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Scribe
Join Date: Feb 2008
Gender: Female
Posts: 73
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Sorry it took so long, but I have a little more that I've added. Enjoy.
I began to hate a lot of things. I’d sit in the corner of the apartment, my eyes kissing the windowsill, staring at the dismal chaos of Miami; and I hated it. Homeless men pissed in dumpsters. Whores fucked lowlifes on the street, and I had to watch those lace-clad sluts deteriorate. Worthless wretches. As I took in the darkness, I tried to convince myself that I was different. The air in Lance’s place sizzled and embraced me like a freshly grown garden; it was sweet, giving me something to look forward to each time I awoke. It was my home. To Lance, I wasn’t some whore—some mutant woman. I kept telling myself that. But it seemed that Lance was dancing in circles, passing by to kiss my forehead, and orbiting into black. His ashy smell would brush my skin, then slip away, as if he were on an eternal pendulum.
I rolled my eyes. I was so weak, as my father would say, giving in to foolish tears and feelings. Moving my head from the couch, I pulled myself forward, crossing my legs tightly. My body felt constricted and coiled, but I couldn’t seem to do anything else but stiffen. Lance wasn’t supposed to get to me like this. Just an old client, I told myself.
“You got something good for me inside?” a muffled voice asked from outside the apartment door. I heard Lance laugh—his quiet, haunting laugh—and I immediately began to panic. There was a woman with him.
“You’ll have to wait and see,” he said. I shut my eyes when the doorknob began to rattle as he fumbled with the lock, and I could feel the urge to run begin to infuse me without relenting. My eyes darted around the room, briefly passing over the balcony; falling sounded so free to my tightened form. I could see myself running through the blind-clad door, shifting my body over the edge; and I’d simply slip away into the humming, ghoulish song of the city. Cars would shudder, horns would sound, and my moment would shine bright as my blood. Beautiful girl with a split skull—it sounded more than glamorous. I heard the front door creak open, and I felt myself groan, my gaze averting from the gray balcony.
Lance stepped into the room slowly. “Oh . . .” he began. His eyes seemed to have red rivers coursing through them, luminous against his dark skin. I watched his brows furrow in disappointment. “Sorry, Savy. I didn’t know you’d still be here.”
Words began to fall silently from his lips as I stared at the redhead attached to his arm. She was paper-pale, but her face was doused in make-up, looking as if she had taken crayons to her eyelids and a scarlet marker to her lips. Her blue eyes sparked softly beneath layers of mascara. I couldn’t manage to keep myself from smirking when she took a step back; her cowardice was oozing out her powdered pores. Lance pulled her close to him.
“I didn’t forget ya, Baby,” he said smiling. He turned to me. “This is Chynel.” She beamed at Lance, and I felt my stomach roll.
“So this must be your roommate’s daughter.” Her voice came like spoiled milk. I could almost taste its stench. “It’s nice to finally meet you, sweetie.”
Sweetie. The word clung to my ears, dripping over me like acid, burning holes in my skin. I could tell it was intentional—that she was hiding from my intimidating expression.
“Nice to meet you too, bitch,” I hissed, flashing my teeth. I noted her bewildered look. “It’s a term of endearment,” I said, “like ‘sweetie.’”
“Sav! Chill, girl!” Lance shook his head. “What’s gotten into you? Me and Chynel are just gonna grab a few things and go.”
“Sure.” Winking at the redhead, I grinned, and I could feel slick malice crawling through me. I watched Lance snake multiple fixes through his weedy fingers; his blackened eyes grabbed me with a fierce anger that I’d never seen before. I couldn’t help myself. My smile broadened, ushering him forward. The way he moved was brilliant, his body seeming leaner, longer. “Yes?” I asked.
His voice was airy and swift. “Don’t fuck this up for me,” he said.
“Don’t worry.” My tongue lingered over my bottom lip. As I maneuvered my hands against his, I drew him close to me. “The only thing I want to fuck is you.”
“Wha…” Immediately, his form turned icy, tauntingly squirmy. Chynel grasped his arm and pulled him toward the door, glowering in my direction, eyes wild as her hair. I snorted as she struggled with the handle, one of her phony fingernails darting to the floor.
“Bye, Lance!” I cried out, and I was sure to mouth the word “slut” for Chynel as she slammed the door shut. Shrugging, I rolled my eyes, muttering, “I don’t know what her problem was.” Then I stood still for a moment. Step one: stay calm. But as usual, I ignored the vows a normal person would repeat and released an incensed fist into the couch. Again and again, I pounded, letting the scratchy material clothe my hand with each swing. It was unbearable; I felt my eyes burning, as if someone were using a cigarette lighter to ignite my sadness and tears.
“Why?” I screamed, gripping the sides of my head. “What is wrong with me?”
“The fact that you’d waste your time crying,” I heard my father say behind me. His words were thick like honey, but they were oppositely bitter. I glanced over my shoulder. He was dusty, and denim covered his body loosely.
“Go to hell,” I said, falling onto the sofa with a graceful flair. My tears were already beginning to dry, my skin turning sticky, and my father laughed.
“Really? Is that what you want?” He seemed almost giddy with each movement of his mouth. “You are feisty today, and there’s really no need for it. You’ve already stopped crying, so clearly you are once again in my favor.”
“I thought this was about balance,” I volleyed back when he knelt in front of me, his tired lips sporting a jeering smile. I bit the inside of my cheek and tried to keep myself from melting at the sight of him. “You’ve been telling me that forever, Daddy.” The last word ran over my tongue like sandpaper, but I couldn’t deny how good it tasted. Sick but so delightful.
“You want it, fight for it, Angel,” he said. Rising to his feet, he gestured me upward. “Here’s a game. Hit me.”
I narrowed my eyes dubiously.
“You wanted balance. Aren’t you angry? Show me. I want to feel your burning hatred. Hit me.” His expression was wild, his shoulders straightened and ready. He raised both eyebrows, stepping back. I smirked and stood. He was possibly the most delicious man I’d ever known. When he didn’t move, I balled my fist, my fingernails scraping my skin, digging deeper and deeper. The pain was so good.
“You’re an ass,” I whispered. My flesh struck his right on the cheek, and my stomach immediately felt as if it were going to burst, though he didn’t seem to falter. His heart was hard like his face. I could tell. Everything about him was stone, and it didn’t matter how many times I slammed my fists into him. He wouldn’t break. From the corners of my eyes, I noticed the dreary color of the apartment walls. How fitting, I thought. The pain I felt punching my father was equally gray. Not gothic and not bright. It was just there like the walls, needed but hardly noticed.
I heard my father laughing and suddenly I found myself against the floor, my left cheek throbbing, bruising, then again in the same spot. And my forehead. My abdomen. My chin. But the pain was surreal; so much that is was barely touchable. It hugged me around every inch of my body, but it was wispy and quiet. Everything stopped for a moment when he looked at me. His blue eyes seemed to flash black, and he kissed my neck.
“You punch, I punch back,” he breathed to my ear. “It will always be that way.”
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