Asphyxiate

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
She anticipates.

Submitted: December 10, 2009

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Submitted: December 10, 2009

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I sat on the couch in my living room, looking out the window to my backyard— a cluttered mess of weeds, choked grass and flagstones. The spade leaning against the faded wooden tool-shed fell over and crushed a dandelion. I inhaled pure, tangible boredom. Ivy attempted to strangle the window. Somewhere in the dark of my mind, a single nerve was strung tightly, singing with anxious anticipation— Dayne was coming. The noise of that highly-strung nerve was high-pitched enough to bother the neighbour’s dog, who set up a frantic barking in the next yard over. I remained still, rubbing my thumb across the couch’s deep red velvet, watching the subtle movement of the lacy gray curtains as my breath touched them.

The curtains had been black, once; elegant folds of crisp black lace which had likely covered a magnificent floor-to-ceiling window in a room with a vaulted ceiling and crystal chandelier. Now, however, they hung in soft, smoky-gray folds from the four-by-six-foot window in my living room, trailing across my scratched hardwood floor, bunching up in soft, smoky-gray heaps. The couch, too, had been grander in its previous lifetime. It had mostly retained its rich burgundy colour, but the upholstery was worn thin, and only the backrest still had the original soft texture of the velvet. Most of my home was like that— used. Secretive. Harbouring a past life in rips and stains, chips and dents. The hardwood was scratched and in need of refinishing; the staircase, too, as it was of the same oaken construction. My marble counters were chipped and the tiles in the kitchen were spider-webbed with cracks only half-concealed under glaze. The stained-glass light covers were my favourite: the yellow and orange glass panes were dulled with age, and they cast a gentle golden glow over the room. The dim light suited me, for I preferred the dark to day.

A shadow passed over the narrow window beside my front door and I felt my heartbeat quicken. Then I heard a small wooden thud, and my heart slowed again in momentary disappointment. It was only the mailman. But Dayne would come. He always came. I switched my attention from the décor to my reflection in the window, shamelessly examining myself.

The pretty face was sullen, eyes brown, smoldering, deep set in ebony craters, stark against milk skin. Lips glimmered a soft metallic pink, no spots of colour on the cheeks, and ash-blond hair, tucked behind my ears, fell down my back in waves. My eyebrows were my favourite part of my face. I shaped them perfectly, arched nicely, a slightly darker shade of blond than my hair, fixing a look of wide-eyed innocence on my face, always suggesting that I was mildly surprised. I like my eyebrows because they hid the look of bored resentment in my eyes, misleading any suspicion that I might be hiding a dangerous secret or two.

My neck, that day, was bare, and so were my shoulders. My collarbone jutted out, subtly, light shadows in the hollows there and at my throat. I was a plaster sculpture in Victorian corset and fishnets: small chest, narrow waist. My miniskirt was layers of tulle and dripping shreds of ribbon that didn’t cover the purpling bruise on my thigh, and it was black, of course, as was the corset. Strapless. Feet in ballet slippers. Pale yellow ribbon wound around my wrist, and fingerprints bruised into my left upper arm, faded pinkish-brown.

The doorbell rang. My heart raced, eyes flashed in the window. I slid from my perch on the backrest of the couch, made my way to the door. Dayne stood there, magnificent in leather, biker boots, jaw shadowed, black hair windblown, blue eyes burning. His smile was faint, face lean almost to the point of being gaunt. His look was hungry. The door closed behind him, though neither of us touched it.

He backed me against the wall, slow, gentle, and leaned into me, leaning down to touch his lips to my forehead. I closed my eyes halfway and melted into him, squeezing his arms with all the strength in my fingers. Touched my lips to the hollow at the base of his throat. Dayne reached for the light switch and flicked it off as his other hand found the bruise on my thigh. He dug his thumb in. The pain was good. Dusty light filtered faintly through the living room window. The room looked full of mist. Dayne smiled when I bit his neck, and I relaxed as his hands tightened around my throat. I liked the familiar feeling of his fingers, the comforting grip as he strangled me slowly. He kissed me while I struggled for breath, and I dragged my fingernails down his back. The euphoria of breathlessness was washing over me, bathing me, drowning, red spots dancing across my vision… then he released me.

I was high, reveling in the dizziness, stealing oxygen from the air, Dayne’s hands now tight on my shoulders, strong arms keeping me upright, the only reason I wasn’t falling. His smell was musk and cedar. I breathed him in, met his eyes and kissed him, biting his lip. Outside, the sun was falling. He pulled back and grinned, teeth gleaming.

“Want to go for a ride?” he whispered. I threw my head back and laughed— that was a good enough answer. We went.


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