When she’s on the brink, she tastes suicide and there goes another of her nine lives. Her toes have gone numb. Each and every one of them. Her throat’s tight, too. So tight she can barely breathe. She stinks. Sickly so sickly. Sweet so sweet like sugar on wet lips. She blinks her eyes. One then the other and then both. Semi-darkness then full dark and then the glare of the light bulb swinging from the cable that hangs from the ceiling. Then more darkness again and a shit load of tiny white orbs that float around long after she’s tasted the other side. For a few moments there’s stillness and then she’s crawling to her bed on her hands and knees. Dragging herself up onto the mattress and lying there in the nude, she spreads her legs and bounces her hips up and down. She thinks of him fucking her. Tender. Rough. Both. At some point, she begins to growl. Clenching her teeth, the strangest of sounds rise from her belly before being spat out of her mouth. Up and down she goes, and as she clenches her ankles, she thrusts her pussy as hard as she can imagining it calling to him over the towns and cities to wherever he may be. Maybe he’ll hear it? If she squeezes her tits together, perhaps he’ll close his eyes and see her there, ready and willing to be eaten alive? She’s greasy. Sweaty. The sheets are sticking to her body. Makes her feel dirty, and the dirtier the better for the more chance there is of him sniffing her out. And so on and on she goes, losing herself in the moment until long into the night she passes out, exhausted yet euphoric and one step closer to where she needs to be. Falling asleep, she curls into a ball, and while her body rests, her soul slips through the open window, and out there, among the deserted streets and empty parking lots, she plays hide and seek with the ghosts at dawn.