Doing it alone

Okay, yeah, this isn’t cheery at all. Sorry about that. Why this ended up coming out when I was trying to get back into writing creatively is beyond me -_- I’m blaming it on all the serial killer dreams I’ve had recently…


He had a hard grip on her throat, his knuckles turning white and flecks of spit wetting her cheeks, landing in her eyes. She could hear the harsh pant of his breath, and when the tip of his tongue shot out from between his lips, moistening them and leaving the sticky residue of alcohol behind, she shuddered. He would smack his mouth closed each time, his eyes pouchy and bulging like a komodo dragon, and for a second she would forget she was pinned against a wall, her feet barely touching the ground.

The hum of traffic, the blare of hooters and shouts from unseen pedestrians quieted, only to be replaced with a static hiss, a rushing sound as if she was running with the wind in her face.

Specks of light skipped off the fat silver rings on his stubby little fingers and she couldn’t help but remember that having club fingers can be a sign of heart disease. Maybe he would just drop dead, she thought. She wished.

Her voice had long since left her. She had yelled and screamed until she tasted blood in her throat and her words only came out in a croak.

All of a sudden, he pressed into her like dead weight. She could feel the hard plains of his body through his jeans, the stiff material catching on the soft folds of her dress. He began to move in slow circles against her, getting off on her tears and the way her hands pressed into his chest, trying to push him away from her.

The wall she was pressed against felt damp, tacky – or maybe it was her sweat that had soaked through the thin floaty cotton she wore.

“Oh baby,” his voice came out as a rasp, his hands loosening their grip, only to clamp down on her breasts, like he was some inexperienced teenager.

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"We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown."

- T. S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (1917)

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