All that remains of last night’s promises is the smell of ammonia, broken bottles and dead stars. My resolution has waned. Panting I stop.
The waistband of my tights keep slipping, and my jacket is cold from perspiration. My heartbeats syncopates throbs of the iron-band around my head.
“Oysters and wine”, she’s smiling, stars in her eyes, as my hand snakes under her blouse. “No”, she cries.
I laugh and I laugh.
I feel her nails in my face as I take what’s been paid for.
I puke again.
Weight-loss can wait, someone has scars that need mending.
This week I tried to do a little bit of flashback, and writing from a rapist’s mind is not easy. This was partly inspired by the events in Cologne and other places. I believe the actual events is not so much about immigration but with shitty attitude and high tolerance for male culture. My apologies on behalf of men who cares.
Friday Fictioneers is a blogging community attracting some of the best fiction writers online. Our dear godmother Rochelle Wisoff-Fields steer and guide us every week and selects a picture where to find a story of 100 words (I like to meet the limit exactly)
January 13, 2015