He screeched up to her driveway and revved the engine to announce his presence. She jumped up nervously and rushed to slide on her shoes. Her mother looked at her with worried eyes.

        "Are you sure you should go?" her mom asked.

        "I'm sure, Mom," she answered, annoyed by the questioning of her ability to live her life. She pushed through the door and quick-stepped to his car.

        "Get in," he said coldly. Before she even had the door shut, he was slamming out of the driveway.

        "Take it easy, OK?" she said shakily. He did not answer, but continued to screech the brakes and floor the gas. Her already uneasy stomach was tying itself into knots.

        She saw the journal sitting on the back seat. She had left it in his car when she had gone away for the weekend. In her journal, she wrote about her most personal things and most tangled thoughts, working through them as she recorded them. Her last entry had been left unfinished. She had only recorded, not analyzed, her recent setback. Considering herself a reformed flirt, she had returned to old habits when her cousin brought a friend up for the weekend. It was far from an affair; the sparks had ignited only her curiosity. Still, she knew that her boyfriend would never understand. She instinctively reached for the notebook.

        "Don't bother," he spat. "I already tore the page out to keep." She caught his eyes for the first time; she had never seen them flame like that.

        "It is my journal," she gently reminded him.

        "That's too damn bad." She took a deep breath.

        "Can you please calm down?" she pleaded. "You haven't even given me a chance to explain yet."

        "There's no need for you to explain. I've seen all I need to see."

        "But that's not all --"

        "Shut up. I do the talking now."

        "Honey," she began softly.

        "Shut up!" he screamed. She held back her tears, knowing that they would anger him further. "You're a lying, spiteful little bitch and you're lucky I'm even here." She stared at the road ahead, absorbing his impact. "Look at me," he ordered in that cold voice. She turned to him, hoping that she could search out a glimmer of love in his eyes. Before she could even lock his eyes, though, he raised his hand and hit her across her left cheek. She let out a gasp and shrank back, stunned.

        "That didn't hurt near as bad as you hurt me," he said. She was still stricken. Her tears were now falling freely and she felt breathless, not quite sobbing but more like that sickening feeling of having the wind knocked out of her.

        "I can't believe you actually hit me," she finally breathed, almost to herself.

        "Did it hurt?" he asked acidly.

        "Yes," she answered shakily.

        "Good," he said. "I'm not done yet."

        She was still several beats behind. "You can't do that to me . . ." she almost whispered. Her gut instincts told her to get out of the car, to run home and not look back, but she could not bring herself to make the slightest movement toward action.

        "Well, I did, didn't I?" he replied, sounding more bitter than she had ever heard him before.

        "Where are we going?" She was beginning to recover her senses.

        "Why? Are you scared?" She did not need to answer. "You should be. I'm so mad that I could gladly squeeze your head till it cracks." She crept closer to the side of the car, almost believing it. "I'm not going to." He snorted, a cynical half-laugh. "Get me a cigarette."

        She opened the glove box and gave him a Camel. She started to take one for herself, asking as a formality, "OK if I have one?"

        "No," he said.

        "Why not?" she said incredulously.

        "Does that hurt your feelings?"

        "Yes," she said weakly. She was sensing the pattern.

        "Good. You're gonna hurt like I did." She sat back, defeated, wanting to escape, wishing he would only listen, knowing that neither was possible. They were silent for the duration of two agonizingly dragged-out Camels. The scenery passing by was familiar, even in the moonlight, but the destination was still unclear. After he had flung the second butt from the window, he spoke to her.

        "Did you like it? Did it feel good for him to touch you? Was it fun to be a slut?" he bombarded her.

        "I didn't --"

        "Shut up! Shut up! You say nothing, get it? Your chance is long gone." He continued the barrage. "Why did you go and do that? I must be a terrible boyfriend. I must be a complete asshole."

        "You're not --"

        "God dammit! Shut up! How often do I have to say it?"

        "I deserve the right to say my side," she asserted.

        '"You don't deserve shit! You deserve worse than shit. You have the right to sit there with your little mouth shut and take what I give to you. Do you feel like shit yet?"

        "Yes."

        "Good! You're gonna feel worse than shit. You know why?" She knew. "Because you made me feel like total shit. You stomped all over me. You don't care about me." That brought a new surge of tears as he took a long pause. She did care for him. After all, she had betrayed his trust. She was the one who had done something wrong, not him; she was the one who had done the hurting. "Well?" he finally said.

        Her heart lightened a little, still fluttering nervously but no longer sunk into the pit of her stomach. Maybe she still had a chance. "I don't know what you think happened," she began.

        He cut her off by saying, "I know what happened. You don't need to tell me."

        She patiently tried again. "I never meant to hurt you..."

        "Then why the hell did you screw around with this guy? Huh?" he snapped.

        "Nothing happened."

        "Bullshit!"

        She tried again. "I love you, and that's what matters more than anything."

        "You have a hell of a way of showing it," he said gruffly. She detected a soft spot. She laid a hand lightly on his arm and he did not fling it off. She thought very carefully about what to say next, not wanting to ruin her progress.

        "I'm not the best person, I know," she said, "but I try. I screw up sometimes, but I don't love you any less." She slid her hand down his arm till it was over his hand and he still did not shake it off. With another lapse in conversation, she realized where they were driving; he was headed into a forest preserve, down a seldom-used two-track where they had parked once before. She felt a sudden chill at how isolated the place seemed at night.

        "You still scared?" She could not read the gleam in his eye. He stopped the car a little way off the trail, the same place they had parked before. He shut off the car and turned to her. "Come here," he said softly.

        She went into his arms, whispering "I'm sorry" into his broad chest.

        "I just don't want to lose you," he whispered back.

        "You won't," she promised.

        He kissed her and they began the process of "making up." He stopped after a few moments and reached into the glove box, extracting his sharp pocketknife. She tensed instantly, almost wincing from the moonlight through which the blade sliced, wondering just what frame of mind he was in after the ordeal of that evening.

        "What are you doing?" she asked, with a tremor in her voice that betrayed her trembling insides.

        The gleam was back in his eyes. "Are you scared?" he repeated. She nodded. He brought the steel close to her skin, running the dull edge along her naked arm, around her collarbone, down her breastbone and stomach, over her other arm, finally stopping on her back. The cold metal seemed to leave a chilling trail of ice behind. He jerked the blade through the back strap of her bra and allowed it to fall.

        "Is this fun for you?" His voice betrayed only his excitement. She did not answer. "Do you think I would cut you?" She still did not respond. "Don't you trust me?" He looked her dead in the eyes. She nodded. "Then let me cut you." Her heart skipped several beats and she looked out the window into the moonlight, again not answering him. "Please." She brought her eyes back to him, focusing on her face, wondering what it hid. She looked back to the moon.

        The cold blade left a streak of heat this time as it traced her shoulder, leaving a crimson line to mark its path. His mouth absorbed the stream of blood trailing down her shoulder, ignoring the tears falling faster than her blood. He tasted her, enjoyed her . . .

Barbara E. Prater