A Certain Death. Little, But Seemingly Big. – By L. Breen

“Help me,” she said.

They were not even sixty seconds out from fucking. He swore he could still feel her hipbones underneath him, undulating with him, still feel her legs pinning his to the mattress, silky, two silky shackles. She must have just shaved, like she knew she was going to meet him tonight, a gesture he really appreciated. He cleared his throat and sat upright, cleaning himself off with a dirty t-shirt.

“What was that?”

“Help me,” she said again.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked. She shook her head. He nodded in acknowledgement, though a part of him was disappointed.

“Are you sick? Hungry?”

She shook her head again.

“Help me.”

Her voice was like the static on an old vinyl. She certainly wasn’t panicking, speaking barely above a whisper. And yet he knew this wasn’t a joke, either.

She turned her head away from him, allowing her curls to fall and obscure her face. “Help me,” she said, her escaping breath making airborne the hair that had fallen across her mouth, the tentacles of a sickly octopus reaching out in vain.

“With what? What’s wrong with you?” She didn’t respond. He was angry. He allowed himself to imagine screaming at her, shaking her, forcing the answer from her lips, for just a moment before shuffling into the bathroom. He sat on the toilet and clipped his toenails, cutting one too close to the skin. He cursed her under his breath.

He took a big swig of mouthwash, unable to even bear the taste of her anymore, this woman. She wasn’t like this in the bar. In fact, he was certain she had only spoken to him through laughter. That’s why he took her home. He needed the laughter.

He walked back into the bedroom tentatively, debating his judge of character, mouth still full of mouthwash. She was turned back to face him, her breasts now covered by a sheet. He avoided eye contact and began to collect their clothing. He was missing a sock.

“Help me,” she said again.

“No!” he yelled, allowing the mouthwash foam to spill from his mouth and cover his chin. “You help me!”

She stared at him coldly, her blinking deliberate, almost audible.

“Please,” he said.

She nodded slightly and lifted the sheet. He climbed into bed, and they slept.

Author: Liz Breen

A young writer hoping to hear as many stories as she writes.

One thought

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