Author S. K. Nicholas

Stepping foot out the shower and towelling herself dry, try as she might, she just can’t seem to scrub away the guilt that stains her like a birthmark. Lonely like her mum, she sells herself cheap while I talk to broken radiators in the hope of finding God. I never have much luck, though, and as the sky darkens to the sounds of atrocities, all I can do is wait for the inevitable. Ian Brady wrote how he found the answers in metal tubing, and although I’ve read his book, nothing seems to happen when I replicate his actions. She told me she was a reporter, and as she adjusted her stockings, I asked if she could show me what she had to offer. Bending over while going through the contents of her bag, I pressed myself against her. Growing hard by the minute, she turned and grabbed it with both hands. Such delicate, quick fingers. Such a body that buzzes like a bee caught by the scent of something not quite real. Sliding my hands around her thighs, I close my eyes and picture the city, and upon my lips, the taste of the carnival is so close. Breathing hard as she takes a photo of a sea of burning trees, I slide two fingers in and bite dry air while sucking in mouthfuls of smoke. It’s like a peach, or the lake in the opening shots of ‘The Shining’. So naturally beautiful and yet so overwhelming in its meaning, despite our young age, we’re older than we think, and through the layers of her sex, I travel at will to the first seconds of the birth of the universe. Nodding my head to the music of dead time, I see the shadows of every star that ever was swirling arm in arm around her hips. Sinking my fingers even deeper, she cries and drops her camera. A slave to her design just like I, her heart beats in synch with the genocide of entire tribes as I push her down and remove her clothing. Her body a myth of flesh and infinite nebula, it isn’t long before she transforms into something beyond my understanding.