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Rated: 18+ · Fiction · Death · #1399754
Cheaters will be cheaters.
The folds of her bronzed skin collapsed into his, white sheets tumbling forth like a seething riptide of passionate fury. His calloused hands ran smoothly along every inch of her slender body. Heavy breathing intertwined with lust. His fingers grasped the cord of a ringing telephone, made their way to the pale pink receiver, then paused, choosing instead to feel the small of her back, up toward the nape of her neck.
         He didn’t answer. He always picked up that damn phone, even late at night, knowing full well it was her. But she didn’t hear his voice, husky and loving, tender, soothing… He didn’t pick up.
         She started the car on an impulse. The pulsing windshield wipers sloshed the pounding rain right to left, left to right- heavy moon hidden behind heavier fog and charcoal clouds. The speedometer rose as she pressed her foot against the pedal hard. Ten, twenty, thirty in a matter of seconds. The ruffles of her sloppy skirt crinkled beneath her bare, thunder thighs.
         Heavy knocking, stormy raps upon the weathered door. He thought she’d never guess, never suspect a thing. Hushed whispers as the other crept beneath a sea of clashing sheets. More rage, more panic. She knew, she knew, she knew.
         Her tangled thoughts crashed in every which direction as she stood in a mess at the doorsteps to that whorehouse. She knew, she knew, she knew.
         A flickering light above made her sullen eyes glance skyward. An open window. The sudden breeze made the other’s still body freeze beneath the covers. From outside, she heard scuffling, harsh whispers falling from his lips. HIS lips. She knew, she knew, she knew.
         She left before his lumberjack frame could reach the shattered door, her foot pressing harder against the pedal this time around. She clutched her heavy heart as if it would burst at any moment, spilling its contents into her lap.

         She knew.

         He stood anxiously at the door in a fit of doubt and fear, his nervous hand grasping its handle firmly. Cold rain fell harder now as drops of salty rage fell brutally upon his slutty tongue, her disgust stinging the fatty, salmon pink flesh.
         The other crept down the rickety stairs on tiptoe, bunched lustfully inside those stormy sheets of white. She noticed his still body lingering at that door, snuck her whorish self behind him and ran her slender fingers through his dirty head of blond.
         He ignored her needy voice begging him to come back to bed, HIS bed, instead robotically turning the knob and stepping out into the rain. His masculine body, barefoot and in nothing but those red boxers flocked with little white hearts- the pair she surprised him with on their third date- soaked up every drop of that rain. He unlocked the door to a partially wrecked Suburban, covering up with a camouflage jacket from the stained floor and starting the engine with a quick flick of the key.
         She wasn’t home. How could he have been so stupid?! Only a fucking asshole would underestimate her like that, sleeping with the other in hopes that she’d be so dumb and without a clue. “You’re such a bitch to have stooped that low.” And now she wasn’t even there. …Like she’d want to see that lying face again anyway.
         The engine died down as he turned off the car, sitting in silence and letting those salty tears hit his slutty tongue again. Their bitter taste struck him once, twice, three times, his tongue burning as if engulfed in flames.
         Worn-down hands rummaged through a dirty glove compartment and finally found that tiny little key. He let himself in through the backdoor, noticed the remnants of a shattered rearview mirror shining through an overgrown hedge. His rules differed greatly from hers; he was always touching her belongings and misplacing everything in sight, while she- she left everything as it was, never questioning or handling what wasn’t hers.
         He bent down and reached for a piece of the broken glass, letting its edge cut marks of streaming red across his skin. A groan as he opened the creaking, fearless door, leaving imprints of red on its newly-replaced knob. Her voice sounded wearisome, tired, broken just as the mirror had been. She demanded he leave those whorehouse shoes at the door. His hand hurt… “I’m not wearing any.” She sighed in defeat as her paper-thin body rolled over in splotchy red sheets. She was hurting too.
         He spotted the liquor on her bedside table, glistening even in the dark, a bottle of pills keeping her company in bed. His voice was shattered, reckless, questioning her in ambush. “I thought you weren’t home… Where’s your car?” Curiosity would never kill this cat.
         She sighed once more in between shots of hard liquor and painkillers. “Dead,” she managed.
         “Dead?” he questioned as if to make sure. Reality had hit him harder than he’d expected.
         Silence. She sipped from that poison feverishly, her impatience spilling at the seams.
         “Are you okay?!” His concern… She felt it, dismissed it without a care. Fucking asshole. She downed the rest of the Advil, sheets blossoming with more rose petal spots with every sip and every pill.
         Her voice quivered, salty tears of rage whipping her pure, pink tongue like a lashing storm. She buried her head beneath her pillow, soon to be in the arms of the anticipatory dirt outside.
         Her eyes still welled, mind simmering in a melting pot of disconcert and fear.
         “No,” she stammered. “No, I’m not alright.”
         And with that, her aching body twisted beneath those blood red sheets, her eyes drying slowly as her breathing stopped.
         Fucking asshole.
© Copyright 2008 Love always, Chels (kchelz at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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