Author S. K. Nicholas

In those blistered mirrors, she looks at the marks on her arms and grimaces. Despite the tattoos and attitude she uses as camouflage, she’s the same as she was when they were fresh; each scar telling a story she’d give anything to forget, the past isn’t done with her. Not by a long shot. Sitting the other side of the door reading through the sordid details of her conquests, she gives me her excuses, but they’re as see-through as the shower curtains still wet from when she’d readied herself for sex just a short time before. Tearing out the pages from her diary and sliding them to her, she threatens to slash my face with a razor unless I stop, but I know she won’t. She thinks I’m too good looking, and she wouldn’t be seen dead on the arm of someone so deformed. She then threatens to jump out the window to the street below if I don’t let her out, but I call her bluff. Snorting in frustration, she slumps to the floor and curses. She calls me an alcoholic. A failed writer who gets off on being a cradle snatcher. I agree with what she says while opening another bottle of wine. Toasting her performance, she takes a pair of scissors from the medicine cabinet and slashes through the gap beneath the door. Slicing my leg, I howl in pain and knock over the wine. Tumbling down the stairs, the bottle bounces a few times before smashing on impact with the skirting board. Stepping out from the bathroom, she laughs at the sight of me rolling around clutching my wound, and when she notices the bloody footprints leading out the bedroom, she cackles like a witch and tickles me until I’m on the verge of wetting myself. Pulling down my pyjama bottoms, she points at my erection and begins pinching my inner thighs. Biting my ear, she tells me the only reason she comes round is because she knows I’ll never say no. That I’m just like the rest of them- good for one thing and one thing only. Trying not to listen, she grabs hold of my cock and declares she has complete control. Looking up at her as she smirks at my prone state, there’s nothing I can do. She’s right. I’m hers. Stroking me off as I turn my face, I’m not a poet, after all, I’m just a man. A lowly man.