Manic
A Nightmare story.
Brendon stared, hard, at her. She was . . . Oh, what was that word her mother had used? Manic. She was manic. Her feet were bouncing, her hands were dancing on her legs. Her smile was so big, something that should have made him happy, but the fact that it was owed to mania and a new medication just angered him. This wasn’t his Dru.
She was . . . what was that word? Hypersexual. A side effect of the mania which was a side effect of the medication. She was slinking across the couch toward him, eyes sparking with dark sexuality. Her hands were in his hair, and her lips were pressed hard against his mouth. He didn’t want to kiss back, didn’t want to feel her body under his, not when it was the mania. Not when she wasn’t his Dru.
“Brenny, Brenny.” She was whispering against his cheek, her lips tickling his skin. “What’s wrong, Brenny?”
He couldn’t say it without making the mania crash and crack. Pieces of her elation all over the living room floor, waiting to cut their feet and laugh at the blood. She would burst into tears, start screaming in that terrible voice, lock herself in the bathroom and cut her arm to shreds. It was better to let the mania run its course and make an emergency appointment with the doctor the next morning. Switch the medication and hold his breath in fearful anticipation of the possibly brewing plethora of side effects.
He didn’t want to fuck her, but he did, feeling her body move against his, her skin slicked with sweat, her eyes over-bright with the medicated joy, her voice high and breathy when she came, her arms tight around him, his name spilling forth from bruised lips.
Afterward she was exhausted, much more so than normal. She was practically asleep on the couch, still completely nude, her hair damp and sticking to her forehead. He picked her up all too easily, carrying her to their room and lying her down on the bed, covering her with the blue quilt. Too light, too happy, too horny, too tired.
He’d rather she stay off the medication entirely and he’d take care of her depression and mood swings. At least he’d be taking care of his Dru. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about side effects. He’d know what to watch for, what to look for. It wouldn’t change depending on what medication the doctor decided to make her a guinea pig for this week.
But she insisted on the medication, on the doctor’s visits, on the therapy. She told him it would make his life easier, that putting up with a non-medicated Dru wasn’t anything anyone wanted to do, that he’d come home and find her dead on the couch with an empty Tylenol bottle in her hand. He couldn’t convince her otherwise, just ended up making her cry and lock herself in the bathroom, coming out fifteen minutes later to have him wash and bandage her arm.
Manic. Hypersexual. Inconsolable sobs. Fatigue beyond the realm of normal.
This was the Dru his Dru had chosen to hazard in hopes of the right combination of pills. He sighed and reached for the phone, opening his wallet to pull out her doctor’s card. Five minutes on hold, fifteen minutes of arguing with the secretary, three words scribbled on the calendar when it was all done.
Appointment at 3.
He put the pen down and ran through the hallway, footsteps muffled by the carpet. The sobs were coming from the bathroom.
She was . . . what was that word? Hypersexual. A side effect of the mania which was a side effect of the medication. She was slinking across the couch toward him, eyes sparking with dark sexuality. Her hands were in his hair, and her lips were pressed hard against his mouth. He didn’t want to kiss back, didn’t want to feel her body under his, not when it was the mania. Not when she wasn’t his Dru.
“Brenny, Brenny.” She was whispering against his cheek, her lips tickling his skin. “What’s wrong, Brenny?”
He couldn’t say it without making the mania crash and crack. Pieces of her elation all over the living room floor, waiting to cut their feet and laugh at the blood. She would burst into tears, start screaming in that terrible voice, lock herself in the bathroom and cut her arm to shreds. It was better to let the mania run its course and make an emergency appointment with the doctor the next morning. Switch the medication and hold his breath in fearful anticipation of the possibly brewing plethora of side effects.
He didn’t want to fuck her, but he did, feeling her body move against his, her skin slicked with sweat, her eyes over-bright with the medicated joy, her voice high and breathy when she came, her arms tight around him, his name spilling forth from bruised lips.
Afterward she was exhausted, much more so than normal. She was practically asleep on the couch, still completely nude, her hair damp and sticking to her forehead. He picked her up all too easily, carrying her to their room and lying her down on the bed, covering her with the blue quilt. Too light, too happy, too horny, too tired.
He’d rather she stay off the medication entirely and he’d take care of her depression and mood swings. At least he’d be taking care of his Dru. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about side effects. He’d know what to watch for, what to look for. It wouldn’t change depending on what medication the doctor decided to make her a guinea pig for this week.
But she insisted on the medication, on the doctor’s visits, on the therapy. She told him it would make his life easier, that putting up with a non-medicated Dru wasn’t anything anyone wanted to do, that he’d come home and find her dead on the couch with an empty Tylenol bottle in her hand. He couldn’t convince her otherwise, just ended up making her cry and lock herself in the bathroom, coming out fifteen minutes later to have him wash and bandage her arm.
Manic. Hypersexual. Inconsolable sobs. Fatigue beyond the realm of normal.
This was the Dru his Dru had chosen to hazard in hopes of the right combination of pills. He sighed and reached for the phone, opening his wallet to pull out her doctor’s card. Five minutes on hold, fifteen minutes of arguing with the secretary, three words scribbled on the calendar when it was all done.
Appointment at 3.
He put the pen down and ran through the hallway, footsteps muffled by the carpet. The sobs were coming from the bathroom.