Bunker Hill



As she undresses beneath a painting of a sycamore tree on Bunker Hill, I drink straight from the bottle. White wine. Australian. It does the job, but it takes a few cigarettes to ease me into another state of being enough to wipe out my juvenile fears. Her sex is shaved and smooth to touch, and when she presses my hand against it stood before the window, I bite her shoulder and tell her I want it as a ray of sunshine illuminates the lines of her body. She says wait, be patient. Like a dog, I obey as she goes into the bathroom and showers. Looking through her stuff, I find her diary and read its pages with fascination. All those lovers; those pathetic attempts at finding a place to be in the arms of those whose only desire is to nail an easy face. But what does that make me? Shaking with rage, I’m tempted to cut her clothes into pieces, but underneath her exterior, I know we’re both the same. Lost, afraid, and always making the worst possible decisions in search of redemption. Deleting the contacts on her phone and throwing away her condoms, I wait until she comes back and push her down onto the bed. At first, she’s alarmed and doesn’t know what to do, but when she sees the look in my eyes, she knows it’s just one of my funny turns. Taking her from behind, I pull her hair and tell her I’m going to come inside of her. Searching for words so breathless and sincere, she tries to grab the bullet vibrator from the bedside table, but I knock it from her hands. Cursing as she attempts to get up, I feed her my kiss and she eases back into position. Pumping until there’s nothing left to give, I slide off and fall to the floor as if I’m dead. Knocking my head on the way down, there’s blood in my eyes as I lay there seeing stars. Looking over me, she points at my cock then inspects herself. Blinking to adjust my vision, I see the crimson stuff between my legs and want to faint thinking she’s torn me good and proper, but it’s okay, it’s just her period. No biggy. Fetching a damp cloth, she kneels beside me and presses it against my forehead. Cupping her breasts, I ask her what it feels like to be little more than a prostitute, and as soon as the words leave my mouth, she winces as if struck. With tears rolling down her face, she grabs her things and locks herself in the bathroom. Regretting my actions, I get up and hurl the empty wine bottle against the wall. Stepping on shards of glass, there’s more blood. I want to apologise, but something stops me. It was a cruel thing to say, but she is what she is. Hopping up and down as my foot bleeds all over the carpet, I sit on the other side of the door she’s crying behind. Reading aloud the pages of her diary, she tells me to quit but these things have to be done.


A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.co.uk

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.com 

7 replies »

  1. The words hit me like a bullet. There’s so much pain and suffering in them, it makes me want to console you, I don’t even know why. Powerful imagery. a throbbing sensation ensued when I was done with this post.
    It dazes me. Your words produce an electricity of sheer numbness. Maddening but Beautiful.

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