Feb 21, 2022 | Short Story
Have you ever seen something you knew you wanted the moment you saw it? Something so delicious and mouth-watering that you could almost taste it on your tongue? Like your favorite dessert. That was her, and every curve of her body beneath the little black dress was perfection. The more I watched her from across the bar, the harder my cock got. Oh god, I’d watched her for so long, but she never noticed me.
We only met once. One time. She wouldn’t give me the time of day, and I don’t think she even remembered me. I never hid my face, but she never looked at me with a hint of recognition. She came in at seven every Sunday night and ordered a Moscow Mule. She’d wink at the bartender, a man much more attractive than me. She was the love of my life. She just didn’t know it. I knew it, though.
I knew it the moment her hips swayed to that shitty pop song. She knocked the table and spilled my drink on my new slacks. At first, I was pissed. I rose to my feet, dabbing at my wet crotch, ready to yell at her. The moment my eyes locked on hers and she let out a drunk-as-shit laugh, I was hooked. She hardly apologized as she whipped her dark hair over her shoulder and flashed her big green eyes at me. When I think back on it now, it was a real dick move, but I still loved her for it.
I watched her for months, and they were the best months of my life. I even named her. Victoria. She looked like a Victoria. My daytime thoughts of her would spill into the evenings, and I’d dream of her, always waking up in a cold sweat with my dick in one of my hands. I’m ambidextrous.
I went to my car and slipped the key into the ignition. The clock on my dashboard clicked to a minute past midnight. I bit my nails, racked with nerves.
I waited until last call, knowing she’d stumble out of the bar, dangerously drunk, as usual. She’d look so vulnerable out there, wobbling across the dark parking lot alone. Someone could hurt her! The thought of something happening to her shattered my heart.
Right on cue, she teetered outside. While she tried to work her way to her car, the heel of her shoe broke off in a hole in the pavement, and she nearly fell. Oh god, I couldn’t let her get hurt.
I got out of the car and hurried over, coming to her aid. I had to protect her. I was the hero she didn’t know she needed. I was her knight, and my armor was made of gold.
She laughed and leaned on my arm. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she slurred. She flashed her green eyes at me, and that almost derailed me.
Focus.
“Let’s get you home,” I said as I guided her toward my car.
I put her in the passenger seat and leaned over her lap to buckle her seatbelt. Before I could close the door, she spewed vomit onto the ground. I stepped back, narrowly avoiding the chunks of toxic, alcohol-infused stomach acid splattering against the concrete.
I struggled to keep my eyes on the road as I drove her home. I kept stealing peeks of her long legs stretching into the shadows below the dashboard. My perfect girl was safe, and I’d been the one to protect her. Me.
I parked my car at the top of the driveway and carried her drunk ass into my house. I placed her on the couch and brushed the hair away from her sticky, sweaty face. “You beauty,” I cooed as I rubbed her cheek.
Her breath smelled like vomit, but I didn’t care. Even if she breathed fire, I’d still sit in front of her.
The hours ticked by as I sat on the couch beside her, absorbing her presence. The sound of each breath was enough to make me feel high. She was in my house, and now it could be a home.
I caught a glimpse of her pale thighs as she rustled in her sleep, her dress hardly covering her at times. If it rode up just a bit further, I could confirm if she looked how I dreamed she would look.
Just because I didn’t touch her didn’t mean I hadn’t imagined it. Like how electric it would feel if I slipped my hand between her thighs. Like when your favorite food is sold out every time you try to get it, and when you finally do, that first bite is just . . . heavenly. Like nothing else in the world mattered but you and that meal.
If I touched her, I knew I’d make her feel so good. And I wanted to make her feel good. I didn’t care if she touched me. I just wanted to make her come. Her moans would be auditory crack. She was everything I’d ever desired, bundled up in one beautiful package. But I kept my hands to myself. I had to take care of her, but I couldn’t take care of her in that way. Not yet.
She stirred, rolling onto her back with a confused sigh. She groaned and sat up. Her eyes widened at the sight of me, naked and staring at her. Fear raced over her expression, and it made me feel so bad.
She shouldn’t be scared of me. I’m her protector.
She tugged down her dress, making sure I couldn’t steal a glimpse between her legs. Did she think I had sex with her? I would never. At least, not while she was asleep.
“Where am I?” “With me,” I whispered.
She clambered off the couch to try to leave. That couldn’t happen. I waited too long and worked too hard to get her there. I grabbed her by the back of her dress and tugged, pulling her into my arms.
“Victoria, shh, stop!”
“I’m not Vic—”
I squeezed her. “Victoria, it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”
And I didn’t hurt her. I just zip tied her wrists to stop her from hitting me. All I wanted to do was take care of her, but she kept screaming—a shrill squeal that made me want to give her a quick tap to the head with my fist and knock her out for a little while. She screamed until her voice grew raspy and tired. I stroked her hair as she cried against my shoulder. I comforted her because she needed comforting.
I went to grab a paper bag by the couch, and she jumped to her feet. She ran for the door, rattling the knob wildly and ignoring the deadbolt much too high for her tied wrists. I smiled at her tenacity. My dick hadn’t been soft since I got her home, and I twitched with desire. It made her scream all over again as she slid down the door and cried.
I dug around in the bag, pulling out handfuls of red, white, and pink rose petals. They felt like silk in my hands. I tossed a handful at her, and they rained down and spread on the floor around her. I kept throwing Hansel-and-Gretel handfuls which led toward the bedroom. I dumped some on the bed and tossed a final handful into the empty tub.
I turned on the water, and the petals glided through a fog of steam. They floated on the surface like beautiful little boats. I poured in an intoxicating mixture of lavender and rosemary. Bubbles rose to the surface, capturing the petals in their frothy masses.
I went back to the living room and grabbed her off the floor. Thick black lines of makeup ran down her pale cheeks while she continued to sob. I licked my finger and wiped at her skin. It did nothing to clean her sweet face. And it was sweet, even as swear words poured from her mouth like a faucet.
I scooped her up, and she fought against me, kicking her legs like a spoiled child. I probably should have tied those too.
“Let go of me, you psycho!” she yelled.
Her words offended me. I wasn’t a psychopath. “Actually, I’m a sociopath.”
I breathed in her scent—vomit and the barroom floor. I put her down, letting her stand on her feet.
She writhed in my grasp as I reached my arm around her and pulled the zipper down her back. My fingers grazed her skin.
“Please, please don’t,” she begged.
“Let me bathe you,” I said with adoration.
I pushed the fabric past her hips and to the ground. Twitch. She wasn’t wearing a bra, which I already knew. There was nowhere for the straps to go, and at the bar, I’d witnessed the excited mounds beneath the silken fabric of her dress. White panties wrapped around her waist, the thin material revealing almost everything beneath them. Twitch.
Rarely were things better in real life than in your dreams, but there she was—something more than better. Somehow, she trumped the ideal image I created in my mind. My heart melted into a gooey mess in my chest.
I scooped her up and put her in the bathtub. She fought against me, splashing water everywhere. Waves of bubbles washed over the sides of the tub and gathered on my hardwood floors.
I leaned over and breathed in the aroma within her hair. She smelled like oily scalp and hairspray. She was delicious. She cried, screamed, and pleaded with me as I grabbed a washcloth and began to bathe her. With soft strokes, I wiped her cheeks. Black stains transferred onto the cloth. I washed down the beautiful curve of her back, her skin feeling so familiar beneath my touch. I ran the cloth along her chest and through the incredible arches of her breasts. Twitch.
She was . . . everything.
A happy little song buzzed within my throat. I was so overjoyed, I couldn’t help it. She screamed over my humming, which made my cheeks pulse. Could she not shut up for a moment and enjoy my tune? I was singing it for her!
“Don’t be inconsiderate,” I scolded as I washed her hair.
She stopped screaming. Her lip trembled as I lathered the shampoo into her scalp. The strands were like the rose petals—silky and soft. The scent of her and the flowery smells floated to my nose, and I let out a groan.
I grabbed the showerhead and turned it on, making sure it was the perfect temperature. Not so hot that it would burn her skin, but not so cold that it would make her shiver. My hand guarded her eyes from the soap as I rinsed her hair. As the suds rolled down her body, she panted with fear. I lifted her out of the tub by her arms.
“Please,” she begged again.
“Shh.” I kissed her forehead.
She flailed against my lips, trying to pull away from me. She was being incredibly rude.
I wrapped a towel around her. A big fluffy cotton one. I pulled her trembling body into me, trying to soothe her. She dropped her head in defeat, as if she thought I would kill her after all that. Why would I kill her? She was the love of my life. You only met people like her once in your lifetime, so you had to snatch them up. You couldn’t let love walk out the damn door. Even if she hit you and kicked you or deafened your eardrums, you couldn’t let someone like her leave.
I guided her toward the bed. She dug in her heels, but I was much stronger. A final tug was all I needed to land her in the pile of rose petals. I stared at her as she struggled to scoot off the bed.
“Stop it,” I said as I grabbed her arm.
I got into bed beside her, making her the smallest of spoons. She cried. She smelled like heaven, and I buried my nose in her wet hair. My fingers grazed the arch of her shoulder blade while she cried hard enough to send snot from her nose. It was so cute.
I leaned into the crook of her neck and inhaled. I lifted my mouth to her perfect little ear and moved her hair away. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” I whispered. “I love you.”
The clock on my car’s dashboard drifted to a quarter past midnight. The bar’s metal side-entrance door slammed shut, the sound echoing against the brick buildings. My dear Victoria finally appeared from the bar, alone and stumbling drunk. Oh god, I couldn’t let her get in her car and drive. What if something happened to her?
I got out of the car and ran toward her. I grabbed
her arm to stop her, and she laughed at me, doubling over and vomiting near my feet. It smelled like pure vodka. If I licked it off the concrete, I’d get drunk. I had half a mind to go tell that bartender off. How dare he serve her to the point of this. What if I hadn’t been there waiting for her? Thank God I was.
I rubbed her arm with a reassuring touch. “Hey, let’s get you home, okay?”
WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE A NOVELLA BASED OFF THIS SHORT STORY? COMMENT BELOW!
Feb 21, 2022 | Short Story
Myra turned the page of the newspaper, enjoying the silty quality of the paper beneath her fingertips. Her eyes scanned the headlines: crime, abuse, and heartache. A black-and-white picture of a large, old home caught her attention. Her heart raced at the sight of it.
Old abandoned Victorian house to be demolished 8/29.
Myra looked at her phone. The execution was set for today.
Her heart guided her toward the home, even as her brain tried to argue against it. She ignored the pleading of her ailing mind and grabbed her coat as she headed out the door, hoping she wasn’t too late.
The drive was taxing. Every road made her heart ache, and the closer she got, the more the memories leached from them. She stared at the corner where the school bus would dutifully drop her into awaiting evil arms. She remembered crying to the driver because she didn’t want to go home, but no one batted an eyelash at the hurting little girl.
Even though she was now an adult, when she pulled up to the house, it somehow felt just as large as it had when she was a child. The windows were boarded up, and broken glass littered the lawn. No workers had arrived yet. The street was eerily quiet. With a long, drawn out exhale, Myra climbed the steps and reached for the doorknob. It was unlocked.
The inside of the diseased and damaged home brought haunting memories to the forefront of her mind. With trepidation, she climbed the rickety steps toward her old bedroom. Each riser creaked beneath her weight, creating an ominous melody.
The wooden door to her old bedroom was warped and twisted, jamming it shut. She slammed her body against it, unsure what she would find behind it. She threw herself against the door once more, and it flew open, nearly falling off its hinges. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene before her.
There was a strange familiarity, despite the wreckage. The wooden furniture was waterlogged and warped, much like the door. Water dripped from the ceiling above her, reminding her of the blood that had once splattered onto the broken hardwood floors. Her blood.
When Myra turned to leave, something caught her eye. Sitting on the dresser was a doll. She picked it up and examined its porcelain skin and painted cheeks. Its eyes were large and dramatic, as if it had witnessed the pain and suffering within these walls. Tufts of deep brown hair shot out of its scalp in patches. The dress was torn and shredded, as if a dog had used it as a toy.
She lifted it to her nose and inhaled. A nauseating aroma of dust and abandonment assaulted her senses. Myra looked down at the note around its neck, which read: My person grew up, please discard me. She lowered the doll toward the dresser, but hesitated. Something about leaving it in the soon-to-be destroyed home made her sad.
Clutching the doll to her chest, Myra started toward the front door. Her feet planted themselves in place, drawing her down the hallways instead. The stained floorboards were riddled with holes, making it seem unsafe to walk on, yet she continued.
She pushed open the door to her parent’s bedroom. The haunting smell of him still lingered in the old room. A heavy cologne he would spray, the scent undistinguished but memorable. The taste of it as it hit her tongue when he got too close to her…that was what she remembered most. He smelled like he bathed in it.
Myra could almost hear the rattle of chains and the thwap of leather against skin. She dropped the doll, lost in her violent memories. The sound of its porcelain skull colliding with the ground snapped her back to the now, where the room was empty and merely existing. With a gasp, she squatted down and lifted the doll. A crack spread across its face, parting it in two. That was how the room made Myra feel. Cracked and broken.
She carried the doll outside. Her legs felt as if they weren’t connected to her body. She saw tiny little legs clad in stockings and a skirt instead of her own as she crept down the front steps. Her eyes wandered. There were still no neighbors in sight. No one to hear any screams. The trees in the woods in front of the house were the only things still living here from her childhood. Big towering canopies covered in color changing leaves.
Her eyes scanned the side yard, which seemed so small now. She saw the rickety wooden swing set he had built for her, an apology for what would be forever unforgiven.
Myra spotted a rusty barrel sitting in the middle of the yard. Reddish brown rust chewed through the metal, gnawing it away, piece by piece. She drew a cigarette from her pack and held it in her hand. In her heart, she knew fire would be the only cleanser. She put the cigarette up to her mouth, lit it with a deep inhale, and tossed it into the can.
Flames erupted and licked at the sides of the barrel, as if they had been awaiting freedom. Clothing burned at the top of the pile. The singed fabrics and various items below caused dark billowy smoke to rise. Remnants of what had once been someone’s home. It had never felt like a home to her.
Myra looked at the doll once more before tossing it into the depths of the barrel. The flames grasped at it and pulled it into a warm embrace. The painted smile warped into a frown as the fire charred and destroyed it.
Myra walked to her car, remembering why she was here in the first place. Opening her trunk, she grabbed a red can of gasoline. She looked around, nervous energy causing sweat to coat her palms. The creaking front steps welcomed her once more to the landing. She stood in the doorway, taking a quick breath as she splashed gasoline onto the aging floors. The fumes assaulted her, spinning around her like a tornado.
She lit another cigarette with a second deep inhale, drawing as much smoke as possible into her lungs. Without hesitation, she tossed it into the home. The fire took hold, riding along the path of the gasoline with haste. The flames reared and soared, engulfing the home just as it had the doll. The blaze hissed, trying to mask her screams and pleas as it engulfed places that were touched by hands that had once touched her.
“Goodbye,” she whispered as her childhood home burned, flames lapping at the walls. As the bones of the home began to fall, the family secrets burned with it, trapped and unable to hurt her any longer.
Feb 21, 2022 | Short Story
Time passed slowly as I looked at the clock on the dashboard of the car. Ten minutes of eight. I glanced behind me and saw the school buses lining up, the bodies pouring from them. They were faceless, every one of them an embodiment of my eternal torment. It didn’t matter if they had never bullied me themselves. No one ever stopped it. They were just as guilty.
The weight of my decisions pressed against the car door as I grabbed the handle with a sweaty palm. My chest felt tight as the oppressive heat assaulted me the moment I stepped out into the angry rays of the sun. With a heartbeat of hesitation, I went to the back of the old minivan. Students climbed out of their fancy cars, and I felt a pang of jealousy. I didn’t have parents who could buy me expensive things. Or inexpensive things.
The weight of the world rested upon my shoulders until I felt like nothing. Insignificant. No matter how big of a room I was in and no matter how many people surrounded me, I was alone. A crowded hallway felt empty. My heart ached for those around me to feel even a fraction of the pain I felt every single day.
I traced the scar on my arm, where metal was embedded to put my bones back together. All for existing? For being in the wrong place on the wrong person’s nerves?
With a tremulous hand, I turned the squeaking, rusted lock on my trunk and pulled the door upward. My eyes caught on the black duffle bag, filled with the resolve of my torment. The zipper snagged as I tried to open it, pleading with me to change my mind. With a final tug, the bag spread open, exposing the black metal of a couple of rifles. Metal scraped against metal as I tried to grab one. A sound forever embedded in my mind.
“Shawn?” said a hauntingly familiar voice from behind me. The one I didn’t want to hear today. I zipped up the bag with haste, turning around to greet her. Ellie, sweet Ellie.
“Oh . . . ” I hid the bag behind my body. “H-hey,” I said to her, stumbling over my words.
She came up and wrapped her arms around me in a hug. I kept my hands pinned to my sides, unaccustomed to the affection. Ellie peered behind me to look at what I had been rummaging through in my trunk.
“Why aren’t you heading to class? I saw you over here when I got off the bus.” She continued to look around me, focused on the bag.
I was focused on her, the bag becoming a distant thought in my mind.
She brushed curly auburn hair away from her face before shielding her eyes from the sun. She dropped her backpack onto the ground and sat on the lip of the trunk, her feet hovering above the grass. Her eyes wandered to the sinister black bag, and she went to touch it.
Not Ellie, sweet Ellie. I shoved the bag away from her prying fingers.
“That’s just camera equipment,” I blurted, trying to draw her eyes to me as I sat down beside her.
She looked at me with a hint of disbelief, but she had no reason not to trust me.
“Can I see it?” she asked with innocence in her powder blue eyes.
Never could I let her see what was in the bag.
“No,” I told her flatly, feeling sweat beaming on my forehead. “What do you want, anyway?” My tone was unintentionally harsh.
She recoiled a bit from me, scooting away a few inches. “I just . . . I just wanted to ask you if maybe you wanted to come by my house to study?”
Now I was the one recoiling, unsure how to respond to such a grand invitation. I cleared my throat, thick with nerves. “When?”
“I was thinking tonight, if you want.” She kicked her feet and toyed with the fabric of her pants.
Tonight? Would there even be a tonight? I thought about the bag in my trunk and released an exhale. Of course. There would have to be.
“I’d like that,” I said with a slight rise in my shoulders.
“You can bring your camera.” She gestured toward the bag, and I shivered.
Not Ellie, never Ellie.
I looked at the bag. A hint of a smile crept across my face. “No, I don’t need it, actually.”
“Shawn?” A hauntingly familiar voice shook me out of my memory, letting it slip back to where it’s hidden, though still able to torment me.
Ellie, sweet Ellie.
She walked over and glanced at the TV. A news report plastered the images of a young man with a gun across the screen. With a quick motion, she turned off the television.
I wiped nervous sweat from my brow, drawing my hand through my dark hair as I rose from the couch.
“Are you okay?” she asked, concern twisting her features.
I stepped toward her, wrapping her up in my arms and breathing in her scent. She smelled of coconut. Her presence within my arms equally soothed and tortured me. Every time she looked up at me with those stunning blue eyes, I would remember that day. The day that could have been—and would have been—the worst day.
“I’m okay, baby.” I kissed her, a gentle one that almost reminded me that I was not the monster I felt I was. A title I would always give myself as long as breath still entered my body.
It wasn’t she who saved anyone that day, including myself. Ellie merely reminded me of who I wasn’t. I was not a killer. I was a teenager who was made fun of for liking photography. For finding enjoyment from capturing memories through the lens of a camera. A teenager who was slammed against lockers for being too smart. I touched the scar on my arm, lighter and less apparent now. I was hated for being irrevocably me. Their hate made me despise myself. I had let the pain rise to levels that I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy. I hurt so badly that it almost boiled over into an act that would have been unconscionable.
“I have to tell you something.” I dropped my gaze as the words hitched and hesitated on top of my tongue.
“What?” she asked with a curious cock of her eyebrow.
“Remember that day by my van? Back in high school?” I gnawed at the inside of my cheek.
“Of course,” she said with a nod.
“I was going to take a gun into the school that day,” I said with a deflated breath. My heart shattered as she looked at me with what I could only assume was fear or mistrust.
“I know,” she said, her shoulders falling forward as if she, too, released the secret. “I found your notebook at your house one night. There was so much pain and sadness on every single page. I looked at you—the smiling boy behind the camera—and couldn’t believe the words were written by your hand.”
I studied the soft curves of her face and wondered if she could ever forgive me. Or if I could ever forgive myself.
“I’m a monster,” I said, sadness lacing my tone.
Since when do heroes care about villains? I didn’t deserve her. I never have. But there she was, loving me as I confessed a secret that had gnawed holes through my brain, so much so that it allowed the memory to leach in and out at will. Inescapable.
She touched my face, her lips parted ever so slightly, as if she were taking in every syllable of my confession. Her eyebrows drew together. “Wait,” she told me as she pulled away from me and left the kitchen.
The moments without her felt like an eternity, the ticking of the clock on the wall somehow deafening.
Ellie returned with a tan box and placed it down on the island. She blew dust from the top as she opened it. I peered inside at our memories. She dug through the pictures, little key chains and trinkets I won for her, and even my award for best photographer of the year for 2004. Her lips spread into a smile as she grabbed a photo and clutched it to her chest for a moment.
She motioned me toward her, drawing me like the tide toward the moon. She laid the picture down in front of me. My stomach dropped at the sight of her at seventeen years old, lying on her stomach in the grass. She held a beautiful pink and white flower toward me and the camera. The flower couldn’t begin to rival her beauty.
I looked at Ellie, whose eyes had begun to gloss over.
“Shawn. Do you remember?” she asked.
Of course I remembered. “We both missed the bus, and we were hanging out beside the building, waiting for the next ones—”
“Which never came!” she interrupted with a small laugh.
“You’re right. So, I walked you to your house, and we stopped at the park. I wasn’t in a rush to go home, and neither were you.” I smiled at her. My heart felt full.
“I definitely wasn’t,” she said as her eyes glassed over.
Her father used to hit her, leaving bruises on her pale skin. That’s why she was wearing long sleeves in the middle of summer in the picture. I didn’t know that at the time, of course, or I wouldn’t have let her go back home at all.
“Why did you keep this?” I asked her as I pulled her into me and tucked her head beneath my neck. I held up the photo, staring at the sun setting behind her, exploding in pink and orange hues.
“Shawn,” she spoke softly as tears hit my shirt, permeating the fabric and wetting my chest. “I was going to go home and do something—” Her breath caught in her throat for a moment. “I had no intention of making it to the next day. There wasn’t going to be a tonight that night,” she said as she sobbed into me, letting her confession fall down and weave into the cotton of my shirt. “You saved me that day.” She pulled away and looked up at me, her piercing eyes forcing their way into mine. “I knew when I saw you that day, I had to go talk to you. Maybe thank you. It wasn’t until later that I knew why you were there. You’ve shown me time and time again, every day since that day, that you aren’t the person who was outside the van that day. You nearly did a monstrous thing, but you aren’t a monster now, Shawn.”
My breaths were bated, trapped in the depths of my throat. The pain she felt was palpable. The pain she had been feeling at seventeen was nearly too much to bear. Our pain intermingled and pressed together until it became something beautiful, so many years later.
I finally allowed myself to breathe again, drawing a breath into a world we created together, because we both chose life.
