Afflicted
By J.M. Snyder
The first time I saw him naked, I noticed the cuts.
Red, angry scrapes across the pouch of his lower belly, like scratches or claw-marks. “What’s this?” I asked, running a finger over one bumpy scab.
He sucked in his gut to pull out of reach. “Nothing.” His voice turned sullen, pouting, and the erection that jutted from his thick crop of black curls seemed to wilt a little. “I thought we were going to—”
“Did you do this?” I asked, interrupting him. The cuts bothered me; they spoke of a pain I didn’t know how to deal with, and that scared me. He scared me. I thought I’d known him.
When he didn’t reply, I looked up from the cuts and saw the answer in his eyes. Sad, dark eyes, downcast, like the sky before a storm. He couldn’t seem to meet my gaze, as if the cut
