Soured Milk, 4

It's an absolute fucking shit-hole.

And I've seen (and lived in) my share of shitty apartments, so believe me when I say my standards are set reasonably low. His apartment was completely empty, if not for a large, mustard colored two-seater that stood awkwardly in the center of the room; an assortment of multicolored patches decorated its buttery leather, and curious stains that I convinced myself were from spilled drinks (they, of course, were not). The carpeting; a bright, orange spectacle with a matted, waxy texture to it and a scent that could only be described as a mixture of wet socks, cough syrup, and cheap, citrusy cologne.

It was an absolute fucking shit-hole, and maybe that shouldn't have come as a surprise, because he was a human piece of shit himself, but he was such a breathtakingly beautiful piece of shit that it was almost a shame he lived in such a place. Almost.

"Oi, Min," he called, stretching his limbs over the sofa, "Come and sit on my lap, will you? I have a story for you."

 I frowned, staring up at him as he playfully wiggled his eye-brows, "You took it too far."

I was about to roll away to the other side when he planted his foot on my shoulder and turned me back towards him, "Don't be like that."

"You took it too far!"

"And I said I was sorry." he yawned, sounding so insincere that it was almost enough to make me get up and leave. Almost.

"You promised you wouldn't do that again."

He sighed, lifting his foot off my shoulder and sinking into the sofa, "And you promised you wouldn't be a fucking cunt."

It's times like these that I'm reminded of just how much of a mistake this whole thing was. I knew I was straying dangerously far from the tracks, but he made it so easy, so tempting, that I couldn't possibly resist wandering further away. He had a strange kind of appeal to him, like his shitty apartment; a certain beauty in every crooked angle and dull edge. And he was all crooked angles and dull edges, but he never tried to hide it, wearing them on his chest like badges of honor. And whenever he looked at me, his eyes, they'd fall on my deepest insecurities, as if to say, "I see you."

And nothing in the world terrified me more than my reflection in his eyes.

Soured Milk, 3

"Stay still," he breathed, pushing himself against my back, "I'll be gentle, I promise."

I was so completely taken by the drunken haziness of it all that I didn't feel much; just the prickly cold air against my skin and the dull scraping of the metal against my bare thigh. It wasn't until a little later, when the pain appeared all at once in sudden, violent eruption, that I began to shiver against his touch, and, I swear, his hand seemed to grow purposely heavier, his needle rougher, and his breathing shallower. He's enjoying this.

"It hurts," I whispered against the wall, and he was eager to oblige, digging his needle deeper into the back of my thigh until I was gasping for air, begging him to please, please stop. And when he finally did, I felt a strange kind of excitement rush through me; a twinge and a tingle in places they had no business being. Adrenaline, I thought, it has to be.

"Look," he said, smiling up at me, "What do you think?"

It was a tiny little thing; the word Min, black against the back of my thigh. Min was short of Minnie; he said I was his mouse, small and squeaky and utterly defenseless. I guess this tattoo was his way of claiming me; marking my flesh with his words so that everyone knew that he owned me. He was branding his kettle. And once he grows sick of me, will he slit my throat and be done with me?

"It's alright."

He brought his hand to the back my thigh and brushed his palm over the warm, sticky skin, "It's revolting."

"I revolt you, then?"

He smiled, licking the corner of his lips, "You always do."

"Well, In that case, you revolt me too."

He stepped closer, hanging his head over mine and pressing himself firmly against me, his ribs digging into my chest, and he kept pushing himself harder, deeper, until it felt as if I going to snap under his force. And then he pulled away and calmly whispered, "No, I fucking don't."

Soured Milk, 2

"You look like you're going to cry," he whispered from behind, and just as I was about to take it for true concern, he leaned in and said, "I gotta say, it's getting me all excited."

It was dark and damp and it smelled suspiciously like wet carpets, and when he grabbed me by the arm and lead me deeper into the crowd, he seemed to delve into the chaos, dissolving into it as if it were his natural habitat, all but the travesty that was his hair; all florescent blue and coquettish curls. It wasn't until later that night that I realized his hair was actually white, and only appeared blue because of the black-lights.

"So, why'd you take me here?" I asked, sounding a bit too casual about the fact that a stranger forced me away from my friends and took me to some shady club that looked like it belonged in Satan's armpit.

"Take?" he leered at me, clenching and unclenching his jaws to the backdrop of industrial post-punk music, "Are you saying you're up for grabs?"

"Maybe. Are you looking to make your claim?"

He shook his head, blue curls aswirl,  "Careful, now."

"Why should I be?" I smiled, rolling the tip of my tongue around my straw before slipping it into my mouth; a gesture he seemed to thoroughly enjoy.

"Didn't your mother warn you about strange men?"

"Are you saying you're strange?"

"I wouldn't say that," he trailed off, smiling silently to himself, like he was in on some secret joke, "I just have a... strange appetite."

"And what are you craving tonight?"

He smiled, licking his lips, "You."

"But you don't know me." I said, as he inched closer, ignoring (or pretending to ignore) the uncertainty in my voice.

"I know what you could be."

"And what is that?"

"Do you want me to show you?"

He loomed over me with a sullen expression to his face, as if he was contemplating something so terrible, even he couldn't believe it, and in the black of his eyes lurked the most frightening shade of red—blood red—and every voice in my head was telling me to get the fuck out of here, but instead I leaned in and said, "Please."

Off-white

You make me feel so much, don't you know?
No, you don't.

You make me feel so incredibly—so painfully—plain, like I was the off-white paint on your bedroom walls, the one you keep meaning to change (but never get around to).

And you don't know, but I live for that half-wink, half-squint you throw into your side-way smiles.
And you don't know, but I adore every inaudible word that comes out of your cigarette-stained lips.
And you don't know, but I treasure the cluster of grey hair around your temples, and how they seem to hide away under the scrutiny of my gaze.

And then you come around and call me with a name that isn't mine, and you say that you aren't good with names, and you're sorry for half a second, and you carry on.

You make me feel like fucking shit, don't you know?
No, you fucking don't.

A Certain Man, XII

It's not his.

And he knew right away. How his face fell; glum and grey and lips the colour of nightshade. And I couldn't help but shiver to no end, when he bent over and said, "Looking forward to meet you, little one". How he could be so cruel in his kindness was beyond me.

We had another boy, a plump and healthy bundle that had to be forced into the world, ripped out of me and thrust into cold, indifferent hands. And whenever he looked up at me with large blinking eyes, I could almost swear he knew. He would sit there and judge me in silence, like his father did before him. I had thought my guilt would somehow dissolve and subside with the birth of my child. That he would serve as the final stage of my repentance, but instead, he was the fruit of my sin, a constant reminder of my most terrible of mistakes.

But how I adored him. How I adored both my sons. It often startled me how quickly they were growing, and because of that, I had this crippling fear of somehow losing track of time, of turning away for a second and finding them grown and gone. It always felt like they were running, flying miles ahead, and I always fell back, unable to keep up.

They were so very different, my two boys, and so much like their fathers that I began to wonder if I managed to pass anything at all to them. My eldest was the sun in its warmth. He felt with such openness, such abundance, as if love was only ever meant to be given, and not received. And my youngest, like the palest of moons, cared silently, inwardly; but so severely, that at times it would overflow, trickle over the edges and stain the crown of my head with shy, uncertain kisses.

My two boys. How I wished, with all my heart, I could pluck each and every star and hang them over their heads. To capture the world and lay it at their feet. They would never want, never need; not while I live and breathe. Not once would they feel unloved, unwanted, or ostracized. Not once would they stumble without someone to hold on to. Not once would they seek validation in the warm embrace of another. Not once would they kiss without feeling. Not once would they love out of obligation. And most importantly, they would never, not even once, feel alone.

My two boys.
May they never be their fathers. May they never be their mother.

Soured Milk

He said his name was Svengali; a lie, I'm sure, but one that I let him have. He said he was looking for someone like me, and when I asked what that was, he said, "A mouse to keep."

I don't know why but from that very first lie I felt inexplicably drawn to him. He had a strange aura about him, an amorphous essence that seeped through his limbs and into the air like miasma; thick and dark and full of hate. And he strung me along so effortlessly; a flick of his wrist and I was on my knees, and instead of pulling me up, he put his foot on my shoulder and pushed me further down until I was at his feet.

When I look back at it all, I can't help but feel regret. I don't regret the path I chose, but rather, the way I chose to travel along that path; hiding so comfortably under the pretense of coercion. I liked the idea of being the helpless victim; an impressionable young girl who's only crime was a weakness to a man's charm. In reality I was very much aware of what I was getting myself into, and I needed nor trickery nor deceit to do it.

I wanted to be his mouse. I wanted to be worthless and to revel in my insignificance. I wanted to live in filth, to be as vile and morbid as I wished to be. I wanted his anger, and I wanted his hate, and I craved the pain. I wanted all of it, and he, the mighty Sven, would give and give and give.

And there was no end to what I would take.

A Certain Man, XI

If absence is meant to make the heart grow fonder, then my heart must be bursting, because I've come to depend on his substance like the air that I breathe. I would humor myself that he felt the same way. That I could feel it in the way he touched me; hands shivering as if he was stirring from within, fingers buried in nimble pairs into the confounds of my walls, and later, left arm sneaking in, settling deep in the base of my back and pushing me further into him, or him into me, or both into each other.

I'm not saying it wasn't wonderful in its own way—his company—but it never quite felt like it did before. That feeling of finally being whole, shivering from the core of my being, as if being momentarily at peace was more troubling than comforting. I didn't feel whole because I wasn't empty to begin with. I wasn't his blank canvas anymore; I was a mother and a wife and all too filled with happiness and regret to surrender myself to him. I didn't feel whole, but I was filling up, overflowing, and it wasn't long until I reached a tipping point.

And all along I couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. What was I feeling guilty for? For that man I so dutifully called my husband? The man I found melting beneath his momentary indiscretions? What a man he was, and what a man he proved to be. I remember that lump in my throat, whenever he bent over and kissed my swelling belly, whispering our child's name over and over again. What a man he was, what a man he proved to be.

"Do you want something to eat?" his voice came in slow and unassuming, sinking me further down my haze of post-coital guilt.

"Why do you always insist on feeding me?"

"Well, we are a hospitable people."

"No, really." I protested, but failed to press further when he leaned in and kissed the small of my back. He always kissed me in the strangest of places. I asked him about it once and he claimed it wasn't on purpose. Still, it makes you wonder, doesn't it? About men that kiss you on the stomach, and those that kiss you on the very end of your back.

"You know what I've always wondered? Whether you've been with other women, since..." I trailed off, not quite sure where I was going.

"I have."

"It's so strange to me, you and someone else. I just can't picture it."

"Jealousy doesn't suit you, miss."

"Missus."

He smiled, a strained stillness looming over his face. Usually the color of icy waters, his eyes were now almost black, with pupils dilated nearly double in size. I couldn't help but marvel at how his eyes said so much, when once they said so little. Had the years really changed him so much? Or had I simply been blind all this time? What secrets have you told with those eyes, I wonder, and what secrets have I failed to hear?

"You hate being here, don't you?"
 
"I do."

"Is he any good?"

"Good enough."

"Off you go, then."