Him
I've had the same best friend since childhood. We haven't always lived close, and we haven't always been able to stay in touch. But from day one, we were...well, I hate this word with a passion, but it's the only one that makes sense. We were soulmates.
We met in kindergarten, and from the moment she sat next to me on my bench and offered me her chocolate milk, she's looked out for me. It wasn't that stupid story where two five year olds think they're dating. We didn't see each other that way. She just seemed to sense how lonely and angry I already was, at 5 fuckin' years old, and she wanted to answer that unspoken need. She sat by me every day, until I finally thawed enough to thank her for sharing her milk every day. She smiled and told me her name was Zoe. "Chase," I mumbled back. From then on, it was simple. Chase and Zoe. Always together.
As we grew up, her commitment to take care of me grew with us. She always seemed to know exactly what was going on in my head, what I needed or wanted, and without fail she came through for me. I once overheard my mother tell a friend that of her three kids, I was the lowest-maintenance one for her to raise. My older brother and sister were twins, and they were social stars. Loud, competitive, playful, energetic enough to get our dad's attention and to keep mom busy. Me, I kept to myself when I was home. Even as a child. I stayed in my room, drawing and reading and avoiding the chaos. No one seemed to mind, though, because Zoe came over every afternoon after she finished her homework, so clearly I wasn't some crazy child sociopath. I had a friend.
Middle school fucked things up for a while, of course, because it was time for puberty and burgeoning adolescence and confusion. Someone started the rumor that I was gay--who the fuck starts telling people that a 12 year old is gay??--because I wasn't "going out" with anyone, and my only friend was a girl I wasn't "dating." Zoe didn't put up with it. I don't know how, but she ended that rumor fast. And I was never teased for letting her fight my battle, so I imagine she did something really painful to the kid. Didn't matter to me.
I won't pretend that puberty didn't affect the two of us. I experienced my first wet dream just before I turned 13, when I woke up gasping and hard as a rock, Zoe's face in my mind. I didn't understand it. I finally found the courage to talk to my brother, who was less of a stranger to me than my father was. He was 16 now, so I knew he'd have some advice. I didn't tell him it was Zoe. I just told him about what happened. He patted my head and told me it was normal, good that it was a girl, and when I got a bit older, I should think about asking her out if I still found her attractive. The idea repulsed me. I was glad that it was okay to think about her sexually, but I didn't want to pursue it. If Zoe ever wondered about my sexual interests, she didn't ask.
But God, did she turn out gorgeous. By the time we started high school together, puberty had done its job. She reached a nice 5'4, with thick strawberry blonde hair, big green eyes, full red lips, and a body that stopped the guys in their tracks. She was athletic, liking to take a quick job every evening with the border collie mutt her family owned. Big tits--not huge, but nice and big, able to hold their own against the queen bitches in school. Long legs that looked great in a mini-skirt as she bounced out of her house to my brother's car for a ride to school. I saw the way his eyes glided over her appreciatively. He was 18 when we started high school, so I wasn't too worried that he'd go for her. But it did give me pause. It made me stop and contemplate how hot my best friend was.
The big problem was, try though I did to curb it, I was developing what were...well...sadistic tendencies. I felt constant anger, a bubbling frustration that made me want to punch something. Trying to get a grip, I asked my dad for a punching bag one year--the first time I think I ever impressed him. He hung one on our back patio. Most afternoons found me out there, stripped to gym shorts and sneakers, my hands wrapped and my body gleaming with sweat as I pounded all this inexplicable, coursing rage into the black and purple surface of the bag. Once I saw my mom watching from the kitchen, her face etched with worry. I think she assumed I was being bullied, or was conflicted about my sexuality, or something. But there was no real justification. I just got angrier throughout the day, until it was all I could do not to scream and smash something before I stripped down and got outside.
Zoe saw this side of me emerge several times. We'd be doing homework in my room, and I'd suddenly grab one of my many stress balls and hurl them across the room. I broke the desk lamp once. She'd just arch an eyebrow, silently returning the balls to me. Another time, as we argued some trivial point about a movie we'd seen, I abruptly spun and punched my mirror, shattering it. No one else was home, thank God. Zoe didn't even seem afraid. She just took my non-injured hand and led me to the bathroom, washing and bandaging my hand. When my mom came home, I hadn't even opened my mouth before Zoe excitedly launched into a story about how she'd been trying to juggle my stress balls, and one had knocked the mirror down, and as I'd tried to catch it, it broke on the desk and cut me. I don't know why she lied, or why she wasn't afraid of the rage she could see in me. She just wasn't.
As we neared the end of high school, it got worse. I started running with her, because the punching bag wasn't enough anymore. I'd wrestle with my brother when he visited home, and I could tell that my strength surprised him.
One night when we were 17, Zoe called me, crying. She was at a party. Someone had tried to rape her, and now she was cornered in a bathroom, with her attacker in the next room. I didn't hesitate, driving straight over and going upstairs, ignoring the partyers who jeered and asked what "the freak" was doing there. I found him, leaning against the bathroom door and whispering about the things he planned to do to her. I could still hear her crying, and between sobs, I could hear her mumbling my name.
The anger was so real, so powerful, that I'm still surprised I didn't black out. I grabbed him, flinging him to the floor and laying into him. Punching and kicking every inch I could. He started yelping and squealing, begging me to stop. Between hits, I managed to hiss out that this was what would happen to anyone who went after Zoe Lawrence. He was crying and moaning that he understood, he'd never touch her again.
Suddenly Zoe was there, grabbing at my arm. When I glanced at her, she whispered, "Let him go, Chase. He knows now."
I didn't want to obey her. But she said it so calmly; she wasn't scared of me, she wasn't begging for his life or anything. Just telling me to let go. So I did. I stood, and he scrambled away. I could hear people yelling out, but he didn't answer them. Someone peered around the door, staring at my bloody knuckles. Then they jerked away, and I could hear the story spreading: "Shit, that Daniels kid bit the crap out of someone! What, is he dating Lawrence? You know, Zoe...?"
I felt her hand slide into mine. When I met her gaze, she swallowed hard and slumped against me. "You're gonna need to work on your anger," she said quietly, and I laughed at that. She was right.
When we graduated, I made a tough decision. I joined the army. My parents were scared of me, and I knew it. My sister was living several states away, attending a fashion institute. My brother was studying medicine. I didn't know what I liked doing, and I didn't know what to try. Zoe was taking time off to do Peace Corps work, and as desperately as I wanted to stay with her, I knew I couldn't stand that. So, I enlisted.
The day I flew out was the last time I saw her for seven years. She came to the airport with us. My parents hugged me quickly, and left before my flight did. It was Zoe who walked to the gate with me. I held her, and she tearfully begged me to write. I promised I would, and I meant it.
And then, to my shock, she pushed herself up to meet my lanky 6'2, and pressed her lips to mine. I had never kissed anyone, and I'd never wanted to. I didn't lie to myself about my attraction to Zoe, because, well, who wouldn't fucking want her. But it was never enough to want to change our friendship. I just loved her every day, and jerked off thinking about her laughter and her dancing and her smirk and everything about her, every night.
But then she kissed me. It wasn't a quick peck, and it wasn't just a friendly, albeit weird, goodbye. It was passionate; when I didn't pull away, she pressed closer, and when my lips parted, her tongue slid into my mouth, making my blood rush south. Her tongue teased mine, searching my mouth, until I finally raised my head, breathless. Our eyes met. "Zoe, what--?"
"No," she said softly, placing one soft fingertip over my lips. "Don't ruin that. Go, write me every week, and swear you'll come back alive. Okay?"
I blinked, and nodded. "I swear. Of course I'll come back."
She smiled sadly. "Good. Then...I'll see you after." Stepping back, she kept smiling, watching as I slowly got my bags and boarded, gazing at her curiously. I couldn't have described to her the desires I felt right then. The longing to say fuck everything and stay, to pin her to the terminal floor and experience every fantasy I'd ever had about her. I left with an ache in my chest, wanting to stay.
It's hard to describe the next five years. War is ugly, and serving is impossible to really describe. I was either in purgatory or hell for months at a time. But I found a way to use my anger and loneliness, and I survived. I wrote to Zoe until she stopped replying, and silence fell for a long while. Eventually I got a postcard from London, saying she was sorry for the gap, she missed me, and she loved me. Then nothing again. I never answered the postcard.
When I finished my tour, I didn't move home. I wasn't even sure if Zoe was there still, and I didn't want to live with my parents. I got my own place, and got a job at an investment company. I molded myself to fit in the business world. I didn't want to have to think anymore. Slowly my life became about sealing deals, arranging meetings, running the finances, and setting up long-term contracts with clients. I quickly found my niche in this environment; it was cold, factual, and controlled. No emotions, no closeness. I talked, I signed papers, I shook hands. I earned respect. I looked damn good in a suit.
And at night...well, I didn't mind the loneliness, but I got sick of the silence. Silence filled itself with flashback sound clips. Guns firing, men yelling and screaming, bones being cut, helicopters lifting dying men out of the warzone. Anger at my memories embittered me, and one night, I wandered into a club that catered to a very specific clientele.
BDSM had preoccupied my thoughts for years. The sadism I'd felt in my youth never left me, and now it was a fire in my belly, a desire to hurt someone. But to make it pleasurable. I didn't want to be a serial killer. I wanted to dominated someone. To dominate the fuck out of them, quite literally.
That club started it for me. I sat down in my pressed black suit, gazing around stoically, sipping a whisky, and very soon, I was approached. A woman in a short purple cocktail dress sidled up to me, waiting until I looked at her to come close enough to speak. She stayed silent though, and I felt a smirk settle on my face as I understood her role. "You may sit."
Gratefully she sank into the chair beside me, watching me hungrily. I liked this already. My fingers traced patterns on the black leather of the chair I sat in. "What are you looking for?"
