FAÇADE, 8
The floor distances itself from my feet, tunneling far below my toes. I realize my socks are the only thing I am still wearing, and between the falling floor and the crooked entrance to the bedroom, it’s obvious I’ve already drank my fair share.
Lucy, Linda, or Lexi – the redheaded jogger – awaits me, her bare nipples pressing against the silk sheets. Every fabric melts around her, as though it was designed for flattery and to compliment her figure from every angle. I gesture the glass, but she shakes her head.
Placing the glass on an end table, I slide under the covers next to her, socks still on. We toss and turn, never separating more than a few inches. She play-bites my lip over and over until it’s numb, and I grunt and bite back, although nothing about pain turns me on. Then I taste the saltiness of blood.
She’s pulling me closer. Sliding me towards her. I reach out for the side of the bed to grip on, but knock her wineglass against the brass-base lamp. Glass shatters.
The redheaded jogger smiles and reaches over for the largest shard of glass. My reflection, upside down on the pieces, glares back at me.
Her grin draws wide as she lifts the shard high above her chest and plunges it down, lacerating her flesh until the glass thuds against bone.
I’m falling off of the bed and convulsing. “Oh my god,” I mutter. “What?”
The redheaded jogger stares down at her chest, watching the red river stain the sheets. With a worried smile, she looks at me and asks, “I’ve really done it this time, haven’t I?”
Thwack! My back smacks against the cold tiled floor.
What bedroom floor is tiled? I wonder.
Collapsing into a fetal position, I can’t help but stare at the blood as it cascades over the edge of the bed and onto the floor, inching towards my face.
Lucy, Linda, or Lexi – the redheaded jogger – awaits me, her bare nipples pressing against the silk sheets. Every fabric melts around her, as though it was designed for flattery and to compliment her figure from every angle. I gesture the glass, but she shakes her head.
Placing the glass on an end table, I slide under the covers next to her, socks still on. We toss and turn, never separating more than a few inches. She play-bites my lip over and over until it’s numb, and I grunt and bite back, although nothing about pain turns me on. Then I taste the saltiness of blood.
She’s pulling me closer. Sliding me towards her. I reach out for the side of the bed to grip on, but knock her wineglass against the brass-base lamp. Glass shatters.
The redheaded jogger smiles and reaches over for the largest shard of glass. My reflection, upside down on the pieces, glares back at me.
Her grin draws wide as she lifts the shard high above her chest and plunges it down, lacerating her flesh until the glass thuds against bone.
I’m falling off of the bed and convulsing. “Oh my god,” I mutter. “What?”
The redheaded jogger stares down at her chest, watching the red river stain the sheets. With a worried smile, she looks at me and asks, “I’ve really done it this time, haven’t I?”
Thwack! My back smacks against the cold tiled floor.
What bedroom floor is tiled? I wonder.
Collapsing into a fetal position, I can’t help but stare at the blood as it cascades over the edge of the bed and onto the floor, inching towards my face.
