by Jade West
It hits the back of my throat and then it chokes me. I’m retching in broad daylight on a crowded street, with a womb full of hurt that pains when I breathe.
And I’m alone.
Lost.
Reeling.
I back into a solid wall before my spine buckles. I close my eyes to everything around me before the light pricks my tears.
Lullabies at the top of my lungs, a hand on my belly as I drive through the night with tears running down my cheeks.
I’m battling an ocean of pain with my bare hands because of tiny toes in a pair of white booties. And I’ve been here before. So many times.
A baby-cry on the train cutting me like glass. A new-born sleep suit discarded in the wrong aisle of the supermarket. A man holding his little boy’s tiny hand as they cross the road.
The looks passing between my ex-colleagues as they try to find the words to tell me Stephen was the one to clear my desk. That he hadn’t even asked after me. Not once.
I feel like I’m bleeding out all over again, but today I fight the ocean and I win.
I open my eyes before the tears fall. I take a deep breath, push myself from the wall and force my legs to keep walking. I walk until I get to the river and I follow it for miles, through the meadows and out the other side, until the sunny afternoon turns into a warm evening and my heels are blistered. Until I notice the sky is pink and that I’ve never really listened to a duck quack, not properly. Not like now.
And then, finally, when I know the bare walls of my apartment won’t break me, I go home and wait for my monster.
Phoenix
People used to think we were twins, Jake and me. They wouldn’t think it now.
He’s lost weight. A lot of weight.
His broad shoulders look sunken. His arms look lean and wiry. His eyes are darker than ever as he slams his truck door behind him and I slam mine.
We meet in no man’s land. In the middle of the car park we used to pull into every morning. The tower is a black hulk looking over us, the burned-out roof jagged in the shadows.
I contemplate the odds that he’s going to charge me down before we’ve even said a word. That we’ll end up grappling on the cracked tarmac while Mariana’s ghost screams. Or laughs.
The seven months since we last faced off haven’t been kind to either of us, that’s for sure, but today he keeps his fists in check. At least for now.
He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a cigarette. I don’t move an inch as he lights up. He takes two long drags before he jabs a finger in my direction.
“Take the fucking offer.”
“Fuck the fucking offer.” My voice is calmer than I feel.
He gestures to the maw of concrete and rubble behind us. The doors are warped and gaping. The ground still littered with broken window glass. “What fucking good is it to you? She’s fucking dead! Let this fucking place die with her!”
“I’m not selling.”
“Why the fuck not?!”
I don’t have an answer to that. I don’t fucking need an answer to that. I stare past him to the darkness inside.
I can still feel the heat. Still smell the stench as the pallets went up. Still hear my choking screams as I bellowed her name.
“The business is almost back on its feet. If I was gonna sell I’d have done it a long time ago, when we fucking needed it,” I tell him.
“Nobody fucking wanted it then.”
I shake my head. “Think what you want, Jake. There’s always some fucking vulture looking to make a quick buck. It would’ve sold.”
His shoulder lands square against mine. “It’s Ash.”
I turn my face to his. “I’m the one who lost her.”
I recognise the rage in his glare almost as much as I recognise the pain behind it. His emptiness stirs mine. Grief bubbles in my gut.
“She was mine,” he hisses. “You fucking know she was. I’m the one who fucking lost her.”
My fists clench on instinct, a whisper away from pounding my hate into the sack of shit who shares the same fucking blood as me.
I’m one man battling a fucking storm, shaking my fists at the fucking lightning. I’ve been here before, so many fucking times.
But tonight I am victorious.
Because of her.
Because of a stranger.
Because I feel alive.
I step away. I loosen my fists. The grief stops bubbling.
“I’m not selling,” I say, calmly. “I’m going to redevelop.”
“Redevelop? What the fuck?”
“You heard me.”
He looks like I jabbed him in the jaw. Part of me wishes I had.
I notice how tired he looks, even in the half-light. I notice how much longer his beard is now than mine.
And in this one long moment, I wonder if it’s really grief that’s still crippling my older brother, or whether it’s guilt.
“Why were you really here?” I ask him. “What was she doing in that storeroom on her own?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “I don’t fucking know. I came here to work, she was already–”
I cut him off with a shake of my head. “Enough of the fucking bullshit. You tell me the truth, and I’ll talk about fucking selling.”
My heart pounds but I stand firm. My pulse is in my temples, but I don’t move a muscle.
Not until he does.
“Sell this fucking place, or I’m selling my shares,” he says, and he’s already retreating to his truck.
It’s so tempting to go after him, but I don’t.
Cameron and I had a great time feeding the ducks today. I’m not going to be explaining to my boy why Daddy’s got torn-up knuckles in the morning, not for anything.
“Don’t be a fucking dick,” I shout as Jake starts the truck up, but he doesn’t even look back.
I watch until his taillights turn the corner at the end of the drive, and then I take a breath.
I lean against my truck and allow myself a minute, just me and this burned-out hole, and Mariana’s secrets. The ones she took with her.
And then finally, when I know I’m calm enough to look Serena in the eye without tearing her a new one for bringing Jake into my shit, I go home.
Abigail
I’ve been staring at my inbox for an hour when the circle next to his name finally blinks and turns green.
I chew my thumbnail as the tick appears against my message. He’s reading. Right now.
It’s almost midnight and I’ve allowed myself a couple of glasses of wine to finish up my Saturday evening. It’s made me brave. Brave enough to wait online so boldly for him to arrive.
I can see the ending line of my last message, bold as brass on the tab.
Please give me what I need.
I may have cringed if it wasn’t for the alcohol.
I wait with tickling nerves, feeling like my broken soul is on parade while a total stranger reads about my nightmares. I wonder what he’s thinking.
If he’s hard.
If he wants this even half as much as I want this.
My pussy is aching, my belly fluttery with crazy fantasies. I’m already playing with myself when the typing icon shows on screen.
My breath is ragged when the message pings.
I enjoyed reading about your dreams.
I’d be lying if I told you they didn’t make me hard. I’d be lying if I told you this conversation hasn’t woken something deep.
I’d be dishonest to claim I’m not planning on fucking you like a beast while you beg me to stop.
You’re toying with a monster. If you’re not careful, I’ll bite you hard.
Be very sure you’re ready for that.
My reply is easy.
I’ve been sure forever.
I rub my clit as he carries on typing.
Tell me what your monster does to you when you think of him late at night. Tell me how you need to be broken. How you need to be hurt. Used. Taken.
And then I’ll
tell you what you’re going to be given.
My pussy throbs when I take my fingers away to type.
I don’t hold back. Not a single thing.
The monster always catches me from behind. He’s strong. Strong enough to pick me up as my legs flail. I’d scream if his hand wasn’t over my mouth.
He tells me to stay quiet. Tells me he’ll hurt me if I cry out.
I’m tempted to scream just so he’ll make it worse for me.
Sometimes he forces me onto the ground, sometimes he drops me to my feet and throws me against a wall, his body pressed tight to mine.
And then he whispers. He always whispers.
He tells me that maybe he’ll let me enjoy it if I don’t fight him.
Fuck, I’ve been waiting for this. My clit is thrumming hard. My thighs clenching.
I wait for a response before I carry on.
His reply is just two simple words. All the encouragement I need.
Go on.
I go on.
He pins me tight and tugs my skirt up. He tears my knickers down and pushes his fingers inside me. It’s always rough enough to make me cry out.
I’m never ready for him.
I never want to be ready for him.
It always hurts and he always makes me take it.
He grabs my tits so hard it takes my breath. He tells me that I’m a dirty little bitch who asked for this.
Who wants this.
And I am.
I am a dirty little bitch who wants this.
I tug my bra down until my tits spill over the cups. I pinch my nipples until I moan.
I don’t need to wait long for another message.
You’re a dirty little bitch who’s going to get what’s coming to you.
My response is instant.
Please.
Please make this real.
Oh fuck, please.
I tug on my nipples and pretend that it’s him. I’m desperate for a response as I stare at that screen. Squirming on the bedsheets as my clit begs for release.
It throbs as I get the ping.
If you’ve any sense you’ll stop this right now.
Walk away before you’re in too deep.
I don’t know quite what he means until a photo icon flashes up.
My heart is in my throat as I click to open.
And fuck.
Fuck.
I’m sober in a beat, shuffling up to sitting as I maximise the image.
No.
It can’t be.
There’s no way. Just no way. He can’t really…
I can’t stop staring. My mouth is open wide.
And he’s right.
Oh my God, he’s right.
If I had any sense I’d stop this right now.
Seven
The fishermen know that the sea is dangerous and the storm terrible, but they have never found these dangers sufficient reason for remaining ashore.
Vincent Van Gogh
Phoenix
If she has any sense in that pretty head of hers she’ll reply with a thanks but no thanks.
Part of me hopes she does.
The other part has my palm straining around the monster I just sent her a picture of. The angle didn’t hold anything back – the ladder of barbells on the underside of my cock glinting in metallic horror. The ridges are thick.
Threatening.
I don’t need any special camera effects to big up the scale. It’s no illusion that sees this weapon of hard flesh and steel towering high above my bellybutton. My hands are big, but they don’t look it, not as my fingers stretch around the girth.
Mariana said Christmas had come early when I first dropped my pants.
She changed her mind regularly.
But Mariana was also crazy enough to want more. Always more.
Six bars along the length of me. A thick curve of steel spearing the head.
It always hurt her. Sometimes it drew blood.
Sometimes it even hurt me too.
It’ll hurt Abigail. She’ll whimper at every fucking inch.
The green circle by her image remains. I wait for a ping that takes an age.
I’m glad she takes her time.
This isn’t the place for horny bravado. This isn’t a time to feign bravery and hope for the best.
Her reply is simple. Obvious, really.
That’s going to hurt.
My fingers grip tighter. I reply with one hand.
Yes. It will.
I grip so hard it pains, my eyes closed at the memory of sublimely tight pussy.
I type slowly. Clumsily.
You need to think about this. Carefully.
My balls are tight enough to blow.
I’m relieved when her reply is at least halfway sane.
I know I should probably slam this laptop closed and write this off as a lucky escape.
A step too far into the crazy.
But I can’t.
I still want this.
A pause before the typing status shows up again.
I think want it even more than before.
Fuck.
My cock throbs in my grip.
She’s not alone on the crazy train. I guess we’re both riding all the way to its final destination.
I force myself to slow this runaway down, grappling for at least some semblance of restraint.
I grunt as I loosen my grip. Grit my teeth as my cock protests.
My fingers jab at the keys.
Sleep on it.
Consider it in the cold light of day.
Think about it until you have second thoughts.
Think about it some more after that.
And then, if you still want it, let me know.
I’ll look for your message tomorrow night.
A simple yes or no will suffice.
Just make sure it’s the right call.
It’s me who slams the laptop closed with the green circle still next to her picture.
It’s me who moves into the bathroom just to get some distance.
I turn the shower on full blast and kick off my jeans. I’m under the flow in a heartbeat, the jet bearing down on my scalp as I lather up the body wash.
I don’t know what I’m trying to scrub away. I don’t know why I think cleanliness will make me any less of the monster I feel inside.
I soap down inked skin she’ll never see. Years of hopes and fears and dreams etched onto my body for all time.
You can’t hide work like this under collars and cuffs, but you can hide it in darkness.
I’m inked from my fingers to my scalp, plenty enough for the world to see. My darkness is palpable. Always has been.
But there’s more than ink marking my body. My scars stretch from my shoulder to my spine on my left side. Sometimes I still feel them burning.
Sometimes I still smell my own searing flesh.
Body wash makes no difference. It doesn’t touch what’s inside.
It doesn’t change what I am. Who I am.
I grunt as I take my dick back in hand.
It’s brutal. Quick. Painful in my grip as I shoot my load all over the tiles.
This girl, Abigail – bait – is edging me towards insanity. Or salvation. Reawakening a beast I thought died along with the woman I couldn’t save.
I nearly died trying. But not nearly enough for Jake.
I see it in his eyes every time we’re unfortunate enough to cross each other’s path.
I saw it tonight. I see it in the mirror too.
Sometimes I fight the regret. Sometimes I don’t.
Sometimes regret is all I can feel.
But right now I feel nothing but the urge to pound Abigail’s tight cunt until she screams.
I twist the shower setting to cold and groan as the water punishes my skin.
Sometimes, in my dreams, I still hear Mariana screaming on the other side of that door.
Sometimes, late at night, I ask her ghost why she did it.
Why she left our little boy behind. Why she left me.
Why she was there that night in the first place. Why the fire took her and not me.
Why she was in that room alone. Why she was there at all.
Why Jake was there with her.
So many fucking questions.
I turn off the water.
I grab a towel.
For the first time in a while, I contemplate the possibility that maybe I’ll never have all the answers.
And for the very first time in forever, ignorance doesn’t feel quite so bad.
Abigail
I can’t stop staring at the picture on screen, even though I know I shouldn’t be.
I can’t stop playing with myself, even though I shouldn’t be doing that either.
I’ll never be able to take him.
I can’t imagine anyone could.
Stephen was big enough that I had to loosen my jaw to get his dick past my teeth, but he’d be dwarfed by the monster in front of me.
Phoenix Burning is definitely inked. His figures are etched with dark symbols. It looks like there’s a rose on the back of his hand. I can only just make it out.
I’ve never been with a guy with tattoos before.
I’ve never been with a pierced guy, either. Never even seen a pierced guy.
But I want to.
Oh fuck, how I want to.
I push three fingers inside, and it’s tight. Regardless of the fact I’m soaking through my knickers, it’s still tight.
I’ll never take him. Not unless he…
Fuck.
He’d have to be so brutal.
So rough.
A shiver dances through me, because somewhere, somehow, I know he would be. Could be.
Will be.
Because I already know how this story ends.
I already know I’m riding this wave all the way until it crashes. I already know he’s the only thing I want. The only thing I need.
Everything else fades away into blissful ignorance, my mind closed off to anything other than the way he’ll feel inside me.
There’s nothing on my mind but the thought of his palm clamped over my mouth as he whispers filth into my ear.
I wonder how his voice sounds.
I wonder what kind of accent he has.
I minimise the photo long enough to click on his profile again. Malvern, it says. Maybe thirty minutes by car from here. Forty-five tops.
