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That place down by the river. Or the river itself. I’m not quite sure. When she slides her fingers in and hums, I lose track of where I am and fumble around like a drunk. When the sound of running water quickens and I’m driven to a frenzy, my hands wrap themselves around her throat, but she never says no, only more, more, more! But I’ve got this splitting headache, and the guilt I feel of being in this skin makes me withdraw and turn inwards until no amount of apologising can excuse my misanthropic ways. Sometimes it feels like I’m losing my mind, but I think such a worry is a good reminder that I’ve still got a mind to lose because everywhere you look, everyone acts the same. It’s the hive mind syndrome. People claim to be unique, and yet there’s nothing to distinguish them from one another. No telling them apart whatsoever. Down by the river, I’m buying two portions of chips from a four-star chippy while she stands in some bushes nearby enticing a field mouse into her hands. It appears to be lost, and as she kneels down and makes animal noises to attract it, it jumps into her open palms and she dances from one foot to the other in celebration as I’m searching my pockets for shiny coins to pay for our food because I don’t want to break into a tenner. The women serving me is annoyed at my dithering, and those behind me waiting in line are muttering among themselves, so I close my eyes and squeeze tightly, and just like that we’re back in my room and my head is on her belly as she explores herself in the hope of finding a way out. If she does, I tell her that it’s imperative she takes me with her. She can’t leave me here. It wouldn’t be fair at all.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.co.uk

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.com

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