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Chapter 4 Part 3
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2024-10-29 19:42:56December 19th, 2012
Evening
Damon
“We forgot about the news yesterday!” Sasha is sat at the other end of the couch, her toes just inches from my thigh. I’m really not sure when I became corrupted by fantasies of her feet. They’re quite pretty. Long, slender. Straight toes. Cropped, painted nails. Protruding veins. I can imagine them padding at my crotch a little too vividly. My jeans are a bit tight.
“Tarantino’s film was scrapped because of Sandy Hook.” I watch as she squints, probably trying to remember her own headline.
“They dug up those two murderer blokes from In Cold Blood,”
I don’t want to tell her she’s won by kilometres just yet. “Why?”
“Something about some murders in Florida,” So I just nod quietly, pretending to turn it over for a moment. I wonder how I managed to let that one slip through the cracks. I’ve only read the novel
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Midday “How you feeling, thundercunt?” Tami has been swinging backwards and forwards on that brand-new swivel chair for a good ten minutes now. Rubbing it in my face that it still works. There was an incident at the Christmas party last year that involved a receptionist chair race. The one I had been stuck with suffered the consequence. You see, it’s risky business moving too freely on a swivel chair that only had two of the three wheels still attached. And I’ve become better acquainted with the ground because of it. “It’s been like a week, I’m fine.” It’s been a slow day. Not many patients. Even less paperwork. I’ve been tasked with refreshing the email folder and forwarding what needed to go where. Printing off the odd set of forms. Directing phone calls. Only, a job seemed to arise once ever half-hour. And it was a war between Tami and I who could lay claim first. She scoots closer, elbows crossed over the front desk. “I’m
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December 21st, 2012 Morning Time is making a mockery of me. The days are slow and long. The nights feel endless. Being shut alone in my bedroom with only questions and theories is enough to make me miss Bertrand. He hasn’t called. Should I? I should just sleep with him. Afterall, what on earth would a man like Damon want with a twenty-one-year-old virgin? Not that I can have those thoughts, let alone justify them by shagging Bert. In any case, the Mesoamerican calendar has reached the doomsday date. The world is set to end. Whether I should sleep with a vagrant who spray-paints parked police vehicles and calls it art is irrelevant if we’re all going to die. And whether my father killed his first son should be, too. But it’s not. I can die happy without coming up with an answer for Bert. Yes, I love you and I will now give you the most immobile sex and worst head of your life or no, ew. But
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December 22nd, 2012 Morning My phone buzzing somehow made it into my dream. Speaking of which, I haven’t had one about Damon in quite some time. Probably because every waking moment is filled with him, instead. I was sat at the hospital reception. Only this time, we found a record about Gregory’s death. It was a perfectly mundane genetic disorder I couldn’t pronounce. His death was blameless. I could go back to guiltlessly fantasising about Damon. Then the whole computer started vibrating. And here I am. It's Bertrand. Like I somehow thought the random impulse for him to call me into existence yesterday morning. Part of me wants to let it go to voicemail. Never speak to him again. But part of me loves the drama of it all. “Sasha, finally!” I can hardly hear him through the phone. All I want to do is scour my emails for any noteworthy news heading. We used to show each other up once every fe
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Evening “Sasha!” Lily rushes forward with open arms, a thin, short blonde with a warm smile and dazzling blue eyes. James steps sheepishly out of the way. “It’s been so long! Why on earth haven’t you been around?” “Damon’s girlfriend just moved in, we’ve all been getting settled,” The house smells like roast. I didn’t realise just how hungry I was. “That explains why he hasn’t been taking my calls—the toilet runs for hours after you flush it, I’ve been trying to get him around,” She’s got my face between two small, cold hands, her eyes searching mine as though examining my very soul for any ailments. “Mum, let her take her coat off,” I shoot a look at James. I don’t have it in me to tell him I don’t mind. I don’t want to explain that I consider her a mother of my own. It’s nice to be fussed over. And it’s nice that he doesn’t consider that a luxury. James deserves to be smothered most of all of us. He’s had i
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His other hand wraps through my hair, though it feels like he’s trying to scalp me. And his lips meet mine like they never have. His teeth wrap around my lip. “Stop it.” I draw back so slightly. “You’re drunk.” It always works in the movies. “And horny,” And his lips are on mine again. He walks me backwards. Another puddle splashes up my leg. And the wind is knocked straight out of me again when I hit a brick wall. Though it very well could be a dumpster. It certainly smells like there is one around here. Maybe it’s just his breath. “Stop it!” I tug and tug at my own wrist. He’s trying to scalp me again. But this time his breath is on my neck. His teeth are tugging at my collar. Great. He’s going to rip my blouse open. I’m going to be defiled in an alleyway and I won’t even have a shirt to put back on. This is humiliation. “You’re hurting me,” I don’t feel quite as scared or angry as I thought I would in this situation—not that I’ve consider
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December 24th, 2012 Morning Sleep was dreamless. Completely and utterly dreamless. And I can say that for the first time with complete certainty. Damon fed me over-the-counter sleeping pills after he was done with me. Though ‘done with me’ sounds a little more unceremonious that our encounter had been. It was beautiful. Not a letter short of the word. Loving. Gentle. Caring. And while I assured him until I was blue in the face that (thanks to possibly the most near-fatal orgasm I’ve ever had) Bertrand had never been farther from my mind. Farther. Ha. Father. I slept with mine. Well, he jerked me off. In any case, he thought the sleeping pills would stave off any night terrors about my ordeal. I can’t say with certainty they did. Again, that orgasm very well could have played the part. When I finally have it in me to admit that I’m awake, I roll over. But the bed is empty.
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“Ah…” It’s the only sound I can make, half-hidden by a gasp, hands through his hair. And he pulls back. I’m just soaking. I can feel it. “That—that little sigh you do and your fingers in my hair.” And his lips are trailing from my sex down to my knee. Until he draws back. And sucks my big toe between his lips. Mouth hot. Tongue soft. I just want him to have me already. He draws back again. Lips drawing a line from my knee, dangerously northbound. I can’t take it. “I just love it when you come. I can’t get enough of it.” I can’t help it. Another “Ah…” escapes me as his mouth clamps down on me and his fingertips brush my clitoris. It seems to embolden him, encouraging him needlessly to rip me to shreds on the bathroom counter like he should have that first night. And I hate the fact he’s memorised everything that drives me to the edge, if only to bombard me with until I feel my heart could give way. “That shower is still running.” I’m talking
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January 25th, 1997 Morning Chloe Want to test your marriage? Move back home. Rather, your husband’s home. On your first wedding anniversary, no less. Practically to the minute. I know, I should be sympathetic. His mother has cancer. Still, I thought I had married a man who despised small towns as much as I do. At least, that’s what he told me. He hadn’t lived until he’d seen London. Got amongst its busyness and decrepit charm. Yet we’re northbound, and rather quickly. Sat in a rental truck that feels it will topple over if we round a corner too suddenly. The provincial furniture rocking in its rump so blissfully. It has no idea it’s headed straight to its grave, never to be looked at by anyone of note again. He promises we’ll be back to the city when she’s better. Healthy as a horse, he thinks. Loins of steel. Built like a machine. She acts like one. Has never cared all that much
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January 6th, 2013 Evening “If you can’t even move that couch, I don’t think you’ve got much chance with your hands.” I dig in my heels a little harder. I’m determined. Besides, it can’t be that heavy. “I’m not getting a gun—I don’t ever want to fire one.” “Pepper spray?” Begrudgingly, he joins in—with a small huff and the roll of his eyes. His shoulder brushes mine. I’ve pretended not to see his eyes. Or to have heard the huff. I suck in a breath. Put my weight into it. “No weapons. I don’t want to have to count on anything.” “Okay. I get it.” I think he does all the work. The couch slides towards the dining table like it’s on wheels. Moves, nonetheless. That’s all I wanted. “This should be enough room.” I step into the centre. The rug is nice and plush. I don’t think it will hurt too much if incoordination victimises me. It will. I just know it. “What do I do?” I’m not too
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“What?” Now I just want to hide back behind him. Damon seems to know. He steps in front of me. “You can’t search her; you’ll need a female officer to.” “I can search her; I just can’t take her clothes off.” Again, with that smug smile. He claps his hands together. Peers around Damon’s shoulder to me. I was right to hope for two more magpies. “Now, shall we do it here, or do you have a more private place you would rather.” “Show me your warrant.” Damon seethes. “I was hoping you would ask.” I can see him fish into his pocket. “Finished my two-year probation yesterday.” “Did you know about this?” Suddenly, Damon turns to face me. Thrusts the card toward me. Looks a bit like a student ID in a fancy wallet if you ask me. With a stupid, god-awful photo of this git rather blow-up. “Know about what?” “He’s a detective, Sasha!” He shouldn’t be yelling that; I can only imagine the things it woul
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January 6th, 2013 Morning I’ve been staring through the tiny window all morning. I saw a single magpie on the way here. It tailed us in the car. Swooped down like we’d stolen its babe. Flew off into the distance like some mysterious harbinger of death. I waited for another. Even two. I think I would rather death than sorrow. At least death would put me out of my misery. Not give me another reason to want it. “I thought you might need this.” I hadn’t noticed he was even close. I’m a shotty receptionist. Damon is leant over me. His elbows on the counter. A disposable cup in his hands. “What is it?” I lift the lid. Foam. Dark foam. Coffee? “Cappuccino.” He’s smiling. He’s got to know I’m not impressed. “I know. No coffee with milk in it. Just try it, won’t you?” “Will it make you happy?” I’ve been struggling with the lid. I don’t know how the baristas get them on. “Very.” I take a
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January 5th, 2013 Midday “I think we need a redo,” When he walks back over, he knows better than to come empty-handed. A cup of steaming coffee threatens to spill with each step. A stupid, playful grin is the only warning I’ll get. I think I have a good enough idea what he’s after. I lean forward. Prop my chin up in the palm of my hand. I’m ready. “Of?” He sits on the same un-cushioned chair he did last time. The halls are quiet, Tami tapping away happily at a keyboard is the only sign of life for kilometres. It’s the palliative care ward, after all. His chair is just as disagreeable when he scoots closer. He reaches forward again, rakes the hair from my face, and I can’t help but lean in because at this point, it’s all become instinct. His lips brush mine at first. The other winding through the back of my hair. And I don’t care that we haven’t spent a moment together alone since Tuesday. That I worr
