Creative Writing,  My Writing

You Say My Name

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All the way back in September I bought a notebook on the off chance that I might actually fill it up. (now in July I am on notebook number 5 so I think it was a good purchase). This was the 4th thing I wrote in it and I think the reason I didn’t publish it back in September was because I deemed it a little too risqué…yeah in hindsight it is really not that bad, so I’m publishing it. I am very much still playing around with second person narrative and this is from several months ago and I think I am an improved writer since so it’s a little bit shaky. And inspired by a song.

‘Want to feel burning flames when you say my name’

You had never really liked your name, in fact deciding on a version of it that you found mildly tolerable was a challenge in itself.

It was Charlie at first. You just quite liked the way it sounded in comparison to your whole name. It rolled off the tongue and the second that you made your decision you demanded that anyone who knew you pretended your original name never existed.

That was until you turned 11. The transition from primary to secondary school was tough. You no longer really blended in with everyone else. You were suddenly incredibly tall and, even though they probably weren’t, you felt like everyone stared at you as you navigated corridors on long legs that you still weren’t assured on. Then one day you overheard someone not so quietly say that ‘Charlie was such a boy’s name’. A thought that hadn’t even occurred you before. The words, for a reason that you still can’t pinpoint, hit you like a tonne of bricks and left you desperate to change it. To not give them another reason to think you were some kind of freak.

When you got home that day you demanded that your dad and your brothers call you Lottie from that moment onwards. Same amount of syllables, still a derivative of your original name, but in your eyes much more suitable. They complied and it only took a month before the name Charlie ceased to exist.

However after time any derivative of your name kind of became non-existent, the nickname Red somehow caught on without you noticing. When you did you realised that you were fine with it, you even realised that you quite liked it, if only because it helped you embrace the flames that you called your hair.

That was until he asked you what your actual name was, because he refused to accept that Red was the name you were given at birth. Obviously he was right but it had been so long since you had uttered your real name that you had forgotten how much you disliked it.

And then he repeated it back to you and never have two syllables, the two that you hated more than anything, sounded so good.

It rolled off his tongue slowly. His voice was deep and husky around the word, and in the two seconds it took for him to repeat your name back to you, you wondered why ever thought you hated it.

He never calls you Red and surprisingly you don’t mind hearing that name. Until your dad notices he gets away with it and slips back into calling you Lottie. One day while you’re clearing up the plates from dinner you tell him to stick to Red and when he asks why he is allowed to call you Lottie you answer, very eloquently, that “he just is”. You don’t dwell on the look that crosses your dad’s face at that answer.

Of course it was only a matter of time before he found out that way back when you used to go by Charlie. It happens one day during a minor disagreement over take out with one of your brothers. The word is drawn out and whiny, a slight sign of defeat from it. But the win is tarnished by that name and your brother sees a cushion fly at him quickly and hears you whine in return that he can’t call you that. When he brings the incident up later, under the cover of your brothers arguing over what film you should watch, he shakes his head in apparent confusion that you could have such a strong opinion about 7 letters. You shrugged back at him and told him that a name is important and you had always wanted to like yours.

Charlie isn’t mentioned again for a while…

…until you end up with your back flush against a wall, legs wrapped in a vice grip around his waist and your fingers trapped in his hair being kissed with such a passion that it feels like you can’t breathe. It’s that little problem that causes you to break the kiss and he honest to God whines ‘Charlie’ into the small gap between your mouths. The whole thing confuses you because how can as to how something can sound so high pitched yet also completely guttural and wrecked. In the second after he’s said it, something you’re not even sure he is aware he did, you wait to be slightly annoyed at him. But it doesn’t come. Instead your fingers tug at his hair, his eyes flutter shut and the hand on your thigh keeping you up squeezes the flesh while the other curls into to a fist briefly against the wall. And then the only thing left to do is seal your mouth over his again.

You kiss each other until your legs are screaming from the tension of being wrapped around him for so long and you indicate to him wordlessly that you want him to put you down. The action causes you to break the kiss and as your feet hit the floor you’re confronted with his long neck and exposed collarbones. Without even thinking your lips latch onto a patch of particularly smooth looking skin and start working a mark onto it.

The whispered ‘you’re killing me Red’, using that name for the first time since he found about Lottie, causes you to suck a little harsher then you intended. His sharp inhale suggests that he doesn’t mind development but you pull back to look at his face just to make sure.

His green eyes are the darkest you’ve ever seen them, his hair a mess, his mouth slightly open and in your peripheral vision you can tell his breathing is shallow. Before you even register that you’re talking you ask him to say your name again.

When he replies ‘what Charlie or Red?’ and you can see his pink lips curling around the words and hear how ragged his breathing is. When you’re listening to his deep voice saying both words it feels like your blood is boiling just because of your name spoken in that voice. And even though your eyes are fluttering shut you can still see the mark you just embedded in his skin moving in time with his shallow breaths and it’s almost too much.

But as your hands make their way back into his thick hair and tug so you can watch his eyelids flutter again, you realise you don’t care which name you were talking about. You don’t even really know which one you meant. He said both in what seemed like no space and they both caused the same reaction in you. A feeling of overwhelming desire. So you don’t care whether it’s Charlie or Red he says again, as long as he never stops saying your name.

And he doesn’t.

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