1Typical Things Are Not That Typical
I sat in the back of the classroom. A face no one recognized. A face no one wanted to recognize. I was an outcast. A ghost. Just another nameless face. My porcelain skin and dark features made others wary of my presence...when they actually acknowledged it. But I was fine with that. In fact, that's what I hoped for when arriving to this new school.
I left my old school for the lack of health safety it provided. Or so was my mothers excuse. You see, I have a heart condition. One the doctors at my birth said would kill me at a young age. So my mother treated me with caution. Babied me. I was her only biological child and soon, fate would take me from her.
My mother, though a bit overbearing, was a loving and kind woman. Her flawless skin, silky smooth bronze hair, and deep-seeing green eyes gave her the look of the angel she so inadvertently portrayed. But because of her beauty, she was often subjected to the cruelty of lustful and greedy men. And she always ended brokenhearted.
Her current fiance, Derrick, first saw my mother and I in the hospital for the first of my weekly check-ups. The new hospital that was to become my second home. Since the attacks have been becoming more frequent, I would have to stay a night or two every so often. Derrick was actually the new doctor taking over my account from the hospital in the town we recently vacated. He is a very nice man with three kids so I know my mom will be in good hands when I pass.
Dr. Derrick M. Johnson's youngest is seven-year-old Joshua. He is a complete sweetheart who very much loves my mother as his own. He even accepts me for who I am. Sometimes I feel as though he can see through my foreboding exterior and read me like an opened book. He always knows how to make me laugh when I'm crying...and knows when to just let me cry.
Marta Johnson is thirteen and every much resembles the late Mrs. Monica Johnson, who passed away five years ago. Marta is a smart and respectable girl with long, auburn hair and glistening clear blue eyes. Shes heartwarming but she still holds resentment for my mother taking over where her mother left off. Understandable. I felt the same way about her taking over as my mother's daughter when I leave.
Derrick M. Johnson Jr. He wasn't exactly your typical pretty-boy jock. He was tall, yes, but he had the same flat, dark hair as his father. His arms and legs were long, gangly, and his eyes were usually focused on something others couldn't even comprehend. He had a decent amount of muscles for his size. Mostly from being forced to defend himself. Jr. was the kind who got bullied, but he was also one to stick up for himself...and others. And he did all he could to make me feel like a real woman.
I once again drifted through the halls of the high school. Passing people without a glace from them. I clutched my books to my chest, over the fabric of my shirt which hid the scars on my chest. Proof of the pain my condition causes me. And I don't mean emotional.
"Loser," a familiar voice taunted a fellow student in the hall ahead of me. "You really think you can fight us?"
It was typical for the owner of that voice never to bully alone. He always had at least two of his colleague footballers at his side in case he got himself in way over his head.
"I don't give a shit," another familiar voice spat. "I'm not gonna fuckin' roll over for you, jackass." Typical. He could never keep his words clean. Especially when in the company of Mike Thomas.
Then I heard the unmistakable sound of fist hitting flesh and then the roar of a sadistically pleased crowd. I weaved through the gathered spectators unnoticed to find my stepbrother getting to his feet, blood trailing down his busted lip.
Jr. took a swing at Mike, hitting him in his cheekbone, just below his eye. Mike barely stumbled from the impact. And then he went to take another swing at Jr., I, being the spontaneously impulsive person that I am, walked in front of it. The blow was aimed for Jr.'s chest, hitting me in the upper arm, near my shoulder, instead. The force made me slam hard into the small, yet solid, chest of my stepbrother, who wrapped his arms around me instantaneously. Only then did people notice me.
"What the-?" Mike spoke, stunned from my appearance out of nowhere.
"Hope?" Jr. asked desperately as he turned me in his arms to face him. "Hope? Are you alright?" His voice was full of concern yet laced with a bit of anger. Anger that I put myself at risk for something he figured he could handle, I suppose.
"I'm okay," I whispered to him in my typically soft tone. My throat was usually scratchy and hoarse from my screaming during attacks.
I was still in his arms, my feet barely brushing the ground. I softly placed my hand on his arm, letting him know I was good enough to be set down. And he did so, begrudgingly.
"You're so stupid, Hope! Why the hell did you do that? Do you have any idea what could have happened to you?" He went into his full-on rant, nostrils flaring, arms flapping. It was typical for him. He's watched over me since I came to this town. Almost a year and a half ago.
"I'm sorry," I said softly. Simple two words that sooth the savage beast. Jr. quieted down and looked at me with softened eyes.
His eyes trailed down to the arm I held loosely at my side. And my eyes took in the lack of people around us. Apparently the bell had rung and everyone took off to their respective classes. We were now alone. Typically the time he showed his true self. Something he only showed to me.
"How bad is it?" he asked me, motioning a nod in the direction of my injured shoulder.
"I'm fine, really," I feebly tried to assure him. He didn't buy it.
Jr. stepped to me, raising his hand to my cheek. He rubbed his thumb across my cheekbone, slowly trailing his fingertips down the side of my neck and to the center of my collar bone. He raised his other hand and began unbuttoning my shirt, exposing my camisole shirt underneath. He slid the top shirt off my shoulder to see a very profound bruise which was darkening every second that passed.
Because of my condition, my immune system and regenerative system lowered. I'm easily injured and slow at healing.
Jr. stepped even closer to me, his hand gently gripping my arm, just below the bruise. He lowered his lips to my shoulder, kissing it lightly.
"You're so stupid," he mumbled, his lips softly caressing my bruise. "You shouldn't have done that."
He let his lips trail across my skin to my collar bone. His other hand pulled down on the top of my camisole shirt to show the nail-inflicted scars and scratches over my heart. A slight moan escaped from me as he kissed my chest. Ever since he found out about my condition, he has taken it upon himself to let me know what it is to be a woman before I pass. It may just be infatuated lust, but it felt good to be his woman. To be given such pleasures.
After school let out, I was, as usual, taken back home by Jr.
"Come on," he said as we entered the typically empty house. He grabbed my hand, guiding me up to his bedroom.
Derrick would be at the hospital by this time, healing patients and making things a better place. My mother would be out looking for things to buy for me at the mall. She never let me go out much, too afraid that I may never come back. Marta would be hanging out with her friends until late, trying to spend as much time away from the house as possible. She still didn't care much for my mother. Joshua would also be with friends.
Jr. opened his bedroom door - pulling me in gently - then closed it behind me. He pressed my back to the door, keeping me in the embrace of its hard surface and his warm body. He re-opened my shirt, sliding it off me completely. Then he removed my camisole top. I stood before him, practically half naked, and as usual, I kept my eyes on my feet. It was typical for when we were alone.
He put his finger under my chin, lifting it so I would face him. His lips found mine as he kissed me more passionately then he would allow back in the empty hallway of the school.
His long arms snaked around my back, rubbing my body, caressing my ass. I felt his lust for me through his pants. He was an average size for his body but direct intercourse wasn't where he excelled in the bedroom.
Jr. slowly went to a knee, kissing down the front of my body as he did so. His cool, long fingers slowly and torturously unbuttoned my jean pants, leisurely slipping them down my legs, to my ankles. His hands gently rubbed down my thighs before he softly gripped my ankle, picking my foot up and sliding them out of my pants. He did the same to the other before repeating the process with my panties.
"You're so sweet," he mumbled as he laid his forehead against my abdomen, breathing in my scent.
He nudged his head up, rubbing the bridge of his nose against my clit. A slight tremor ran through me as he did so. He nudged against me again, like a cat wanting to be pet, and my legs jerked opened slightly. I felt his tongue run across the inside of my thigh, making me moan, making me drip down my leg. His long arm reached up and he unclipped my bra in one fluid motion. He pulled it down my arms before discarding it and reaching up to cup one of my breasts in his large hand. He kneaded my breast with one hand, rubbed my thigh with the other, and expertly teased me between my legs.
"You know what I want to hear," he murmured against me. "Say it." His tone was soft yet commanding.
"I...I want you in me," I breathed out, losing oxygen from my lungs and catching it in my throat.
His tongue flicked over my slit. "How bad?" He was so torturous.
"Real bad."
He grabbed me by my waist and hoisted me up, taking me to his bed where he gently laid me down. His hands spread my legs as his face lowered to between then. He breathed in my sent again, moaning in pleasure. I was already soaking wet, wanting him to tease me, taste me, torture me.
His tongue flicked across me again and when I moaned, he drove it in, causing me to gasp. My hips jerked at the sudden sensation. My fingers wove through his hair. One of his long fingers trailed over my clit, making circles around it, pressing on it every so often. Then his tongue and finger switched spots. He licked over my clit, nipping on it at just the right times. His fingers entered me, moving at an agonizingly slow pace. In. Out. In. Out. My breathing became erratic. My heart was pounding in my chest but just at a normal pace. He knew how to make me feel, how my body reacted to everything he did, and he kept note of it all while he pleased me. He made sure to keep my heart from having an attack but he still knew how to make me scream in pleasure.
I was never able to thank him for all he did for me. I was never able to return the pleasure. I passed away that night. In the warm arms of my stepbrother. There wasn't the typical attack that I have experienced so many times before. My heart just simply stopped. No warning. No notice. I never got to tell him how much I loved him. How much he meant to me. How much I needed him.
I lost my true love the night I lost my life. How typical is that?