A/N: I don't usually like to put notes before a fic, but I feel this one needs it. If you don't care about trigger warnings, just skip this from here on and start reading.

This story has a lot of sexual themes in place, however, I have taken very careful measures to remain within the TOS on this one.

That being said, this story might make you uncomfortable-as it has made some others as well. There is no rape/non-con/dubcon or any of the like in this, however it does touch on emotional self destruction and other heavy themes involving hypersexuality as a crippling addiction. If you feel too uncomfortable to read beyond a certain point, please step away!

Wounds
Part One

I watch, just outside this door, knowing it's wrong. It's wrong morally and wrong in my heart too—for a multitude of different reasons. This is not something I find attractive; I'm certainly not watching this because it arouses me. Actually, it's pulling at the tears until they're sliding down my cheeks and curling up under my chin—clinging to me like I'm still clinging to the chaste, ignorant thoughts I had before.

The door is cracked just a bit and I've only come to talk to this man, but things have since changed. Every part of me is tingling to step in and shatter the scene unfolding, but I just don't have the right to do that. This man hates me. He hates the curse on my face, my bleached 'old-man' hair that makes me stand out like a freak in a crowd, and probably my smile is what he hates most of all. This man loathes my presence in every way, even if I don't feel the same for him.

But I wonder, as I watch his black hair splaying across the mattress and spilling off the side; who does he hate more: me or himself?

I cover my mouth so I can't make noise, because it's hard to listen to the angry growls and the reverberating sound of an open palm colliding with his fair face. Worst of all, he doesn't fight back. He isn't even protesting. He takes it while I watch and I don't understand why.

It hurts my heart in strange aching ways that I can't explain and I have no right to feel this way. I'm not chaste either, but I would have never expected this. One proud person that I thought was untouchable; was giving his body to be used like a cheap whore to a complete stranger.

He makes a low moan and I slack against the wall—I just can't watch this anymore. I can't watch his self loathing, in fear of what I might actually do if I continue. I fear the desire to protect him—because it's strong—even though he needs no protection and he may hurt me if I try.

So I slide down the wall and wait. Somewhere in this, I've lost the ability to move and I know I should; because if he catches me, he's going to kill me for daring to make this a spectacle. It's very obvious that he's hiding this thing he's doing—judging by the time of night it is. I would too in his position, if I was degrading myself to this level.

Another body leaves the room and I'm not even acknowledged. The man who's used the person, that I might have accidentally started to care for, is apathetic. He has no concerns for the person he just left and he doesn't care if I've seen. He is just as apathetic as the man who leans out that door just after.

"If you wanted to watch, you sick fuck, you could have had the decency to come in and close the door instead of displaying my privacy." His voice is cold and cutting, accusing and not wrong about it.

"I didn't want to watch," I reply, almost bitterly; but mostly it's a numb feeling.

"Then what the fuck did you think you we're doing at my door? You have a problem."

"I just…" What did I want to say? I almost lose it at the tip of my tongue because I'm choked up here in thoughts. "I just wanted to remember what it was like. To hate myself so much that," I pause and try to focus on the present, right where we are, "…it could drive me to this sort of self destruction. Then maybe," I look at him and I'm sure he finds me utterly pathetic, "then maybe I can figure out how…to heal your wounds too."

The long moments of silence pass between my words and his reaction; and he looks at me with an expression that I don't think I'll ever truly grasp, but all I know is the drops rolling off his face are as real as my own.

To Be Continued...