CLIINICAL

Parker always cries herself to sleep after, and that chills me to the bone. I don't like seeing the consequence for her – I don't really like seeing it for me, but there, I don't really get a choice. It's not sex; we both know that. Sure, it has the same physical movements as it would be if I was having sex with her, but that's not it – sex isn't something either of us were meant for.

She's already naked when I get back to the dorm room. I blink. "Hey Mac," she greets me, voice shaky and a little slurred. I spot a bottle of vodka on the table and shrug.

When I first met her, I thought she was a party girl and a slut. I guess she was, but that might also have been my residual issues. Fuck you, Cassidy Casablancas. Then It (Parker always acts like she thinks of it in capital letters; it rubbed off) happened and Parker changed. She was victim of the year, not me.

Except I fucking was because I was still a lunatic. Maybe this psychosis is an STD Cassidy (Beaver, I always called him Beaver) gave me, but he was impotent the one time he bothered trying (more likely than not he wasn't for someone else, but that's not the point) so that's not technically possible. I don't know when the not-sex started, I'm not sure I care. Parker and I both need something, anything to keep us alive.

She's shivering as I reach for her left breast, running my thumb over her nipple. I'm quiet, like I always am; she pulls away and leads me back to the couch. I take a swig of her vodka, welcoming the burn of it in my throat. She watches as the bottle pours over my lips, my tongue; I swallow and the liquid flows down my esophagus.

I lay her down of the couch then, and she's absolutely still. Not that I care. I quickly pull off my shirt and reveal the bra underneath (white and plain, functional), reaching again for her body. I spread her arms across the couch, and vaguely think of Jesus on the cross. I shake the thought away. There is no salvation, not for us.

Parker starts to move again (I'm relieved that she's not reenacting her drugging) and unfastens my bra. Tentatively, she touches the uncovered breast. I moan, but there's no lust in it; it is an obligatory part of my role. She's lying back again, vulnerable and her bottom lip quivering – I feel a little guilty, for taking advantage of a rape victim. I bury that feeling, because after all, haven't I tried if before? Even if I didn't know that was it, even if it didn't work ("It's just... with Dick there...")?

At least I can admit it now.

I lean down and stroke my tongue over her stomach, and she quivers – whether with pleasure, fear or both I don't know. Something dark settles in my stomach as I travel further down, gently licking at her clitoris. She gasps, and finally, she seems alive again.

I smile and slowly slide two fingers into her vagina. She throws her head back as I start to move them slightly, trying to work this all comfortably.

She grips my hair hard (if I did that to her the wig would just come off) and thrusts upward. "Harder," she demands. I obey, moving faster. She moans, and I shudder. This isn't how it should be – I shouldn't have lost by virginity to my sexually abused room mate who is just as demented as I am. I almost lost it to my sexually abused boyfriend who made me as demented as I am, but what can you do. It's probably a good thing there wasn't enough blood flow to his penis; I wouldn't want him lying about what 'precious gift' he gave me (Veronica's never said, but comparing the ways she looks when I bring him up, with how Parker looks when It comes up... I figured it out).

Parker is quaking now; writhing, I'd call it if this was sex. I work quicker on her vagina, and she's close. Then she orgasms and ejaculates, I pull back at the salty taste of her come.

She looks at me with wide, child-like eyes; and I just hate her for making herself so vulnerable to me. Doesn't she see how I'm hurting her, taking advantage, that I'm sick and untrustworthy (just like Cassidy)?

I guess it's easier for her to believe in me. To believe I'm doing anything but stopping her getting better (when do I get better, then?).

"Do you want me to-"

"No," I cut her off, avoiding her eyes. They're wide and sad, and I remember eyes like that – she looks infantile; a lost little girl making me think of a lost little boy. I am nauseous.

"Are you sure?" she offers herself on a silver platter, so incapable of believing she's worth more than that. She probably is, somewhere deep down, but I really don't want her to be. I want her as fucked up as I am.

"I'm sure," I tell her and she looks offended. Anger twists in my head; does she want me to use her? Unthinking, I rip the wig off her head. She gasps and wrenches her eyes shut.

We sit in silence for a few seconds, our demons eating each others. I speak, because she doesn't look like she can: "Good luck getting laid."

So I leave her, crying, naked and alone in a (hotel) dorm room.