The Need, The Want, The Desire (Revised & More To The Story)

Book by: Kathleen Megquier


Perfection is hard for me to swallow. Inspiration comes and goes like little waves inside my brain. If I could just hold on to that thought, grab on to it and take flight, I would. I would. Life is so hard. Why can’t I match up to society’s standards? The human race is defined by simplicity and easy money, why can’t I just blend into it all? Abigail Bennett. That’s who I strive to be. See, I was born as Celia Welts, but who want’s a last name that is naturally portrayed as a lash or blow producing such a mark?

Chapter1 (v.1) - The Need, The Want, The Desire (Revised & More To The Story)

Author Chapter Note

Perfection is hard for me to swallow. Inspiration comes and goes like little waves inside my brain. If I could just hold on to that thought, grab on to it and take flight, I would. I would. Life is so hard. Why can’t I match up to society’s standards? The human race is defined by simplicity and easy money, why can’t I just blend into it all? Abigail Bennett. That’s who I strive to be. See, I was born as Celia Welts, but who want’s a last name that is naturally portrayed as a lash or blow producing such a mark?

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: May 24, 2011

Reads: 138

Comments: 1

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: May 24, 2011



Celia Welts:

Perfection is hard for me to swallow. Inspiration comes and goes like little waves inside my brain. If I could just hold on to that thought, grab on to it and take flight, I would. I would. Life is so hard. Why can’t I match up to society’s standards? The human race is defined by simplicity and easy money, why can’t I just blend into it all? Abigail Bennett. That’s who I strive to become. See, I was born as Celia Welts, but who want’s a last name that is naturally portrayed as a lash or blow producing such a mark? No, I discovered Abigail Bennett, when I found her making out with the head caption of the basketball team. She was seductive, innocence left behind her. No boy was off limits for her, no drug, and or object was ether. She was use to getting what she wanted. Refusing to become some mediocre piece of shit that was suppose to be considered the living, or some splotch on this earth to be swept away someday. No, Abigail was something some would define as timeless, and she was only examined that way because of her actions.

Abigail Bennett:

Celia held back, she was timid, easily put down by her peers, and anyone else who dropped by in her life. People took advantage of her intelligence, and her insecurities. Celia was a doormat. She was constantly used by her controlling boyfriend, her sentences being run over in mid-thought by his obnoxious debates with her. Yes, Celia was a loser. Someone to be washed away after a good summer rain. I could do better, much better. I know I sound just a tad bit too strong, but it’s the only way to truly get my point across. I’ve spent years watching Celia be used, and abused. It’s time to wake up. Feel the natural high of life. Forget about the silent mistakes made by Celia Welts. I shall turn her into someone continuously attractive, no longer needing that security from men, in fact, taking the security they found in her from them. Things would be easier here on out. Going to school would no longer be a debate, it’d be an automatic no.

Instead, you’ll find Abigail behind the County Market, a cigarette resting between her red stained lips. She’s with this kid Colby. He can’t stop gawking at her, she finds it amusing, if he didn’t supply the weed, she’d be gone in a second. She lets him feel her up a bit, before he finally rolls the joint. No one really notices the action, the streets busily bustling, everyone around them in their individual orbit, enduring a massive high was easy to do in this kind of town. Self absorbed pricks, Abigail quickly noted to herself as Colby handing her the freshly lit joint. Colby ranted on and on about his ex girlfriend, Katrina, how when she found out about his new fascination with the ‘tree’, a wedge was formed between them, that’s why Abigail was so ‘cool’ to be around. Give me a break, Abigail thought, growing more and more frustrated in the walls of her brain. When she received her fair share of bud, she sweetly kissed Colby on the cheek and told him to text her sometime, she had to be somewhere. Vague, but it was a suited response for him. They parted ways and she unlocked her Ford Fiesta, adorable, little, thing. Thanks to the new step daddy. God, her mother new how to pick ‘em.

Sometimes she liked to forget she had a mother at all. She sped off, in search of a fresh pair of lips to taste. Tom instantly came into mind. He was about ten or twenty years older than her, and just so happened to be Celia’s old English teacher from eleventh grade. Celia was infatuated with him from the beginning. Celia recollected him as being charming in the subtle kind of way. Everything about him was sweet. She’d stay after class to help him grade papers, do anything that would be of use to him, besides the thing he needed most; Celia, herself fully.

Celia was a nerd, and after two years, the two still stayed in touch. Being a fresh nineteen was starting to reveal some advantages. Abigail was all for advantages. She quickly dialed his number, only being slightly loaded off of pot, she was still able to form thoughts clearly, she was just a simmered down seduction, instead of a full on. Just what Tom should fall for. “Hi, it’s me, I was just wondering if you would mind looking at this report I’ve started out on in my world literature class, it’d really be great if you could.” He sounds pleased to be hearing from her, shocking, just add a little breath to your tone, and just have a slightly higher pitch than your normal vocal chords allow, and he’s yours.

She glazes over her appearance, nothing to worry about, eyes brushed with light makeup, no evidence of a minor high, lips succulent, almost to die for. He just might. Now for the report, unzipping her backpack; while still managing the wheel. Not the safest thing, but hey, it’s Abigail after all. Let’s see, it should be somewhere in this binder, and even if it isn’t, who needs it anyway? She’s excuse enough to keep things still going. Anyway, it’s all a prop. She pulls into his driveway, sends a text his way, explaining that she is here. It’s only moments until he’s at the door inviting her in.

“It’s great to see you, you’re one of my few students I actually still keep in touch with.” She smiles, making a unnoticeable notion, by licking her bottom lip only slightly. She sees the guitar propped up against the wall, and she realizes how Celia fell hard for this man in high school; serenading the class, when learning about the romantic novelists. It only felt like Celia at times. “Well, you know, I’ve always admired your personalized literature you present to your classes.” He smiles, gratitude exposing his handsome features. They retreat to the couch, she begins to shuffle through the papers in her binder. “Gosh, I don’t know where I placed them, I could of sworn they were in here..” Abigail portrays her damsel in distress bid very well.

He buys it instantly. She places her hand on his knee, “I feel so silly, I’m sorry I wasted your time, Tom.” Lips explaining her remorse for the missing papers, her eyes explaining an offer. He gives her a reassuring smile, “It’s fine, I was only going to work on my novel tonight anyhow.” Her eyes light up with fascination, “What’s it about?” He goes into detail about the great work he’s conceiving in his study late at night, having dreams that it will become published someday. She doesn’t remove her gaze off him. “God, I feel so rude, I’ve been rambling on and on and I didn’t offer you anything to drink.” She shakes her head, “Oh that’s fine, well, unless you have wine on you.” The high wearing off, she’s in the mood to find comfort in a buzz. He’s aware of her age, and finds no problem in it, he goes into the kitchen in search of something elegant for them to consume. If only he knew how much Abigail wanted to consume him.

Maybe he does, therefore, the drinks. He comes in with two glasses of red liquid, she brushes her matching lips against the glass, then slowly sips. They begin to carry on normal, intellectual conversation. Abigail is becoming restless, she wants more, and fast. He’s in mid sentence, and she goes in for the kill. Her lips touch his, his facial hair tickling her chin. She enjoys the scent of man, and apparently he enjoys the scent of girl. He’s kissing back. He begins to find what’s under her shirt, and Celia cannot believe what is happening, her girlish fantasies becoming a reality, and all because of the ever so flirtatious Abigail. She can’t control her breath, he knows exactly where to go, and exactly what do.

Celia can only recall the stumbling hands on her curves and what’s below. The awkward feeling of sex. The decaying relationships that come right after. Abigail is experiencing something much different. Ecstasy at it’s finest. No promises for tomorrow, not even a promise for today. Just pure bliss, than again, there’s nothing pure about this pleasure. Scandal washes over them, and they can feel the heat of their bodies, their minds. Everything is in orbit. She screams with wonder. She can’t handle the beauty that is entering her. Everything is right as he kisses her neck, kisses her lips. Abigail greedily wants more.

After they are done, she resting on his chest, they both come to the realization that neither one of them thought to leave the couch; they were sipping their wine at just minutes before. She releases a trapped content breath. He kisses her resting eyelids. Celia is starting to surface. Celia wants this to last and last, in fact, she pictures a wedding, little Toms’ chasing each other around a white picket fence; giggling with joy. Abigail fighting within her, to reclaim her rightful place on Tom’s chest.

“This is mine, I made this happen, you go find your storybook life with someone else, this is just sex, and good sex at that.” Abigail harshly commands, inside the now becoming crowed brain shared by the two. It is seven-thirty in the evening, Abigail removes herself from the warm body under her. “I can’t believe we did this,” Tom begins to yawn and stretch on the now sex-deflated couch. “I mean, it’s only been a year in a half since you’ve graduated.” Abigail smirks, “I know.” She gets up to turn away.

He sits up straight, pulls her back into him, “Come back here.” she obliges. They begin to encounter a frenzy of kisses from one another, and neither one can control the moans within them.

Celia wakes up, naked, hair ruffled. She looks up at the sleeping person underneath her. She’s still in full blown shock. “This is my old teacher!” she shrieks within her head. Abigail has come and gone, and Celia is now left with this distraught feeling. She dresses her exposed body, begins to explore the rooms inside Tom’s house. She discovers a family portrait in the hallway. It’s not a picture threatening to be Tom’s current family. Just the childhood Tom’s family. He’s the shortest, his good looks slowly developing in the process of age. Tom was thirty-four when Celia had his eleventh grade English class. Thirty-six, and he still looks dashing to her.

She could never even conceive what Abigail had done with her body, just hours ago. Celia leaves a note for Tom when he awakes. She hurries out the door and is greeted by the warm night. She gets into the car, speeds off, pulls over, and then starts to cry. Unaware of what exactly she’s crying about, she cannot decipher if these are tears of joy or anguish. She’s so mixed up. Taken over my the adventurous Abigail. At first, it was a persona created out of desperation, now it’s a need. A regret in some cases. She’s just compelled to be taken over by this promiscuous, no moral, girl. She hates her, but at the exact same time, she needs her, needs her to feel alive, exist.

Dependency has always been one of Celia’s faults. The love she never received from her father, the affection missing from her mother. Lost souls have to find a way out somewhere, right?

Celia woke a second time, but this time, she was safely, tucked away in her own bed, in her own house. Living with her mother wasn’t really her first option. It’s just, as smart as people told her she was, she never really felt up to the demanding expectations. So, her full potential got on a ship and sailed away without her, while she was left at home, attending college at state. She secretly wanted so desperately to drop out all together, and become a drug dealer, or an exotic dancer. Anything, but the routine she found herself attaining each day. Her mother adored her, though, she let Celia down in each possible way. Though, her mother wasn’t fully aware of Abigail’s existence. Celia’s mother thought Celia’s new, come and go, behavior was defined by a phase of belated rebellion, at least, Celia showed signs of breathing. That’s exactly how Celia’s mother looked at it.

When Abigail would stumble home drunk, or Celia’s mother found a half naked man under Celia’s covers one morning, Celia’s mother would calmly say hello, and scurry away into the kitchen to fix her new fiancé a hearty breakfast before work. Celia’s mother was a pleaser, always trying to do her best to make her dysfunctional family functional again. Celia’s father died in a tragic car accident, he died instantly, leaving Celia’s mother breathing, and able to come home to her young daughter. It was as if Celia’s mother was trying to make up for the absence of Celia’s father, by bringing a successful, intellectual man into the home. Sure, he’d get bitterly drunk at times, she even found him still in contact with his ex on one occasion.

Yet, Celia’s mother looked passed it all, and accepted his marriage proposal, hoping that she’d have a second chance at happiness with a man again. Celia resented her mother passionately, but covered it up with smiles and support. Abigail wasn’t afraid to show her anger towards the arrangement. She hated Celia’s mother’s fiancé with every fiber in her being. She hated his alcoholic breath breathing down her neck, she loathed the scruff on his face, the desire in his eyes, the drunken whispers.




Celia took it all, only to make sure that when she was gone, her mother would have something to lean back on. Celia didn’t want to stay here for long, she had dreams of becoming a nurse, having her own family, a better family. As tattered as her life had become in just a blink, she still kept faith in the dream of being happily in love.

Abigail laughed at the thought. She knew fairytale weddings, and perfectly sculpted, blue eyed babies were just in storybooks and should stay there. The day was becoming slow, and Abigail wanted to scream. She couldn’t stand the idea of watching the grass grow and becoming content with her safely knit neighborhood. The lies that stayed hidden behind it, she wanted to consume them, have them live inside her and burst into vibrant, explosions within her soul. Beginning to transition into noon, she finally got out of the silk blanket, stepped onto the cool, hardwood floor, still in her underwear, she hoped Celia’s mother was out planning a future wedding agenda with her love this afternoon, so she could safely go upstairs and retrieve a bowl of cereal.

Normally, Abigail is a free spirit, she doesn’t care who sees her body, who gawks over it, as long as she makes the decision, all is good. Yet, Celia’s mother’s fiancé is never one to give out choices, or ask permission, the muffin shop is, as long as she can help it, closed! She peeks upstairs and sees that no one is in the kitchen, she’s safe enough. She grabs the proper necessities, Lucky Charms, milk, bowl, and spoon. Celia would have a cow if she ever saw Abigail drowning her body in carbohydrates, she’s a massive calorie counter, Abigail is almost tempted to a dumb ten spoonfuls of sugar into the mix.

Now that breakfast at noon is now out of the way, who can Abigail play with? She looks at Celia’s cell, one new message, curiosity did kill the cat after all. Yet, Abigail finds herself to be half feline anyway. She clicks the open option to find;

Hey, you left in such a rush, I became concerned, I hope it wasn’t because of anything that happened between us last night? Anyway, give me a call if you ever get the chance.

Oh Tom, you’ll be tended to on a much more rainier day than this one. In fact, Abigail sees sun. Spring, and it already feels like summer. Abigail slips into something flimsy and cute, combs the massive, unmanageable mess that is Celia’s hair, and goes out to find her car. Driving down this narrow path is starting to make Abigail sleepy. There has to be something fun to do, she’s tempted to leave town altogether, not like Celia’s mom will take a second glance. Maybe, the fiancé will have some form of a protest. Pig.

Abigail spies Jason walking alone, skateboard in tow, she comes to a halt. She swerves around, changing lanes sharply, angry honks echoing behind her. She slows down, rolls down her window, and calls for him. He turns around, alarmed at the fact of being followed. “Hi, what’s going on?” his facial expression quickly shifting to bored again. Abigail smiles sweetly, “Oh, nothing, I just saw you walking and wondered where you were headed, need a lift, maybe?”

His eyes light up, “Sure, that’d be awesome,” he hops into the passenger seat, throwing his skateboard in back. Jason is your typical pothead. He’s tried other things like coke, and rumors have it, he’s even dipped into a bit of heroin as well. Abigail has been drawn to him from the start, she doesn’t like to view herself as codependent. Abigail just knows she wants him to enter her at least once. Girls have raved about his large dick, and the ways he’s tempted a woman to try absolutely anything in bed. Abigail wants to have at least one endeavor with this druggie, rumored sex machine.

“Where to?” Abigail smiles seductively. “Oh, just to my buddy Brad’s house.” Easy enough, Jason gives Abigail vivid directions to Brad’s, even invites her to join in on the fun. She accepts, and one, two, three, four, and their there. Brad’s house smells like all sorts of narcotics. Bob Marley, securely hangs on a nail, behind the group of people on the couch. Chill, zoned out, music is playing, and someone in the other room is having a real good time. Abigail wants to be next. People are already shooting up, and even snorting up on the coffee table. Everything is so serial. Abigail has only seen this type of heavy drug use on television.

Jason passes her a blunt, something she’s formal with. She holds it in, blows it out, she’s finally content with where she’s at, and who she’s with. This girl starts to get up and dance to the slow R&B that is now coming through the speakers. She has sleek, blonde hair, and her eyes are a strange crimson. Artificial maybe? Interesting, Abigail has never really thought about being with a girl, but the appeal washes over her foreign idea of the concept. The girl grabs Abigail’s hand, and they start to grind on each other casually, Jason winks, and Brad is soaking up the reverie of them doing something much more than just dancing. The other boys are stupefied, and the few other girls that are there try to evade their focus, and force them to return their attention back on them.

One girl even grabs a boy’s hand and leads him into one of the back rooms. Abigail doesn’t understand the cliquish behavior with these stoner girls. Normally, the gatherings Abigail is engrossed in are much more open, and welcoming than this. It’s almost like a competitive race, how many male eyes can you distract with your curves and lose lips. Now that Abigail is aware, she’s enjoying the game mapped out for her. Crimson eyes lock on hers. Before Abigail knows it, the girl and her are kissing. Hoots and howls are the reaction they get from the remaining crowd. Abigail opens one eye and can see Jason in a mad trance. The two girls fall to the floor, in the circle of men gathered around them. Abigail is laying on her back, and the girl is on top of her, she gently moves the thin cloth between her and Abigail’s burning skin. She kisses above Abigail’s bellybutton. Celia locked away somewhere, Abigail cannot believe what she’s about to indulge in.



The girl’s hands move from Abigail’s breasts to what lays below. Abigail has become completely unaware of the small crowd’s voyeurism. She doesn’t care who sees, as long as she gets to fall deep, deep into these crimson eyes. The girl’s lips travel away from Abigail’s stomach, and on to the next destination. Abigail softly lets out a small giggle, and then gives out a breathy sigh.

Celia finds herself in her Ford Fiesta. She’s in the backseat, on top of Jason Monroe’s naked flesh. He’s snoring lightly, Celia climbs into the driver’s seat, and pushes the front door open, naked in an abandoned field, a dozen miles outside of town, Celia screams.

It’s one in the afternoon. Celia is driving around and around the same subdivision, the subdivision Jason told Abigail to go in. He slithered away like a serpent, and into the dark house with gray shudders, that Celia assumed was his own home. The drive back into town was an awkward one to say the least. Celia couldn’t even participate in the small talk Jason was supplying. She was even too shameful to ask what happened the night before between them, if it was exactly what it looked like happened.

Jason was someone that you would associate with a tasteless vegetable, he had no flavor, and he was the last thing any child would want to put in their mouth. Why did Celia always seem to put herself in the child category anyway? She was nineteen for Christ’s sake, than why did she feel so small? She wanted to be wrapped into someone’s big, strong, trusting arms. Her father. That’s exactly who she wanted to crawl back home to. Yet, he wasn’t there. In the dirt somewhere, Celia even repressed the location of his gravesite. Surely, her mother should know, but asking would feel like it’s very own, private stab of pain.

She goes home, but to no surprise, the couple is out for the day. Celia’s mother could be found in her normal hideaways, an outlet mall, the grocery store, overstocking their fridge with needless items, just to fill space up somehow; since love is a constant missing factor in the household. As for the fiancé. The troll can most likely be found under a bridge somewhere, the pub is a nice substitute as well. It being three and everything, he probably wants to get a head start with his buddies in the drinking race. He could come home stupidly drunk, passing Celia’s bedroom, retracing his steps back, lightly brushing his hand against the doorknob, then slinking back to Celia’s mother’s bedroom instead. As the wedding grows nearer, this is a common occurrence, his drunk ass being put on probation from his nightly pleasure.

Celia’s eyes begin to bubble, dribbling hot liquid down her cheek, she can’t stand it, this missing control in her life, has she ever once just done something for her and herself alone. She fears that she’s slowly transforming into her mother’s youthful clone. Pleasing, pleasing, pleasing, and for what? To get stomped on by manipulative bastards, not even recollecting how this Jason from high school, found himself underneath her. It’s just all too much. Celia goes into the lifeless kitchen, painted a faded yellow, an attempt for something bright and sunny for Celia’s dreary walls.

A waterfall of irony splashes down on her, when she makes the connection. Celia almost wants to laugh bitterly. Her hand goes blindly into a kitchen drawer, she feels the pointy prickly heads of forks, and the round curve on each spoon. Then, she finds the jagged face of her distant friend. They aren’t always the closest companions, but when Celia’s been knocked down off of life’s oh so high pedestal, they rekindle their long existing friendship.

The one pedestal she never feels she can reach, falls far from her struggles to touch it in the end, but that distant friend is always waiting, waiting for her return. Celia picks him up, strokes his sliver on her warm skin. Prick. Just a slight one, till she digs deeper into the flesh that’s containing her. The suffocation of it all. She needs it to be released. It’s screaming to be let out. She knows what it’s like to beg, though silently. She knows the excruciating pleas that bestow her all too well.

Abigail wakes, she finds the sharp poke of the knife jabbing her side. She removes it, and looks directly at it’s bleeding face. She rolls her eyes, then rolls over entirely. God, Celia can be such a downer. She lifts up her shirt, and finds slashes across her flat stomach. Well, this is just fucking great, she thinks coldly to herself. Who’s going to want to fuck someone who looks like they just got slashed by the living dead. Ah, might as well be this way anyhow. She’s had sexual endeavors with three different people in the span of two days. Abigail needs a day off, it looks like Celia’s already taking a full vacation.

Celia’s mother comes fluttering into view while Abigail is blow drying her thick. tangled head. “Oh good, you’re up!” she coos at Abigail’s stern face. What could this bitch possibly want from me? Abigail groans to herself. “I want you to come with me and all the bridesmaids to try on the dresses.” she continues to babble. “Will Rick be there?” Abigail taunts; provoking a tinge of guilt on Celia‘s mother‘s once happy face. A long thin line forms on Celia’s mother’s forehead, “No, of course not, it’s dress shopping, it’s just for us girls.” she murmurs, more to herself than anything. “Yeah, whatever, I’ll be there.” Abigail grumbles, throws on a T-shirt and prepares herself for a hen fest. Sex with a fourth would be so much better than this. What was Abigail possibly thinking?

Celia’s aunt tries unsuccessfully to pull the pink ruffles over her large, enhanced bust. It’s funny to watch her hobble, and stumble blindly over herself. Abigail has to try to hide her snickers, then she realizes what’s the point? This shit is rich. Abigail sits on a chair, fluffed up in a matching dress of her own that she despises, while her mother fawns over the other bridesmaids. She flicks one of her too high of heels off her bored foot a little to far and it kicks Celia’s cousin Bernice right in the ass. Bernice turns around flushed and glares at Abigail’s no hint of remorse, face.





Bernice is lanky, and has wide features, she’s the total opposite of Celia’s genetic makeup, which makes Abigail wonder if the two are even related. Bernice is a cousin on her mother’s side, naturally, any hint of her father’s family has dissipated over time, like sand grain falling in an hourglass. Rare visits, fleeing holiday cards, and then alas, nothing. Celia doesn’t even attempt to stay in touch with them.

She figures, there isn’t a point in unnecessary attachments, especially if those unnecessary attachments make no effort to keep in contact with her anyway. On the way back, Celia’s mother attempts so desperately to connect with what she thinks is Celia. Oh, what does it matter? It’s not like if Celia’s mind was conscious her mother would notice anyhow. For all Celia’s mother knows Abigail is the real Celia. The new and improved Celia, Abigail grins to herself, and looks far off someplace.

Celia finds herself sitting, passenger seat, in her mother’s ever so fashionable, eggshell colored, minivan. She’s holding a plastic casing, where a big, ruffled, pink, dress is zipped up and secured on Celia’s lap. Oh boy, Celia thinks to herself, I wonder how I looked in this disaster. She can only connect the dots, wedding related outing. Isn’t that all her mother ever beckons her for. They use to be closer, Celia knows that. Celia’s mother just needs more. She always has. Though she’s a selfless woman in a lot ways, the one thing she’s always selfish for is a consistent man in her life. Good or bad, as long as Celia’s mother has claim on one. Celia finds herself becoming nauseous, and it isn’t because of the vibrant fuchsia resting on her lap.

When Celia arrives home from the dress shop, she retrieves her phone. One missed call. It’s from Tom. He really must be concerned, she wonders if he received the note she left for him that night. She rifts through her inbox as well. An open text reveals his worries. She glances at the clock, it’s only one thirty in the afternoon, she returns to the missed call and presses gently on the neon green, symbol on her less than updated technology. “Hello.” a gruff voice picks up. It doesn’t sound like anything like the alert Tom, Celia remembers from class. Than again, that was two years ago, people change consistently after all, vocals included. “Hi, this is Celia, um, I got a missed call from you…” Celia finds herself growing immensely timid in the situation she consciously got herself involved in. Abigail’s situation. “Oh, I’m so glad you called me back, he says, I was writing out a few modifications on a written assignment I have planned for next week, I must of caught myself dowsing off though,” his voice immediately makes the conscious transition Celia was expecting in the first place. “I was just..” she trails, but Tom rescues her falling words, “I just wanted to let you know, that I really enjoyed our time together, Celia, and well, I feel we connect, and I don’t mean in just the physical aspects of it all, I’d really like to see you again.”

Celia begins to feel compulsion dictate every ounce of her being for the moment. She feels daring, unlike most days. She’d rather be gone instead of here. She’d rather be out with someone whom actually gives just a dose of interest in her, rather than wait up in her room for Celia’s mother’s fiancé to stumble on home. She’d rather feel liberated, rather than debate with herself if she’ll scream, or stay silent.

“What are you doing tonight Tom?”

Celia waits in her car, she’s trembling, she’s been on dates before. She knows what to expect in her age group, hell, she even expects what to expect below and under her age group. But this? Where to begin, whatever Abigail did to Tom last, Celia cannot even grasp the concept of it. She’s parked in Tom’s driveway, she’s recollected all the small talk she’s ever had with Tom.

“How’s your day Mr. Gordon?”, “Yes, I’m doing good too, thanks for asking Mr. Gordon!” or “Do you need help grading the essays from last week Mr. Gordon?” “No, no, it’d be no problem at all, Mr. Gordon!” God, she was so cheap. So replaceable, and unoriginal with her previous conversations with Tom. Should she go back to addressing him formally when they speak to each other? No, no, no, what is she thinking, he wanted to see her, he wanted to speak with her causally, and possibly romantically? She can’t even accomplish flirting with a boy, let alone swooning a grown man. She has nineteen years behind her belt and she can’t even have a proper date with someone without fainting, or feeling the urge to do so.

Unwillingly, she strays from her car and heads for the front door, only to be greeted by acoustical music. Celia finds Mr. Gordon strumming aimlessly with his guitar, but somehow it sounds like pure instrumental genius. His fingers are so talented, so educated. She finds herself blushing, not for her exactly, but for Abigail, not like Abigail could blush on account of any promiscuous flashback she relapsed into, if anything she’d search for someone to high-five. “Hi,” Celia says shyly, Mr. Gordon glances up from his strumming and returns Celia’s greeting with a warm smile. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, something in his voice is soft and sweet. He gestures to the empty seat beside him on the couch, he continues to create guitar riffs. Celia watches intently, hoping to learn something from his talent; she so desperately wants to bathe in. She can’t recall one thing she’s gifted in besides the talent of submissive behavior.

Tom abruptly stops his playing and looks into Celia’s tender eyes. “I don’t know what it is, I know it’s so wrong. You know, us being together. I mean, I feel so wrong in everyway, but I don’t want to let go of you Celia. I know we’ve only spent one night together, barely even talked, but I feel like I already know you. Your writing in my class…I wanted to consume it all, your thoughts so delicate, and inclined to the world. Your intelligence amazes me, and sometimes Celia…I forget your age. I told myself I wouldn’t see you again, but it was like my phone was mocking me, telling me to text you, telling me to call you. I feel like a love drunken teenager all over again. I haven’t felt the urge to be with someone like how I feel to be with you. You enlighten a part of me that so desperately needs to be told to feel this way. I understand if your intentions that night meant something different than how I felt when you acted on them. You’re young, and I’d have to delusional to believe someone so full of youth, and beauty would want to be with someone so aged and crippled from the world’s cold lessons. I just felt so…” Before he could finish Celia instinctively pressed her lips softly against his, Tom couldn’t recall if they had been there in the first place, or if he was simply dreaming the kiss had occurred.

“I don’t think you realized how long I’ve dreamt of doing that.” she whispered, Tom’s eyes glistened, and the smile on his face spread to the point where his face began to hurt. She rested her head on his shoulder, she could feel the warm steam exiting her eyes. Tom took one of her hands and placed it on his cheek, lifted it and then kissed each knuckle softly. She didn’t know the meaning behind a kiss, she didn’t know until this very afternoon.

Celia found herself vibrant. She couldn’t contain her thoughts on one direct subject. She was thinking of a dozen things at once, and nothing seemed to interfere with her happiness. When she saw her mother in the morning light, she wasn’t easily distracted by her mother’s harden face, she wasn’t looking at her mother’s weaknesses that seeped through, surfacing to her skin and complexion but what made her beautiful naturally; her blissful ignorance. Celia became aware of this because she was there with her, enduring blissful ignorance. Even if Tom wasn’t all he seemed to appear, Celia wanted to drown in this illusion of pure contentment and anticipation to see what sparked next between them. She was constantly glued to her phone, if they couldn’t see each other, they were with each other virtually. After all, isn’t that what this generation does? Texting, or webcams? Celia wasn’t fully inclined with all of technology’s wonderment, before Tom, she barely browsed through her phone to keep consistent contact with anyone. If she ran into them, she ran into them. If not, the relationship she had with people she may of known, sort of dissipated into the clouds.
Abigail was becoming angry. Everything about the room she was currently contained in was royally pissing her off. She hated, rather loathed Celia’s decoration sense; her fashion sense was even more disabled Abigail thought. Abigail wanted to burn things, burn someone rather. Yet, since she wasn’t anywhere near relatable to Celia. She was truly going to evade self infliction at all costs. She needed a boy toy. No, she needed a man. Ever since Celia got ever so wrapped up in the dear Tom. The whole teacher fucking student ritual was becoming something of a routine. It almost felt like actual school. Here class, let me teach you the essentials, proper demonstrations on fucking, Abigail? Would you mind helping with this lesson? After all you are the teacher’s pet. Abigail snickered at the dirty thought she illustrated in her desperately needing a bath, of a mind.
Abigail wasn’t in the mood for any boy in town, nor any middle aged, dreams completely sucked from their hearts, man ether. Her town, Celia’s town rather, Abigail was just a repeated guest in. This town was defined as stable and safe. Two of Abigail’s least favorite “S” words. Abigail was looking for something fun, something different, and most of all something fresh. She’d heard about all these schmucks by ether picking through Celia’s memories, or just reading it straight off of peoples faces. Everyone was an open and closed case around here, and Abigail about had it, she was almost willing to go all Brittney Spears on everyone’s asses and shave her head.
Abigail found herself sobbing, in a circle of stoned out well…stoners. She didn’t understand what came over her. She’d like to tell you different, but Abigail was something most people would refer to as a ‘baby stoner’. Unlike most of the kids in Celia’s town that started smoking the tree at a tender age, Abigail began right when she arrived in Celia’s brain, which was what? Only a few years. Two tops? That’s hardly enough to get all your major highs out of the way. She was still unstable, and not quite certain how many hits were enough to reach satisfaction in the walls of this getting ever so crowed mind. She didn’t understand why she was crying, it was an intense cry, something some would associate with losing a loved one.
Everyone in the circle was all mixed up in their own trances, listening to music that was in the what…heavy metal genre? Anyway, Abigail could feel her toes a little too well, and the inside of her mouth felt like little foreign mountains, whenever she grazed her tongue around the little hills that were suppose to be her teeth. She was so hungry, she felt like her insides were bound to collapse inside her if she didn’t get any substance in her soon. Abigail wondered why she even bothered getting high if there was a chance she’d ever feel like this. She almost felt human. She couldn’t control the intention that was self reflection. She got up from her seat, headed for the door. Some of the boys called after her, confused on her abrupt decision to leave this hot boxing session of theirs. This was suppose to be fun, but she picked very droned out people for an option of fun. I mean sure it was free weed, sure it was a free place to smoke it. Yet, the weed was obviously way too good, or she was obviously way too good for it.
Abigail found her way to her car, waiting for her on the street. It felt like it took her a good half an hour to stretch open her purse and dig for her keys, and it felt twice as long to use the keys to open her door. She loathed being mobile when she was this strung out. She finally settled down in her seat. The cozy leather felt like it was attempting to give her a hug when she relaxed on to it’s chest. Abigail was tripping balls. She started the car, and could feel the roar within her, she wanted to have sex.
Abigail was driving like a manic depressive, crazed, lunatic. She probably accumulated forty honks, and probably a dozen middle fingers in the last seconds of just driving to Tom’s house. She knew Celia would freak out if she decided to come back into reality and see what Abigail had done to her unwilling body. She’d probably go into a depression, right after Abigail’s hasty, now satisfied departure from her brain. Yet, Abigail didn’t care in the least, she wanted something inside her, and since it was four in the morning, what better than the late night, writing, English teacher?
Celia’s Ford Fiesta slowly approached Tom’s quiet driveway, before exiting the vehicle, Abigail fluffed up her hair, and smeared just a shade too dark for Celia’s skin, lipstick over her anticipating lips. She got out, and slammed the door just a little too hard, that her everlasting high made her believe the entire world heard the one small noise. She found courage to reach the porch, and the automatic porch lights greeted her, that alarmed Abigail just for a quick moment, until she realized to how truly normal that was. She knocked softly on the door, until she realized that the sound was simply to inaudible.
She decided the doorbell would be more efficient instead. She noticed a light flicker on through the window. Then she was staring up at Tom’s sleepy eyed face. “Celia?” his hoarse voice murmured. He was dressed in one of those middle aged dad robes, and she wondered why her attractions and infatuations led her here to this man’s doorstep. Oh well, she’d work with what she’d achieved. “Uh, hi…” Abigail trailed off, she was starting to realize being this high and seductive just wasn’t going to add up to much. “Is there something wrong?” Tom’s eyes sparked up with concern. Abigail shook her had vigorously. “No of course not, I just wanted to see you, Tom.” She allowed her tongue to peek out from her mouth and wet just a bit of her lip. This wasn’t working. She looked like a wreck, she could feel her skin quickly slipping away from her.
“Well, come on in,” he said while rubbing his eyes. He went into the kitchen and started up the coffee maker. Abigail could tell she was an instant burden and had to make up for it, and fast. She went to the couch where they first had sex at. She stripped down to only her bra and underwear and waited for him to come back with the coffee he was impatiently waiting for to be done; to revive himself from an abrupt awakening. Tom entered the living room, and once sleepy eyed, instantly became cartoon bugged eye, to the final transition into a male’s newly satisfied look. He approached the couch, and then found himself on top of Abigail. The sensation she felt when he entered her was an intense one. But it defiantly helped her come down faster, she could feel her senses being less intact, and slowly dulling to a normal human extent. When they finished, her brain finally relaxed, relaxed so much, that she found herself in a drifting dream state, finally she was asleep under him. Tom looked puzzled at this transition in activity. Yet, he did like any other lover would do when he’s realized his partner has fallen asleep, he lifted her naked flesh up into his arms and retreated it to the guest bedroom, blanket, pillow and all.
Celia had awoken to birds chirping, and light peaking from the shallow curtains in the foreign room she found herself in. She was under a blue comfort that was too warm for this weather. She saw an established wall with numerous black and white photographs of assuming family members. She got up from the bed, only to look in the mirror to find herself completely revealed. Nude. She shrieked her loudest shriek and ran out the door. She stopped in the hallway, only to peek down for a clear view of the half naked Tom himself cooking something that resembled some form of eggs. “I know…I’m not really the best cook,” He looked up to see her startled expression. Little did he know, it wasn’t the eggs, or the poor cooking skills Tom had accumulated over the years that put her in straight utter shock.
Celia and Tom are sitting on the circular, little, wooden, kitchen table. Celia can barely make eye contact for very long before turning red. She can barely stand the idea of sex, especially sex she can’t even recall. She’s almost certain she partook in it with Tom, at least. Yet, how mortifying can that be, not even being able to recall making love…or how Abigail demonstrated it, straight fucking, and not being able recollect any thoughts or notions of your body doing the act. Celia has never really been strong religious, though she knows her mother is Christen.
Celia recalls being younger and going to church with both her mother and her father. She was always concerned about the topic of having two fathers. Your father art in heaven, and the dad Celia saw before her watching cartoons with her or giving her a piggyback ride. Celia decided at a very young age, that she just wanted her daddy, whoever was art in heaven, could just stay there. Celia being more developed in the mind, her views still haven’t evolved much on the whole religion topic. Any chance of her really being passionate, or conforming in religion had passed the moment she stepped foot into that truck. That stupid truck, with the broken window. If the signs weren’t screaming at her physically to turn away.
Celia’s thoughts were interrupted by Tom asking for the syrup, she brainlessly passed it over. “Is something wrong?” Tom asked, after sugarcoating the shit out of his pancakes. Yes, Celia decided the eggs were too fried to be edible, so she ran out and got pancake mix and every other essential needed to reestablish their breakfast. “Oh, nothing, I suppose.” Celia answered, deep in thought. “Well, it looks like something is wrong, do you want to leave?” His mouth was allowing her to exit, but his eyes were pleading with her to just stay to enjoy the rest of the morning with him. Celia instantly felt like she was possessed by her mother, she didn’t want to tell Tom the true reason why her mind was boggled, and she was reexamining this entire relationship with him, in fear of upsetting him, or becoming disapproving in his eyes. Celia did something also, that could easily be represented as a trait beheld by her mother. She got up from her seat and kissed Tom reassuringly on the mouth. A few minutes later, she was on his lap and they were kissing and bathing in the sunlight that was spilling out from the kitchen window.
Celia drove home feeling restless, she knew her body was exhausted from Abigail’s previous affairs, but she wouldn’t let herself fall into dreaming in fear that her body may awaken and become someone completely different, doing acts completely different than Celia would ever fathom from hers. She looked in the review mirror and even from a far away stance she could tell her face exploited what he mind was feeling. She returned home to find her mother and her fiancée causally sitting on the sofa. Celia felt her cheeks immediately flame up, she hadn’t showered, and she was clothed in the sluttish outfit Abigail picked out for the evening before. Her hair was probably a mess, and her face naturally explained what happened the night before. “Rough night?” Celia’s mother’s fiancée asked in a mannish, taunting voice. At that moment Celia wanted to punch him in the mouth, for more reasons than just one.
“Honey, I waited up for you, I was worried, you didn’t call.” Celia’s mother doted. Give me a break, Celia thought to herself, though her content features showed less than sarcasm on her face. Celia knew exactly what her mother did the night before. She had her annual class of wine, Celia’s fiancée probably stumbled home from the bar, or wherever other place he squirms himself into, and they fooled around a little bit, till both of them inevitably passed out for the evening. Celia’s mother was closet drunk, she had an image to uphold for all her peers. All her middle-aged, gossipy bitched friends. Celia assumed they were all closet drinkers.
Wouldn’t you be a closet drinker too, if your children were aging, and keeping your man was a trial because he was always coming home shit faced, or chasing after younger, fleshier, women than you? Celia rested her case, she figured when women reached that certain age, desperation was key, and submission was by law. She nodded to her mother and tried to evade her mother’s fiancée’s stares at Celia’s noticeably visible cleavage. Abigail. Celia just wanted that bitch out of her head. She hardly ever used or thought of the word bitch to describe anyone, but Abigail seemed to attain the meaning of the word very well. Celia scurried off into her room, shut the door, and searched for her beloved friend. The friend that understood quite frankly, that Celia was a freak, and that he would always be there to trim off a bit of her freakish skin, in result trim a bit off her freakish life as well. Celia let out a breathy sigh of relief as her skin grew weak, and the blood from the knife felt warm against her.
She’s twirling, spiraling more so than anything else. She can’t decipher where she’s at, or if she’ll ever be continuously happy. She just knows she’s constantly moving into this direction to that one. She sees everything in a quick blur. She knows she can swim through the confusion if she just moves her own body forth, doesn’t rely on the motion of the embodiment she’s currently in. She needs to move forward, leaving everything that held her back behind. She knows she’ll find solace in the upcoming silence. She’ll move pass all the pain. Untangle the knots in her hair and leap free from all the constant doubt carried heavy in her soul. Celia drops her pen. That’s enough. Could she even imagine breaking free from this curse that she’s bestowed on herself. She must be crazy. She crumples up the unfinished literature that her brain emptied out before her on the piece paper, and tosses it into the trash. Someone could sniff through it and find a true answer, for all she cared. She got up from her desk, went to the mirror. She lifted up hers shirt, and traced the tender tissue with her fingers gently. It gave her such a release to feel that something she made, clung to her skin like that. Was there for good. No one could change it, not Abigail, not her mother’s sleazy fiancé. It was hers, it was her mark. Her future scar.
Abigail couldn’t contain it, she couldn’t control her anger long enough to conceive a well thought out thought. She wanted to throw a tantrum. It was silly to get this worked up over a scab across her flat stomach. But she was. What she wanted to do, if Celia liked to leave little memorabilia on her skin, Abigail thought it wild to leave a nice slash right under her eye and across her face. Might as well go all out if you insist on being dramatic. See how Celia liked that. Yet, Abigail was not a closet cutter, or an outward one. She wasn’t a cutter at all. If she had pain, if she felt trapped inside her own skin, she invited guests to come inside her, make being contained an enjoyment, not a curse. If Celia wasn’t such a prude, she’d know that, enjoy it, not self inflict.
Abigail wanted to start the day fresh. She called up that kid Colby, after four weeks of ignoring his repeated “Hey’s” through text message. She figured he had nothing better to do than smoke a bit of the tree and then head off for school, she wondered if he wouldn’t mind sharing a bit before he went on with his daily ritual. They were in his beat up Chevy, and Abigail found it amusing that Taylor Swift was background noise for them, while taking her first few hits of his homemade, water bottle, bong. You could tell that he only started smoking just this year, explaining the no ownership of his own smoking devices. Oh well, blind commitments, or should Abigail say blind addictions can be fun, especially if there fresh. Colby was generous with his weed, and was too wrapped up in his insecurities to ask questions about Abigail’s lack of affection towards him. Colby was so plain, and he became even plainer when he got stoned. He would hardly speak but rather just stare out into the distance. Luckily, the two of them were not mobile, but parked in his driveway. Colby lived with two boys, in a house that was land lorded by Colby’s elderly mother. Sweet deal, Abigail thought to herself. Maybe, she could move in with Tom, if she played her cards right. She wondered if Celia would agree with the living arrangements.
Abigail was drifting into her own peaceful contentment, that she found herself forgetting that Colby was with her at all. Surprisingly enough, he broke the silence, and entered Abigail’s racing, yet calm, thoughts. She was always so paranoid at the final stages of her high, she was constantly racing through time it felt, and her sex drive was potent enough, she felt she could bang an entire football team with just a sway of her hips. “I have to get to class,” Colby found himself repeating the same sentence for who knows how long, trying to slither closer to Abigail with each word. “I don’t know if I told you this, but me and Katrina are back together…” Colby was spacing off, and Abigail found herself becoming frustrated. Really, Katrina, he’s going on about Katrina again, if there was something Abigail despised most, it was a repeat of the past. If you’re done with something, you should be done with it for good, especially if you’re going to go around slapping commitment, and labels all over the place, repetitive past mistakes with the same girl, in the same dysfunctional mess you found yourself in before. It really put something hot and steamy underneath Abigail’s seat, she wanted to leave immediately, but Colby grabbed her hand, while the other was reaching for the door handle. “Where are you going? You’re not going to give me a little of something, after I gave you a little of something?” When did Colby get so demanding, stoned ? Abigail thought hazily to herself. “Let go, I’m ready to leave man, talk about your Katrina…with like Katrina..” Abigail giggled at the thought of repetitiveness with a name along with everything else. God, she was so gone, good shit, good shit. She scrambled to get herself together.
“Oh, come on now, don’t be like that Abigail.” Colby said with a slimy grin. Colby was probably the only guy on the planet that called Abigail, Abigail, and not the oh so timid, and insignificant Celia by fault, or meaning. Abigail liked that, but what she didn’t care for was attempt of persuasion, if she wanted to go, she was going to fucking go.
Colby tries to put an arm around Abigail’s waist, in attempts to bring her closer to him in the drivers seat, Abigail slithers away, and ended up slapping him. Abigail’s hand that touched Colby’s face, sort of tingled afterward, and Abigail finally realized that she was under the influence of something other than the good old fashion ‘tree‘. She started to panic, and before Colby could react to Abigail’s movie star type slap across his face, Abigail shuffled out of the car, and on to the street.
Celia cannot leave her bedroom. To get out of bed is it’s very own individual trial for her. She’s missed several of her classes, and a term paper is due today. She gave her mother strict orders to leave her alone and quiet. She’s sick. The question is, with what? The blinds are closed, her lights are off, and she has one very sad song set to repeat on her iPod. Tom has tried to get a hold of her a few times, but she can’t stand the thought to even look at him right now. The thought of his hands caressing her face, then traveling to other landmarks of her body, sends shivers down her spine. She pulls the covers closer to her head. She would release some of this built up disgust, and frustration, in a more constructive way, a bloodier way. Yet, she doesn’t even have the motivation to do that. She wants to crawl out of her skin, and once it is just her tender flesh revealed, she wants to poor hot acid on her remaining parts, and watch them disintegrate in third person perspective.
Celia hasn’t eaten in a few days, but she is out of bed. Celia grabs her books and starts the day mildly. She doesn’t feel as awful as yesterday, but there isn’t anything particularly heart warming about today ether. She’s been throwing up her meals recently, because the thought of food staying in her stomach for too long makes her sick. The thought of having anything in her stomach makes her want to throw up all over the stinking world. She has the belated essay in tow. Still. She’s not sure how well she’s done on it. Her professor will probably shake his head in disapproval for the lack of ‘effort’.
That’s one thing Celia has always loathed about school, this whole concept of competing, and being more academically sufficient than others to define your worth. She’s starting to loath the concept even more now that she’s in college, everyone is here to impress. Though she’s only attending state, everyone still acts like their attending Harvard or something. I suppose they should, they are paying good money out the ass to be here aren’t they? The books are more expensive than what Celia owns in her entire wardrobe and more. She’s an average scholar, but she’s still distasteful towards all of it, and it’s only decreased now that she’s played hooky for quite some time.
Celia finds herself doodling in her notebook, when her professor asks her to recite her literary narrative to the class. His eyes are searching for a prime example for discussion with his expository class. Celia’s cheeks turn bright pink, because she is well aware that her narrative is a joke. Celia was half awake, from lack of food and motivation when she had written it the night before. The class turns around, awaiting for her verbal recital. She flusters through a stack of papers under her notebook, meaningless scribbles of dark poetry, and bleak endings to fictional stories. Has she been writing gloomy literature subconsciously?
The student’s eyes looking up at her are burning holes through her flesh. She comes down from the podium she’s found herself at. Did she walk up here without realizing it? That’s how submissive she has become. When someone calls, she comes forth. If someone is in need of a host, she allows her body to do all sorts of despicable things, with hardly any type of recollection of it’s occurrence. She feels inferior. She feels like her mother. Her doe eyed, timid, trembling lipped, mother. She needs something sharp to slice through the pain. Anything would do really.
Celia is in the park. There’s a park not too far from campus that she likes to go to, clearing her head sometimes relinquishes all this excess stress she finds herself accumulating daily. It’s been a full week of being her complete and total self. No transitions, and no potential threats for regret from Abigail. She feels her cell phone vibrating within the denim walls of her front jean pocket. She pulls it, only to discover that it’s Tom’s hundredth dial to her number. She feels her lips tremble like she’s about to burst into a sprinkle of tears. Animated cartoon characters wouldn’t be capable of portraying the water works that are about to exit Celia’s eyes. She answers. “Celia!” Tom’s voice rushes when he realizes that his call hasn’t gone to voicemail. “Tom…I

© Copyright 2016 Kathleen Megquier. All rights reserved.

The Need, The Want, The Desire (Revised & More To The Story)

Status: Finished

Genre: Literary Fiction



Status: Finished

Genre: Literary Fiction



Perfection is hard for me to swallow. Inspiration comes and goes like little waves inside my brain. If I could just hold on to that thought, grab on to it and take flight, I would. I would. Life is so hard. Why can’t I match up to society’s standards? The human race is defined by simplicity and easy money, why can’t I just blend into it all? Abigail Bennett. That’s who I strive to be. See, I was born as Celia Welts, but who want’s a last name that is naturally portrayed as a lash or blow producing such a mark?
Share :

Add Your Comments:




Other Content by Kathleen Megquier

Add picture

Paste the link to picture in the entry below:

— or —

Drag a picture from your file manager into this box,
or click to select.

Add video

Paste the link to Youtube video in the following entry:

Existing Comments:
Bad selection

Cannot annotate a non-flat selection. Make sure your selection starts and ends within the same node.

(example of bad selection): This is bold text and this is normal text.
(example of good selection): This is bold text and this is normal text.
Bad selection

An annotation cannot contain another annotation.

Really delete this comment?
Really delete this comment?

There was an error uploading your file.