*I also have this posted on my facebook. Just a little something I wrote out of nowhere. Warning: This drabble contains foul language and the mention of drug abuse and sex if you squint your eyes and turn your head the side. Thatoneguy She is racing around the room now, a jittery junkie that needs a fix. The sweat pulls at her thin shirt, making it cling to her body. Her hair is greasy and tangled in spots while her face looks like that of a raccoon-her dark eye makeup pooling around the hollow spaces where skin meets bone. “I do not love you! Fucking ass!” She says this as she slams the cheap vase-that had never seen a flower, real nor fake-down onto the cold tile floor. “I have never loved you.” She's beginning to sound like his mother, now. Telling him he is unlovable. Only, he is not the one throwing things, breaking them. Breaking him. He is sitting down on the old filthy mattress that serves as both couch and bed, now. Distantly, he wonders when this all became so fucking pointless. He doesn't even remember how he got here. The next thing he knows, she's holding a cigarette to his lips. She is urging him to inhale, to fill his lungs with her poison. He could refuse. That was always an option, but it is so much easier to just give in, give up his individuality, his mortality. She can make the decisions. Why not? Its all pointless, anyway. Now, she's groping him. She's pulling his shirt off and he's just sitting there. He lifts his arms when she tells him and he lays back when she tells him. What's the point? She's still screaming, but now her tone is different, if only vaguely. Still screaming, “Fuck,” her hips are bony and not in the good way. Her curves have long since diminished into scraps of muscle and skin. Not much to look at. He doesn't care. He just lets her have her way. The old scars on her body shine like beacons for his eyes. While she writhes on top of him, up and down up and down, he zones in on the little black dots on her inner arm. The crusty, scabbed over places that tell so many stories that he doesn't really want to hear. Since when did this become so routine? Since when did he stop loving her? Did her ever love her, damned if he could remember. He looks up at the ceiling as she finishes. Her mouth closes around him. She's a snake, trying to devour him whole. What can he do? He just lays there, staring at the ceiling. His body gives in. It doesn't need his permission anymore. It hasn't for a long time. She is wiping her mouth off on the back of her dirty, skeletal hand. This is routine. “Fuck,” she mutters. It's a breathy whisper and she's standing up. Her knees are dirty. Always have been. Her knees, her nose, her fucking veins. Nothing is sacred. She is not sacred. She grabs his pants up off the floor, pulling his wallet out of the back pocket. He doesn't have to look to know what she's doing. She got her fix here, now she's off to get another. She doesn't belong to him, so why does he keep her? Damned if he knows. He lays on his back, sprawled out on the old filthy mattress. He is tired but his eyes just won't close. Fuck. Fuck. That's all it ever amounted to. Finally, he lets out a breath that it seems like he's been holding for years. He didn't even realize. With one exhalation, he flies up through the ceiling, and through the apartments above him. He flies up and up and up and he's gone.
Interesting. I don't see how your male character manages to get it on with her, though. And that last paragraph -- does he die, or is he just tripping?
In what way don't you understand? His mind doesn't have to care about what's going on for his body to react. Much like a rape victim can still have an orgasm even though they aren't approving of what's going on. -is that what you meant? You know, honestly, I never really decided. I never really decided much with this piece. It sort of wrote itself. I'm gonna say die though, just because of this line:
From your description of your female character as a dirty worn-out junkie with lots of needle tracks, I don't think I could get it on. Quite possibly a dirty, worn-out male junkie, or a variety of guys out there, would find her wildly exciting. Different strokes, so they say.
Well, the point of it is that he isn't really attracted to her. He doesn't even like her. He may have loved her at one point in time, but she's never cared about him. All of it is just routine. He's pretty zoned out through the entire thing, so its more like rape then anything. His body still reacts and whatnot.
