Addiction.
1/1.
She was his addiction. Like heroin, she made him sick but he needed her more and more with each passing day.
She was porcelain perfect skin, white as a doll. She was jutting ribs, patiently waiting to burst through that white, parchment skin. She was child arms and legs, protruding shoulder blades, a waist so small he could circle it with one arm. Her hands were birds, constantly fluttering but he could of snapped the twin bones with one movement.
She was sick. She was dying and he knew it.
When they kissed, she tasted like airplane glue, like starvation. When he ran his hands over her body, he could feel every bone pressing back against him, begging to be torn out. Her bird fingers wanted to be crushed.
Food was her enemy and she was his drug. If she managed to feed herself a cracker with her trembling fingers, they were soon clawing at the back of her throat, bringing it back up. If he didn't pay enough attention to her, she would do it out of boredom, bringing up nothing but blood and strings of bile. With every day that went by, she got sickersicker, betterbetter.
He was addicted, just as much as she was. If she left him for even one day, he would sweat and shiver, be both hot and cold at the same time. He would throw up and tremble and cry. He'd fall asleep in his vomit and when he woke up, she'd always be there, always thinner than she'd been.
It took her months to finally die but on the day it happened, he knew beforehand that it was time. Her breath was vile and below her ribs, her stomach had gone from shrunken to non-existent. Her breasts were gone completely, leaving only skin behind. Her starving body had devoured them, used the fat cells to give it one more day of survival. She disgusted him but when she kissed him, lips the only part of her body that were still plump, he lost control.
When they had sex, she just laid there. Laid there with her arms behind her head, staring up at him. She didn't make a sound either. Just fucking stared at him with sunken, empty eyes.
Every time his hips collided with hers, he waited for the crack that would signal her pelvis snapping. When she finally raised a hand, brushing her fingers over his lips, he wanted to bite them, break them as easily as a bird's. He wanted to reach down and rip one of her ribs from her chest and shove it down her throat. He wanted to see if she'd eat her fucking bones.
They slept on his sagging mattress, his arm encircling her non-existent hips. When he woke up, she was gone. Her body was warm; well, as warm as she had been. Her eyes were shut but her mouth gaped open, making her look like a mummy.
She was coldcoldcold and as he climbed out of bed, staring down at her sprawled body, he felt nothing. She was deaddeadead, like a needle thrown onto the floor of an alley, like a bottle of beer hidden in the shadows.
She was only the remnant of an addiction that he no longer had.
She was porcelain perfect skin, white as a doll. She was jutting ribs, patiently waiting to burst through that white, parchment skin. She was child arms and legs, protruding shoulder blades, a waist so small he could circle it with one arm. Her hands were birds, constantly fluttering but he could of snapped the twin bones with one movement.
She was sick. She was dying and he knew it.
When they kissed, she tasted like airplane glue, like starvation. When he ran his hands over her body, he could feel every bone pressing back against him, begging to be torn out. Her bird fingers wanted to be crushed.
Food was her enemy and she was his drug. If she managed to feed herself a cracker with her trembling fingers, they were soon clawing at the back of her throat, bringing it back up. If he didn't pay enough attention to her, she would do it out of boredom, bringing up nothing but blood and strings of bile. With every day that went by, she got sickersicker, betterbetter.
He was addicted, just as much as she was. If she left him for even one day, he would sweat and shiver, be both hot and cold at the same time. He would throw up and tremble and cry. He'd fall asleep in his vomit and when he woke up, she'd always be there, always thinner than she'd been.
It took her months to finally die but on the day it happened, he knew beforehand that it was time. Her breath was vile and below her ribs, her stomach had gone from shrunken to non-existent. Her breasts were gone completely, leaving only skin behind. Her starving body had devoured them, used the fat cells to give it one more day of survival. She disgusted him but when she kissed him, lips the only part of her body that were still plump, he lost control.
When they had sex, she just laid there. Laid there with her arms behind her head, staring up at him. She didn't make a sound either. Just fucking stared at him with sunken, empty eyes.
Every time his hips collided with hers, he waited for the crack that would signal her pelvis snapping. When she finally raised a hand, brushing her fingers over his lips, he wanted to bite them, break them as easily as a bird's. He wanted to reach down and rip one of her ribs from her chest and shove it down her throat. He wanted to see if she'd eat her fucking bones.
They slept on his sagging mattress, his arm encircling her non-existent hips. When he woke up, she was gone. Her body was warm; well, as warm as she had been. Her eyes were shut but her mouth gaped open, making her look like a mummy.
She was coldcoldcold and as he climbed out of bed, staring down at her sprawled body, he felt nothing. She was deaddeadead, like a needle thrown onto the floor of an alley, like a bottle of beer hidden in the shadows.
She was only the remnant of an addiction that he no longer had.
♠ ♠ ♠
So this was definitely me trying to use imagery and description. The story itself... eh. Maybe not so good. But I liked writing it.xo.