
Everything he touched and gave, haunted me.
Colton surprised me.
I did not know he thought about me or cared about me in the least. Yet one day after my class and after office hours, I found him in the faculty parking lot. He was leaning against my car, casually waiting.
For me.
The thought alone excited me.
His eyes followed my movements as I got closer. He did not move when I got there. I stood there with my keys in my hands, not knowing what to do.
Should I ask him to come with me?
Come where with me?
I did not know the answer to that. I just wanted him. To be with me. Always.
"You torture him," Colton said in a soft voice, breaking our tranquil silence.
I loved listening to him talk. It was beautiful. Just like him.
I frowned, "What? Who is it that I torture?"
"He is in love with you; but you torture him with your friendship," he said cryptically.
"I do not understand."
"You do; you just do not realize yet," he said.
I was confused.
"Have you told him?"
"Told him what?" I asked.
"Told him that your heart is already taken," Colton said.
My heart beat faster.
"How do you know my heart is taken?" I asked, licking my lips.
"Your eyes," he said softly, "They tell all."
I did not know what to say to that. He stood up, preparing to leave. I was tempted to tell him to stay.
To come with me.
Be with me.
Be mine.
"You have beautiful eyes," he stated.
I was speechless.
"Tell Zachary the truth. Tell him why you cannot be with him," he advised. "He is a good person; he will understand."
"How do you know all this?" I wondered aloud.
"Your eyes cannot hide the truth. Your eyes cannot hide the words you speak in your mind," he answered. "Through your eyes, I can read your mind. It is a book. A book only I can read."
I was shocked.
How did Colton Barton know these things?
"Tell him," Colton said, walking away, not looking back. "Tell him that you are in love. Tell him that you love me."
My eyes widened as Colton kept walking. He looked back. His eyes were bright. I looked down at his lips. I was shocked. They were curved upwards ever so slightly. He was smiling. It reached his eyes. I felt special. That smile was reserved for me.
"Good bye, Professor Helsing," he said finally, walking away.
He vanished in the wind.
I missed his presence.
COLTON BARTON
"Colton, you should be out of the house. The evening is beautiful," Nathaniel said, folding his arms as he gazed at me disapprovingly, as I lay in my room doing crunches.
"I like to be alone," I responded, feeling the burn in my abdomen.
I loved the feeling of the burning muscle.
It felt like an accomplishment.
It felt like a punishment.
I craved both.
Accomplishments came from punishments; they were connected inevitably. You do not accomplish an endeavor without enduring punishments, whether internal or external.
"You are young; only old men like me sit inside, all alone," Nathaniel said.
I eyed him. "You are not old."
At 39, he was hardly old; if he were, he looked damned good. He had a distinguished quality about him. He was intelligent. It was attractive. He was not alone; his partner was in the next room.
Nathaniel sighed, "I worry about you."
"Do not worry. I am fine."
"But Colton, this is not normal."
"I am fine; you have done so much for me. But you are right. I am not normal. I will never be normal again. Normality has been stolen from me. Ripped from my entire being, as his weapon was forced deep inside of me over and over again," I replied in a monotone.
"Stop doing so many crunches," Nathaniel said as I grunted, as sweat dripped from my forehead.
"I love it."
"Why?" he asked.
"It is pain."
"Why do you love pain?" he asked.
"It is all I have known."
"That is not true," Nathaniel said frowning.
"It has been my truth for the past six years. It has become me. It is all I know," I responded.
"It saddens me to hear you say such words," Nathaniel said.
"You are my friend. I cannot tell a lie," I said, as I did yet more crunches.
"Do not overwork yourself," Nathaniel said sighing, knowing he could not beat me. "I love you. Try to get some sleep."
"I love you too. And Hank. You have been so good to me. Good night."
"Good night, my young friend," he said, leaving me to my punishment.
I continued throughout the night- never ceasing, never ceasing -until my body gave up.
Only then, would my punishment cease.
Only then, would I reap the rewards of my accomplishment.
Rest did not come easy tonight.
It never did.
I dreamt that night.
Like I always did.
I was haunted in my sleep. I could not rid of my demons. They took over me, over my mind and body. I was not me in my dreams. I was merely a host for my demons.
I hated my demons.
I hated myself.
For the demons had become me. I loathed my demons- in turn, I hated myself.
I could see it all. On that fateful day. When I chose my fate by walking in that direction.
In choosing to park on that deserted street.
By choosing to love another man.
I had chosen my fate.
I had chosen my future.
I had chosen punishment for the end of my days.
I could not take back my choice.
It was too late.
Six years had gone by. I could see it all, as if it happened yesterday.
It frightened me still.
It frightened me every day.
It frightened me most in my sleep.
*SIX YEARS AGO
"NO!" I shouted furiously, trying to kick my legs at the guy on top of me.
I was not making progress; the guy was so much bigger than I. Even if I did somehow manage to get free, there were two other guys hanging in the apartment.
"Stop it! Get off me!" I screamed, struggling as the guy pinned my arms over my head and forced my legs apart with his knees; his free hand reached for my belt. I was becoming really panicked now.
The reality that I was going to be raped hit me like a bulldozer. My mind was racing, trying to think of a way get out, to escape.
It was the summer. I was going to college in the fall and I needed money badly, as did most college bound youths. I worked nights at a local restaurant. I finished that night around 1:30. It was a really popular restaurant; the long nights were worth it, in exchange for the awesome tips.
I was heading towards my car when these three large frat-looking guys jumped me and started calling me a fag. Then they dragged me to one of their apartments. My attempts to escape were futile. I was outnumbered. My screams were silenced. My struggles were forced down.
After beating my face in and punching my stomach until I was bowled over with excruciating pain, they threw me to the floor.
"Fag, you're gonna get it now," they cheered. The guy on top of me was good looking. If he wasn't forcing himself on me, I might have been attracted to him if I had seen him walking down the street. Now, however, he looked like some kind of monster; his brown eyes looked demonic, his smile downright frightening. I was sweating and breathing hard.
"Please don't do this!" I begged, as my belt was chucked aside. He yanked down my zipper before pulling down my jeans and boxers together. I wiggled around trying to slow down the process; but he was totally in control, and I was naked from the waist down in seconds.
I stared at the other two guys, my eyes pleading with them for help. The one standing closest just grinned obnoxiously. The other one near the door looked younger and had a scared expression on his face.
"You're gonna get it bad, you fucking fag!" the guy over me hissed. I felt my blood run cold.
"NO! NO! PLEASE!!!"
"Yo, Adam, give me a condom," the guy said to his friend that was standing over us. "Who knows how many guys' dicks been up this fag's ass."
I could not help the tears streaming down my face as I heard the wrapper of the condom, and then the latex stretching over the guy's large, swollen cock.
"STOP, don't do this!!! NO!" I cried desperately as my legs were forced further apart and my hips were slightly lifted off the ground. Then he pushed in with a large surge of power, bursting through my tight ring, despite its resistance. I felt the most blinding pain in my ass. I screamed. I thrashed. I screamed some more.
I felt burning. I was positive I was bleeding. I felt that hot weapon being shoved into my bowels. I was gonna be sick; I felt like vomiting. He did not stop; he continued pushing forcefully, until his balls slapped my ass. He grinned mercilessly.
I grimaced. My face felt hot as more pain radiated from down there, as the guy pulled out and brutally shoved himself back in. My flesh was being torn apart; it felt raw. Tears leaked freely from my eyes, the salty liquid going into my mouth. My mouth was open, but I did not know if sound was coming out of it. Was I screaming? I did not know.
I opened my eyes and saw the guy's leering face. An expression of pleasure washed over his features. I glanced over and saw his friend grinning, as if waiting for his turn. My eyes glazed over. I felt my body being rubbed against the carpet as I was thrust into continually.
The pain was still there. I knew something down there had ripped. Every time the guy's cock pounded into me, I felt my flesh being torn further. I felt tears of pain slip out of my eyes. My fingers clung to the carpet; my teeth were ground together so tightly I thought they would break into tiny pieces.
The guy above me was panting. I could tell by the expression on his face, the way his chest was moving. For some reason, I could not hear a sound. I had lost the ability to hear. All I could do was see. Watch as I was abused ruthlessly.
Everything became slow motion. The guy's thrusts, his breathing, the heaving of his chest.
Time seemed to slow. Time seemed to stop.
Then something snapped inside of me.
I did not know what happened, did not fathom the change that occurred in me. I just felt numb; no thoughts were running through my head. I was watching my body as if an outsider.
While this guy was raping me, he had released my arms, thinking I was no longer struggling. I lifted my hips further so that my ankles were within arm's length. My jeans were clumped at my ankles; I lifted my torso and stretched my arm as far as it would go.
I was able to do this because my asshole felt numb; I felt numb all over.
"Wait, what is he doing?" the friend standing over us asked.
The friend asked his question too late.
In life, timing is everything.
His friend was too late. He was just too late.
I had retrieved the knife I kept in an ankle brace. I had figured I would need it for working those late nights, but this was the first time I was able to use it in self-defense.
"Aaron! Watch out! He's got a knife!" the friend yelled.
I flung the knife in a large arch, not knowing where my strength came from.
I no longer controlled my body. Some unseen force did.
The blade went deep into the side of his throat, puncturing the vulnerable supple flesh of a man in his prime. The tip of the blade actually showed itself through the other side of his neck.
Aaron's eyes bulged in shock. Questions and horror filled his eyes. Did he know he was stabbed? Did he know he was going to die? I could not answer that. Only he could. Perhaps by the time he realized what was happening, he would already be dead.
His mouth dropped open as blood began to pour profusely from his mouth and the deep stab wound. He lurched forward onto me, his dark red, metallic-smelling blood spilling onto my face and chest.
I just stared at him blankly, not really registering what I had done.
I yanked the knife out. The sound was sickening to hear. A horrible squishing sound. A terrible mixture of meat being cut; of liquid moving through the sliced flesh. Even more blood gushed out. Some of it spilled into my mouth, but I did not register the taste or the consistency. I coughed, I spit, but moved on.
I was not myself. I did not control my body. Some unseen force did.
With my legs and arms, I pushed Aaron off of me. He fell to the carpet limply. His blood formed a dark pool around his prostrate form. Blood was everywhere, it seemed.
"Ohmigod, Aaron!" the friend screamed, about to step towards his friend. I stood up slowly, and mechanically pulled up my pants.
I no longer felt pain in my ass. I did not stop to think what had happened to the pain.
My body was not mine. It moved on its own.
I stared down at my handiwork, at the brunette man who had brutally ravaged me. He was lying on the carpet, his blood so abundant and thick, it looked purple.
The color intrigued me. Purple? Blood was not purple. Why did it appear purple?
The stench infiltrated the room. His life that was draining from his body covered the carpet, as if painting it a new color. One that was deep, rich, dark, murky.
It was a sight. A magnificent and horrific sight.
I did not understand what I was seeing at first. All I knew was that I had to keep going. I had to keep moving. I had to escape. My body continued to move.
I did not control my body. It was not mine. It moved on its own.
The friend froze when I turned my eyes on him. I saw fear flash through his eyes. I just stood there, gazing at him blankly. I stepped closer. He tried to run; but I grabbed him, in an iron grip I did not know I possessed. I stabbed him directly in the chest, mixing his blood with his friend's. His blue eyes shot wide open. He looked down at the blade handle protruding from his chest, at the blood coming out, staining his designer shirt.
He returned his frightened and shocked gaze back to me. I could not interpret his expression. In truth, I did not care to interpret his expression; I did not care for the regret, the fear, the sadness, or the realization he was going to die on this fateful night. The tables had been turned.
Did he care when I had the look of fear and realization on my face when I was about to get raped?
No, he did not.
I pulled the knife out, shoved it back in, deeper this time; I twisted it around 360 degrees. The man howled in pain, his face contorting, his breath heaving as his legs wavered. He fell to the ground. He screamed and cried, for he knew death was coming. His screams would have been torture to hear; but I could not hear.
I could only move. Freedom was my goal. Escape was my mode of action.
His fingers shook as he gripped the knife handle in shock. I saw the life slowly draining out of his body. He became pale. His chest moved up and down erratically. I held him down as I retracted the knife out of him. He gasped as blood surged out of the wound.
I headed towards the door, holding the knife in my blood stained fist. As I approached him, the young-looking guy was shrinking against the door. I stopped in front of him and just stared. His blue eyes were staring at me, waiting for me to kill him; his lips quivered in absolute fear. In fear of me. In fear of what I had just done. Of what I would do. I could see it. I could smell it. His fear.
"Please," he whimpered. I did not hear his words, for I could not hear. I could understand him only through the movement of his lips.
I gripped his arm and held him there for a few seconds. Then I pushed him aside, opened the door, and walked out. I had forgotten where I parked my car. I was in a daze.
My feet were moving, but my brain wasn't directing them. I clutched the knife in my hand, as if my life still depended on it. My pants were hanging low off my hips since I had not put on my belt.
I passed some stores where there were lights on still. Some young kids, walking around, stared at me in horror.
I looked into a store window; my appearance barely registered. My short blond hair was matted down with blood; blood was slowly drying all over my entire face. Only my left eye was left uncovered from other men's blood; it went down my chin, neck, throat, and even my gray sweatshirt.
I never knew blood was so dark, almost maroon, and so thick, the smell so strong and pungent.
My eyes looked blank and tired; my fists were blood stained as well; my legs suddenly felt weak. I blinked rapidly as the ground began to spin around me. As I collapsed on the sidewalk, I heard sirens approaching.
It was the beginning of the end of my life.
I did not know it at the time, but it was the beginning of the end of my life.
If I had known my family would have thrown me out--blamed me for my attack--I would have killed myself that very night.
If I had known I would have gone on trial for murder of those two men, become an outcast, hated by everyone, including my own family, I would have killed myself that very night.
If only I had known.
But who ever knows?
Who knows how the day will unfold?
No one.
Every day is a surprise.
I hated my surprise.
I loathed my surprise.
I wish I could give it back.
PRESENT*
I woke up sweating profusely. I started to sob.
If only I had walked with my friends to my car.
If only I had left the restaurant earlier.
If only I had parked on a different street.
If only I had made sure no one was looking when I kissed Jackson that day after school, made sure no one was around to witness the encounter.
If only.
My life would be different.
I would have been normal, carefree. I would have my love.
I had been 17 when tragedy struck.
I was a lively person, strong, fun.
I had my whole life ahead of me.
If only.
My life would still be mine. My innocence, my happiness would still be intact. I would have my family still. I would be normal. I could be with others and not feel the constant fear consuming me to my core.
If only.
I cried into my pillow. Crying helped. It put me to sleep. I needed to sleep.
It was the only way to avoid the question that followed me everywhere.
Why?
Why had this happened to me?
What had I done to deserve this?
I ask myself that question every day and night. I had asked that question every day and night for the last six years.
I still do not know the answer.
Would I ever?
The end of the semester was approaching. One more week.
I finished my exam, and then headed to Professor Helsing's office. I dropped my paper in his mailbox. There had been no assignment due, but I wrote it for him anyway.
The paper was titled, "My innocence has been stolen. I have been kidnapped by a prison. Who holds the key to my freedom?"
School ended. Summer was here. I had nothing to do. I was alone.
Loneliness swallowed me.
I was with others, but I was alone. I avoided people; people avoided me.
It was my fate from here on out.
I interacted only with Hank and Nathaniel, my lawyers from my trial. They had taken me in when my family disowned me, upon my public outing. I only trusted my lawyers. They were my family now. They paid for my schooling, put a roof over my head, loved me unconditionally.
I wish it were enough; but it was not.
I wanted to be normal.
I wanted to be free.
Who would unlock me from my internal prison and save me?
I knew who.
My green-eyed beauty.
Where are you?
Please come to me.
I need you.
I love you.
But I am afraid.
Come to me.
Hold my hand; guide me with your love.
He found me one day.
I was surprised, yet not surprised, when he showed up at my door. He looked flushed. He was wearing street clothes. He looked different in a pair of nice fitting jeans and a shirt, completely different than in his suit.
He had my paper in his hand. "What is this?" he asked, his green eyes dark with emotion.
I did not answer him. I did open the door wider, allowing him entry.
Entry into my home.
Entry into my heart?
He followed me to my room. "Colton," he said pleadingly. "Colton, please stop. Do not walk away from me."
"I love how you say my name," I whispered, my back to him.
I could hear him breathing.
"Murder is liberating when it is justified. Self-defense is murder allowed by law. I carry no guilt over the manslaughter of those who ask for it by their actions." Helsing quoted my paper.
I did not say a word.
"Do you know what it is like to kill a man, without remorse?" he continued.
"I do," he read, "but do you know what it is like to live a life of regret?" he paused and turned the page.
I knew what was coming. I had memorized my paper.
My own words.
My own history.
"I live a life of regret, over what could have been. Over what I could have had. I could have been happy and carefree. I am a changed person because of my own personal decisions. For those decisions, I feel regret. I have killed a man without remorse, but I have killed a man with regret. Murder is tied with regret, but for a different reason. My regret, spurred by my rightful murder, has locked my heart, soul, and mind. I want to get out. I bang at the bars everyday, but cannot get out. I need help. I am finally asking for it. You have the key. Unlock me. Save me. I beg you."
He stopped reading. "Colton, what does this mean?" he whispered.
I turned to him, "You, only you."
"What?" he asked with a pleading tone.
"You can save me. Only you. I knew it when I saw you. I wrote to you because I knew. I found my savior. Unlock the prison. Free me. Save me."
"How?" he begged.
"You know how. You are already doing it. But you must show me," I said, walking closer to him.
"I do not understand."
"Don't you?" I asked, raising my brow.
Matthew Helsing bit his lip. He turned his head, looking around the room.
I stepped closer. So close I could touch him. I inhaled his scent. Wonderful. I breathed out and watched his light hair move around.
His jaw was clenched in concentration. His eyes were frustrated.
"Why are you trying so hard when the answer is right in front of you?" I asked, my fingers grazing his hairline.
He snapped his head back and looked into my eyes. The beautiful green shade emulated nature.
I got lost in it. I had never felt this before.
Love.
I wanted to express it. But only he could free it from my heart.
He had the key.
"Help me, Matthew Helsing. Save me; you know how," I murmured.
He licked his lips. "Colton," he said.
I smiled at him slightly. Matthew's face lit up; he surged ahead.
His lips met mine. They were warm and soft. It was a feeling I had not allowed myself in six years. It was enticing.
The shorter man wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me closer. My hands went to his neck, then to his back and under his shirt, pulling it off of him.
"I love you," he whispered in my ear.
"I love you. Thank you."
"For what?"
"For saving me from my internal torture," I said, capturing his lips again.
Matthew's warm hands gripped me tighter. I felt safe in his arms.
I felt loved. It radiated from him.
I undid his jeans, pushed them past his slender hips. His skin felt smooth beneath my fingertips. Matthew shivered as my fingers roamed his body.
"Colton," he whispered, biting his lips.
He helped me take off his jeans. He stood before me naked, beautiful, his arousal sticking out directly at me. I grasped his cock; he trembled. He leaned forward, letting my taller frame support his weight.
"Oh Colton, how you torture me," he murmured, his breath hot against my chest.
"I do not mean to torture you so," I said in amusement.
"But you do," he said, searching my lips again.
His fingers slid up my stomach and towards my chest, caressing my nipples, causing my cock to twitch in my pants. Raising my arms, Matthew peeled off my shirt. His lips went to my nipples, licking and sucking gently. I hissed and moved closer, to give him better access. His hands gripped my ass. His mouth broke away. He hurriedly shoved my jeans and boxers down to my ankles. I stepped out of them and resumed kissing him hungrily. His hands tangled in my hair. He looked into my eyes.
"I love you," he said again.
"Show me," I urged.
"I do not want to hurt you," he said.
"You will not. I know you will not. I trust you," I said.
Matthew kissed me gently. We lay down on my bed, moving slowly, tantalizingly, teasingly. Our bodies moved over one another's, sliding, slipping, as a sheen of sweat developed. His fingers entered me one at a time, gliding in with tender care, with lots of lube. He massaged my prostate, causing me to cry out, moan, beg.
"Ready, beautiful?" he asked, his head positioned at my hole.
"Yes, love me," I said.
"I already do," Matthew said, kissing my nose. He pushed in.
I bit my lip; he paused, letting me adjust. I nodded at him to continue; he kept moving steadily, pausing every once in awhile, until his balls slapped my ass gently. I felt full. It felt good. Very little pain.
It was because he loved me.
He began to move, easing out, thrusting back in, increasing speed as I loosened up. I began to enjoy myself more.
"Harder, Matthew," I moaned, my nails digging into his back.
He was constantly rubbing my prostate. It was the most amazing feeling I had ever had.
I never knew it could be this way.
I never knew it could be this good.
He thrust in deeper, with more power, and roughly pounded my prostate. My eyes rolled back. I let out strangled cries. I did not know what to hold onto as I was taken to the brink of pleasure.
I screamed as my orgasm hit me. "Matthew, I love you!" I shouted, as my cock spurt out thick ropes of my cum that slapped onto his chest and chin.
"Oh god," I groaned, as I pumped my hips.
I felt Matthew grunt and tremble as he became still over me, slamming into me one last time, prolonging his own release as he brushed my prostate again.
Over and over again.
I shuddered.
I whimpered.
I clawed at my sheets for dear life.
Would this pleasure never end?
I surely hoped not.
His arms shook as he came; his eyes closed tightly, his jaw clenched sexily. I stared at his beauty.
"Colton, I love you," he breathed, staring down at me.
"Smile for me," he begged. "I crave your smile."
I smiled, "I love you."
Matthew Helsing was full of questions.
I was happy to oblige his curiosity, as we lay in bed, naked together.
"Your family kicked you out?" he asked.
"Yes."
"You have not seen them since your rape?"
"Yes."
"Nathaniel and Hank took you in? You have lived with them since your trial?" he continued.
"Yes, they took my case for free. They bailed me out of jail. They are excellent lawyers concerning hate crimes. They fought for me like a son," I answered. "I did not have to go to jail. I owe them my life. I would not have survived in prison."
"I doubt that. You are strong," Matthew said.
"Depends on one's definition of strength."
"You have fought your way through life," he reminded me. "You are in school now. You are a wonderful writer."
"It took me years to get to college and it is only community. I am a freshman at 23," I said.
"Still," Matthew said, "you still made it. You did not give in to suicide."
"I almost did. I was too weak to do it."
"No, you were too strong to do it," he argued quietly.
"I was depressed."
"Rightfully so."
"I will be ok now," I said, looking into his green orbs.
"My heart is no longer imprisoned. It is guarded by you. It is my gift to you."
He smiled and kissed my nose. "I will protect it with my life. I will die in my duty to you."
I stroked his cheek. "I ask no such thing."
"I will do it anyway."
"You are my hero. I have been waiting for you."
Matthew smiled at me and rolled us over, so I was on top of him.
"I love you," he said, caressing under my eye.
"I love you," I answered, pecking his lips.
"Show me," he urged.
"Anything for you."
MATTHEW HELSING**
Life with Colton Barton was better than I could have imagined it would be. For someone I met and fell in love with before really knowing him, we were made for each other. That is how I knew our love was true. I spent the entire summer with him; every day we were together; every night we made love.
The following semester, he was in one of my classes.
This time he smiled.
This time he laughed.
I loved him.
He moved in with me during the semester, when I complained I missed him.
Colton laughed, "I miss you too."
I wanted to be with him every night, even if it meant staying up at night to watch him work furiously on a paper.
He was my beauty, my love.
Sometimes, however, he got in a mood. It was a mood I did not like.
He woke up not himself.
He was quiet.
He was moody.
He was depressed.
He was reflecting on his life, and the regret of his past.
On those days, he would ask me the haunting question, "Do you know what it's like to kill a man, without remorse?"
His blue eyes blank and eerie, he stared at me; he frightened me.
I learned over time how to handle him in this situation.
I would wrap him in my arms and kiss his head, "It is liberating. Free yourself, baby; you are safe now. I love you."
Those words usually made him relax.
He would become Colton again.
He would become the Colton I knew and loved.
He would shake his head. I could see his eyes focus, the bright color shining, making my heart burst.
He would smile beautifully.
"I love you too," he would reply.
*END