Raz
Bluelighter
She lies naked on the bed, watching smoke rings dissipate lazily before they become invisible toxins that will contaminate everything in this room.
Glancing over at the blonde boy sleeping on her left, memories that haven't happened yet bubble and form from the quicksilver sliding through her cortex; the conversation they will have later. Not right away, maybe not for some time, but it will grow from the seed that has been germinated here today.
She will tell him about the night she spent screaming obscenities in the rain at the one who was meant to stand by her forever. She will concentrate not on what was actually said then, because in truth she doesn't really remember the words. She remembers the quiet and the disquiet of the following few days, and she remembers being told that something came out in her then, something ugly and frightening and unguessed at. Something that drove him away, and took something of her with it.
She will tell him about the constant fucking afterwards, with anyone who would have her. Anywhere she could have it. Strange beds. Parks. Nightclub toilets, amphetamine-clenched teeth grinding with her feet struggling to find purchase in ridiculous heels on ground soaked in beer and piss. Years of fucking.
She will avoid discussing the years which follow...a time of emotional and physical celibacy, a time of self-delusional "growth" and "personal development" which served only to destroy her hard-earned defences against Ever Being Fucked Over Again. Those defences weren't easy to rebuild.
But he doesn't need to know that about her.
She will tell him about the last man who touched her with any kind of tenderness, and how she left him standing alone and stunned in foot traffic outside the train station. She will be sure to focus on the coldness and the efficiency with which she despatched that last one; these are things he needs to know about her.
She stubs out her cigarette in the ashtray and sidles up alongside the blonde boy beside her. More asleep than awake, he snuggles into her instinctively and nuzzles into her breast. Her chin rests on his unruly thatch of golden hair, and she can't see the smile on his lips but she can feel it against her skin.
He doesn't need to know any of this yet. She will allow him the illusion of comfort that she once clung to herself. For fucking her, he deserves that much. She watches the last of the cigarette smoke turn into dangerous air, contaminating everything around it. The seed has been sown.
It's the conversation they will have later.
Glancing over at the blonde boy sleeping on her left, memories that haven't happened yet bubble and form from the quicksilver sliding through her cortex; the conversation they will have later. Not right away, maybe not for some time, but it will grow from the seed that has been germinated here today.
She will tell him about the night she spent screaming obscenities in the rain at the one who was meant to stand by her forever. She will concentrate not on what was actually said then, because in truth she doesn't really remember the words. She remembers the quiet and the disquiet of the following few days, and she remembers being told that something came out in her then, something ugly and frightening and unguessed at. Something that drove him away, and took something of her with it.
She will tell him about the constant fucking afterwards, with anyone who would have her. Anywhere she could have it. Strange beds. Parks. Nightclub toilets, amphetamine-clenched teeth grinding with her feet struggling to find purchase in ridiculous heels on ground soaked in beer and piss. Years of fucking.
She will avoid discussing the years which follow...a time of emotional and physical celibacy, a time of self-delusional "growth" and "personal development" which served only to destroy her hard-earned defences against Ever Being Fucked Over Again. Those defences weren't easy to rebuild.
But he doesn't need to know that about her.
She will tell him about the last man who touched her with any kind of tenderness, and how she left him standing alone and stunned in foot traffic outside the train station. She will be sure to focus on the coldness and the efficiency with which she despatched that last one; these are things he needs to know about her.
She stubs out her cigarette in the ashtray and sidles up alongside the blonde boy beside her. More asleep than awake, he snuggles into her instinctively and nuzzles into her breast. Her chin rests on his unruly thatch of golden hair, and she can't see the smile on his lips but she can feel it against her skin.
He doesn't need to know any of this yet. She will allow him the illusion of comfort that she once clung to herself. For fucking her, he deserves that much. She watches the last of the cigarette smoke turn into dangerous air, contaminating everything around it. The seed has been sown.
It's the conversation they will have later.
You've captured something pretty awesome in this piece, I'll talk your ear off about it next time I see you.