Author S. K. Nicholas

Checking for lumps, my fingers itch for the end, but the end doesn’t come. At least not today. Beads of water trickling down my body, I attempt self-abuse but it’s too hot. Losing my footing and slipping out of exhaustion, I pull the shower curtain down and fall to the floor like the woman in Psycho. Clutching my jaw, I moan while my half-erect dick points to the ceiling. Running into the bathroom, she takes one look at me and laughs before quickly retreating. Cursing her for being so uncaring, I silently weep only for her to return a few seconds later to take a photo of me in my prone state. She has a thing for photography now, and every time something happens that takes her fancy, she’s compelled to click herself under. The other night she got me while I was between her legs. At the exact moment I looked up while sticking my tongue in, she had me like a rabbit in the headlights. Before that, it was when she returned early from work and found me shooting my stuff into a pair of her panties. I had no excuses; all I could do was shout at her and clumsily defend myself by claiming to be a child of divorce. She called me pathetic then rolled us both a smoke. Sat on the front doorstep in the early hours, an ambulance pulls up to the house across the road. It’s the old woman- the one who shakes all the time. Her husband looks like a cross between Gandhi and Patrick Stewart, and whenever he takes out the trash, he looks over to me and licks his lips. At least that’s how I see it. Anyway, she’s carried out on a stretcher. It can’t be good, she’s well into her nineties and looks like toasted shit as it is. To think her life had always been leading up to this moment. Shaking my head, I think about the final moments that await my own. How near or far they are is anyone’s guess. Best to just ignore such things and pretend it will never happen. Works for everyone else.