It Whispers to Them

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Flicking the ash of her cigarette onto the heads of those passing below, she rocks back and forth while listening to the music coming from someone’s stereo. It’s a beat that sounds too reggae for my liking. Truth be told, I’ve never liked reggae on account that it’s uplifting. You see, I like my tunes sombre with a dash of heartbreak. Anything less is an insult to the senses.

“If you sit that way any longer, people will be able to draw a picture,” I tell her, but yet again she’s none too interested in my caution.

“Let them,” she replies while continuing to shake her head to the garish beat that I myself wrinkle my nose at.

In my mind, I imagine her pussy to be like the all-seeing eye of Sauron. Y’know, the dude from Lord of the Rings who resides above a tower continually searching the horizon for the ring that contains the source of his power. On this windowsill overlooking the town we currently call home, her own all-seeing eye is casting its gaze over everything below, and yet not just that, it’s worming its way into the minds of all the lovers too weak to resist its call. They can feel it whispering to them, and even though they can’t see it, they know it’s out there—beckoning them to take a step towards it. Some fight while others feel guided as if they’re being drawn to a place they’ve known their entire lives but have never glimpsed—a place that will surely blow their minds to kingdom come. I used to be just like them, and although my mind is still very much alive, it’s certainly not my own—she put paid to that well and truly.

“You’ve never let me draw it, or even take a photo.”

“That’s different,” she says with a grin. I can’t see the grin, but I know it’s there because it changes how she speaks. Makes her pitch higher.

“How is it different?” I ask while searching for my cigarettes.

“Because why would you need to recreate it when you’ve got the real thing?”

“Well,” I say, “when you’re not around, I want something to remind me of what it looks like.”

“Use your imagination,” she quips.

“I’m tired of using my imagination. It’s all I ever do. No, I want a slice of you that I can hold in my hand.” As the words leave my lips, I think of my dream where she sliced off her skin and fed it to me. It makes me lick my lips, and when she spins around to face me, I instinctively look down and eye up that all-seeing eye of hers thinking of jelly and ice cream and all things sugary and sweet that will rot my teeth.

A Journal for Damned Lovers UK

A Journal for Damned Lovers US

Anthology UK / Anthology US

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