Page 22 of Gaze

The orgasm is all consuming, after such an intense build up I have no control over my own limbs, they go stiff before failing me completely as I crash down into the bed. The scream that erupts from my very core is equal parts primal and ethereal, I think I black out from the pleasure. A stuttering soaked mess of pleasure.

I lay still. A euphoric daze transcends my body and mind, I’m floating. A weightless nothingness. Slowly I start to come round, I hear the blood pounding in my ear, the panting of my own breath sucking air deep into my lungs. I feel the sweat cooling over my body. And finally, I feel her, she shifts her weight off the bed, grabbing a fistful of sheets and cleaning her hands with them before throwing them over me.

Her boots slam into my hard wood floors, barely muffled by the rugs. I listen paralyzed as she slowly makes her way out my apartment and back into the night.

chapter

twenty-three

By the time the morning comes and the light seeps into my bedroom; I’m enjoying the dull ache across my body, the reminder of what happened last night. Especially the deep throbbing ache in my pussy. I have never been so thoroughly fucked, always taking a more active role in proceedings, I had never considered myself a pillow princess. But that is what I was last night, a puppet to be used and abused as their owner saw fit. And I loved it. It was like opening a part of me that I didn’t know was hidden behind a trap door.

Should I be ashamed? That I have no idea who was in my apartment again last night. I don't know if she will ever make herself known to me. A fleeting thought about it never happening again burns through me. I am scared that it might not happen again, far more scared of that outcome than of not knowing.

It probably says something about me. I don't care.

It’s hot again, the oppressive heat sticking my fresh clothes to my skin no sooner than I dress. I move into the living room, the sun is halfway across the sky, the shadows shallow against the buildings. My sleeping pattern really has gotten away from me, like many other things.

I shuffle to the living space, moving around carefully looking to see if anything is out of place, if there are any signs of my late-night guest. But I see nothing - it looks like I have been the only one here. But I know that can't be the case, my body aches from last night - proof that it was real.

There are many things that I find I don't care about anymore. I haven’t turned the TV on in days, preferring the still silence in my space over the oppressive tinny box of tricks. Magazines don't hold my attention, let alone the pages of a novel. The radio is another squawking box of noise and discombobulation I no longer care for. I like my silence; I like my solitude - I don't need anything other than the computer and my window to the outside world.

Lighting a cigarette as I move across the small apartment I head to the chair and turn on the computer, tapping my fingers impatiently as it slowly wakes up. My temper is short, strained on the edge of a knife. I push off from the chair to make myself a coffee while gears and motors connect me to the web. The dark brown liquid is bitter against my tongue, mixing with the violence of the nicotine of my third chain smoked cigarette.

I don't know who I am any more, what I am. I don't care much; I am happy in my little bubble. I don't know what’s going on in the world outside, and I don’t care. Losing Lisa was the last connection to the mundane. All I do know is that when I log on to try and talk to Bite, it tells me they have not been online since we last spoke a few days ago. I angrily shut down the infernal machine, no longer interested in emails or surfing the web. Anger boiling inside me as hot as the asphalt on the road outside.

I get out the chair too fast and pull my leg, it sends a white-hot flash up my body and I hiss in pain. Falling into the armchair I reposition to better support my leg and ease the throbbing pain. I light another cigarette in response and take a deep drag.

Too late I realize that I no longer know what day it is, a paper sat on the table says Tuesday - but I have no idea when I got it, it could have been yesterday or last week. I could turn the computer back on for the information, or the TV or the radio. But knowing the date didn’t feel worth the cost of having the noise blare at me.

Forgetting about the date I start my ritual with the top window. I see Mr. Songwriter. He looks happy. There is a second figure in the apartment, I don't think I have ever seen him entertain a guest before. It looks like a woman. I quickly turn on the camera and wait for agonizing seconds for it to click to life. I point it directly at the window abandoning any sense of calmness.

Through the grainy viewfinder I can see them, they are dancing.

Happy. They are both smiling. I light another cigarette, the smoke coiling around the camera.

I can't believe what I am seeing. Miss Prozac and Mr. Songwriter are dancing and laughing together. I move away from the camera and blink, making sure my eyes are not betraying me.

But pressing my eye and focusing again, she is there. Clear as day. Miss Prozac is alive. All because of me. Without me she would have died and then they would never have met. Not only did I save her life, but I brought these two souls together.

I haven’t seen her since she tried to kill herself, I had no idea if she was alive or dead. But here she was smiling, dancing and hugging with Mr. Songwriter. There are clear bandages on her arms, covering the deep red scars she’s going to support for the rest of her life. But looking at them, they look happy, frolicking and joking as they cling to each other in the heat.

There is a time when I would have wanted that, that level of frivolity with someone. But now I want for nothing, I have everything I need here.

I sit back in my chair, pleased with my own accomplishments.

My gloating is short lived as the door slams open, swinging violently back on its hinges.

It makes me jump.

But I don't turn round.

She’s here again.

chapter

twenty-four

No words are exchanged as she stalks towards me. Her boots echoing against my hard floors. I see her reflection in the window, the glass is clear but her image is flawless. There is something in her eyes, it’s not love, it’s barely lust - it’s a thinly veiled primal need. My mouth runs dry and all the blood rushes to my cunt as it begins to throb. It was her the other night, I know it.