Status: So she?
Black Boxes
Box One: Getting a taste of your own medicine
No matter how much he rubs himself raw – he can’t achieve the feeling of wanted cleanness. It seems to be a dirt that runs deeper than just the skin. A sticky disgusting feeling he can’t get out no matter what he does, but suddenly – because this did come about suddenly, this need to be unsoiled – he realizes that this dirt can’t be cleaned from his skin. It’s been there too long, already soaked into his bones and apart of him deeper than his oddest blood cell.
He’s never once felt this dirty – this disgusted with himself, with his job because damn it! It’s his body and he’ll do whatever the fuck he wants with it, but feelings like those – the uncaring and uninvolved, evaporate when the damage he does hits so close to home. Striking him like it must’ve hit others when they faced similar moments in time – moments caused by him no less; and now that those painful, sad, betrayed feelings finally hit: he’s sitting in scolding hot water, rubbing himself red, just realizing how much it fucking hurts to be the one that’s cheated on. To be the odd man out in his own twisted love, to be the one who has to sit back and just accept things because saying “how could you?!” isn’t fair when he himself does shit like that every night – fucking whoever’s willing to pay.
Though, maybe it just hurts so much because she’s so fucking quiet! Mousy and understanding and cooks and cleans and fucking sews. Women that sew – at least in his mind – don’t cheat; no matter what, they just keep sewing and waiting with that thread and needle in hand until it’s time to make dinner or clean a smudged window. She should’ve been cleaning windows not spreading her fucking legs! Should’ve been waiting at home for him, a big dumb smile on her face, and soft whispered words of what she’d made for dinner that night as she ushered him into the house – not stumbling home drink an hour before midnight reeking . Smelling like booze, aftershave, and mint – smells he hadn’t been the one to leave on her. Just like that huge red bite mark staining the column of that stupidly long pale neck that he would’ve, in fonder times, told the ugly whore it made her seem like some kind of beautiful pale swan.
Having enough of his own shitty thoughts, he kinda just sinks – letting the water engulf him, sinking lower and lower, hoping with everything he has that water damage isn’t just for walls and shitty inanimate objects. That if he lets enough water sink into his ears, hopefully flooding to his brain, that water damage will hit whatever part of his front or back lobes that maintain memories and wash out the ones of that night – of her drunk sway, and the way she reeked of someone else.
He’s never once felt this dirty – this disgusted with himself, with his job because damn it! It’s his body and he’ll do whatever the fuck he wants with it, but feelings like those – the uncaring and uninvolved, evaporate when the damage he does hits so close to home. Striking him like it must’ve hit others when they faced similar moments in time – moments caused by him no less; and now that those painful, sad, betrayed feelings finally hit: he’s sitting in scolding hot water, rubbing himself red, just realizing how much it fucking hurts to be the one that’s cheated on. To be the odd man out in his own twisted love, to be the one who has to sit back and just accept things because saying “how could you?!” isn’t fair when he himself does shit like that every night – fucking whoever’s willing to pay.
Though, maybe it just hurts so much because she’s so fucking quiet! Mousy and understanding and cooks and cleans and fucking sews. Women that sew – at least in his mind – don’t cheat; no matter what, they just keep sewing and waiting with that thread and needle in hand until it’s time to make dinner or clean a smudged window. She should’ve been cleaning windows not spreading her fucking legs! Should’ve been waiting at home for him, a big dumb smile on her face, and soft whispered words of what she’d made for dinner that night as she ushered him into the house – not stumbling home drink an hour before midnight reeking . Smelling like booze, aftershave, and mint – smells he hadn’t been the one to leave on her. Just like that huge red bite mark staining the column of that stupidly long pale neck that he would’ve, in fonder times, told the ugly whore it made her seem like some kind of beautiful pale swan.
Having enough of his own shitty thoughts, he kinda just sinks – letting the water engulf him, sinking lower and lower, hoping with everything he has that water damage isn’t just for walls and shitty inanimate objects. That if he lets enough water sink into his ears, hopefully flooding to his brain, that water damage will hit whatever part of his front or back lobes that maintain memories and wash out the ones of that night – of her drunk sway, and the way she reeked of someone else.
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It's been awhile since I posted anything here, so I guess this is me getting back into the groove of things - though I doubt any chapter I post of this will get any longer.