Status: oneshot. completed.
All That Matters To Me
wishes, women
Even in a safe distance I can smell the musty odour of her perfume, dulling my senses and bringing me back to that moment when I’m leaning over her hips, my teeth eager on the zipper of her jeans. I focus on the edges of her face, brushing off the memory; I’m not even sure she’s the woman I was remembering. I hold my breath. “Stop coming here.”
Her eyes are soft, like a baby doll’s, but it only makes me want to poke them out just to see if they’re real. She settles her palm over her chest, looking like she’ll bleed. “But I thought we’re more than this.”
“Leave,” I order, fighting her persistence.
“But I—”
“You’re a whore.” The words shot right through her, and I know this will haunt me in my sleep. “That’s all you ever were to me.”
“You piece of shit.” And then she disappears. The door is deafening as it bolts into place, and once again I’m left to my own devices, the empty kitchen and the battered couch, the low volume of the television, the mechanical heartbeat of the clock on my pallid walls. This time I want nothing more than a bullet in my head.
The loft seems different now. It’s grown into something more than the lonely place I’ve been accustomed to. A cage of a worthless man’s memories, of the thoughts rotting in his brain. I begin to feel suffocated, and next thing I know I’m lying on the floor, eyes on the ceiling with a paranoia that stems from an imagination in my childhood, that in any minute somebody will come and darken my vision, and they’ll just take me away. Only this time, I’m more than willing for that to happen. Get me out of here.
I close my eyes, smelling the perfume that isn’t there. I wonder what she's doing right now. I wonder if she ever thinks of me. Maybe she does, maybe she doesn’t.
At least I’ll never know.
Her eyes are soft, like a baby doll’s, but it only makes me want to poke them out just to see if they’re real. She settles her palm over her chest, looking like she’ll bleed. “But I thought we’re more than this.”
“Leave,” I order, fighting her persistence.
“But I—”
“You’re a whore.” The words shot right through her, and I know this will haunt me in my sleep. “That’s all you ever were to me.”
“You piece of shit.” And then she disappears. The door is deafening as it bolts into place, and once again I’m left to my own devices, the empty kitchen and the battered couch, the low volume of the television, the mechanical heartbeat of the clock on my pallid walls. This time I want nothing more than a bullet in my head.
The loft seems different now. It’s grown into something more than the lonely place I’ve been accustomed to. A cage of a worthless man’s memories, of the thoughts rotting in his brain. I begin to feel suffocated, and next thing I know I’m lying on the floor, eyes on the ceiling with a paranoia that stems from an imagination in my childhood, that in any minute somebody will come and darken my vision, and they’ll just take me away. Only this time, I’m more than willing for that to happen. Get me out of here.
I close my eyes, smelling the perfume that isn’t there. I wonder what she's doing right now. I wonder if she ever thinks of me. Maybe she does, maybe she doesn’t.
At least I’ll never know.
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