Writing Just more from me. [Mature]

[Charles]

I've labeled this as [b][i]mature[/i][/b] due to strong language and the inclusion of sexual content. So, if you're bothered by adult material, read no further.

She called up from the street. Her voice was lifted by the general hum of energy in the city surrounding her. Traffic was light, so her syllables drifted into the night air, slid between the gray teeth of my fire escape and settled in my apartment, unobstructed by the discourse of speeding taxis and late hour delivery trucks.

I shook my head and continued pacing, as if my legs had undergone some sort of metamorphosis and attached themselves to invisible rails with rebellious magnetism. My lips pursed as I thought over the uncomfortable scene that would likely unfold when she discovered that I now possessed the limited mobility of a runaway carrousel.

I took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and crept upon the window, seeing it as if it were a bunker; I poked my head out, hoping not to see the monotony of our stagnant passion lurking about. And there she was, decorated in it. Wonderful.

"Come on up," I said, "You do remember the room, right?"

She looked up startled, as if she had suddenly become lost. There was something unusual in my tone, so she probably couldn't identify the voice at first. However, recognition slid into place as soon as she caught sight of me standing against the faint glow of the room set behind me. I waved her up cautiously. She lifted her hand in reply and smiled.

"Heya!," she said, "I wasn't sure I had the right building or not."

"Well you do," I said, "Come on up."

I remained outwardly calm, but my contempt for her was as thick and impenetrable as the balmy August air. So, I busied myself by shutting my computer down and taking care to lock any sensitive papers in my desk drawer.

Glancing heavily upon the room, with the monotony that precedes a great task, I assured myself that there wasn't anything further that needed my attention--only the lasting task of sweeping up the shards of Denise?s fragile, soon to be detonated, passion. With a nod of satisfaction, I dimmed the lights and ran my finger on the brim of my hat, which hung, head down, like an omen, adjacent to the door.

At the sound of her footsteps, I seized her by the arm and pulled her in before she could knock. The low-wattage bulb in the hall shed just enough pale light to disguise her from my neighbors. It?s just his wife, they would think, not giving it another thought.

"Christ, Denise," I said, "Are you trying to get me caught, yelling up here like, like--and just taking your time."

She made a face. We neither moved nor spoke and the tension, which had been building slowly, had now become a palpable presence in the room. Denise didn't know why I had invited her over. To be sure, she knew why, but remained unaware of my ulterior motives.

We never ****ed in my apartment. I was always careful--took every
precaution necessary to ensure that she remained nothing more than a ghost, only to be seen and touched by me and never to touch upon my personal life. But, here she was.

I wasn?t sure when, but at some point in our relationship, her soul had begun to overflow with such a passion that she became blind to the grim reality of our affair. She began reaching into my shallow desires and derived from them some kind of greater meaning. She now referred to our ****ing sessions as "making love" and told me that she loved me every time that the deed had been done and dreamed up dreams of us running away together.

Looking back on it, I guess she knew the truth deep down inside, anyone in her position should. But, she wanted to believe that I loved her, wanted to believe that I took the necessary precautions in order to preserve our fugitive relationship, wanted to believe that I invited her over because I needed her presence (as opposed to my true intentions of exploring what last bit of novelty this dangerous adventure could revive in our affair).

With an iron effort, I stroked the back of my hand softly along the line of her jaw.

"No," she said, "We can't go on like this, no, we can't. What's gotten into you lately?"

Part of her couldn?t stop screaming that this was a bad idea. And so, she had begun to pluck the strings of reproach. I laughed. We wouldn?t be going on like this. Not after tonight. I agreed with her. Poor thing. Nonetheless, I took the meaning behind her words into full consideration and wondered whether or not I should offer her a drink or deliver the pleasantries needed to pull her strings.

Instead, I took her shoulders in my hands and leaned forward, my lips parted just slightly, my eyes closed. Denise met the kiss and we touched one another tenderly. She probably felt a wave of intense relief at the sudden show of gentle affection. Her mouth tasted like a forbidden fruit whose sweetness had long ago departed in a storm of rot.

My father-in-law's condition, much like our affair, had suddenly grown worse. I told Trish how deeply sorry I was that I couldn't be at the hospital, that I had business matters that absolutely needed to be tended to, and that I would be out to see her first thing in the morning.

Of course, Denise believed that my wife had been away visiting my sister, and that she could return at any given moment. She said that we were taking too many risks, stealing moments like these.

Yet, at the same time, she secretly harbored the hope that my wife would walk in on us, as to end my marriage and open new doors for our stowaway relationship. Perhaps she liked being the other woman because it made her feel greater, in a way, than she really was.

We went to my bedroom, and as we kissed, I fell heavily upon her until she was forced to fall backwards onto the bed. Our clothes joined one other on the floor, and my arms were around her, digging into her form. We wrestled about on the battlefield of sheet and pillow until I dominated her; pulled her head back by her hair, and forced myself inside her with Neanderthalish grunts. There were no moans, only heavy breathing. She cried out, but not in rapture.

?Stop? she yelled, breaking away, ?You?re hurting me!? What the **** is wrong with you!?

I sat on the edge of my bed silent.

?What the **** is wrong with you,? she said, ?Why are you like this??

I wanted to tell her everything, this, after all, had been the moment I had been waiting for. I wanted to say, ?I?ve been hurting you. Can?t you see? You?ve made it this way by being here, by not seeing it all along. ? I wanted to call her a selfish ***** and watch her sob uncontrollably. After all, why should she be surprised? She, in effect, had been a device I had used to hurt my own marriage. If I would hurt my own wife, why wouldn?t I hurt her?

But, there I sat, as if wounded by her question, with my hands pressed to my knees.

?Why are you like this,? she repeated, a gunshot in the night.

I laid back in the bed, the final blow having been dealt, and I stared at the ceiling fan waltzing in lazy circles, sending its cobweb partners gliding into the corners of the room.

?I hate you,? I said.

I heard a faint sobbing, the sound of her gathering her clothes, the loud slam of doors. She was gone. One of her shoes remained, barely peeking from beneath a sheet. I ran my finger over it and bowed my head. And, without thinking, I snatched it up, and threw it into my mirror, my mirror without a reflection. The glass exploded in slow motion, littering the carpet with diamond dust. I rose slowly, able to see myself, for what felt like the first time, in the shards.

?I hate you,? I said.

[Red]

[b][size=1][i]Excellent[/i]. That's about all I can say, really. This kept me gripped throughout. I love your writing style, Charles; especially at the end.[/b][/size]

[Lady Asphyxia]

[color=darkred][size=1]Aw, he took the words right out of my mouth. >.<

I love the repetition of the "I hate you." It brings a quiet emphasis, but it also provides an insight.

Ooh... *shivers in delight* I love this. ^_^[/color][/size]

[Charles]

Thanks a bunch, you two. I always have a sneaking suspicion that my work won't get any replies, so it always feels good to see comments.

I'm kinda fond of this exercise, so I'll touch it up when I have the time. I'd love to play with the language a bit more.

[Lady Asphyxia]

[color=darkred][size=1]Aw, well, you know how these people are. If it isn't Digimon, it isn't going to be viewed. Us "Original" writers need to stick together.

You an' me, kid, yeah, we'll go far. ^.~ [/color][/size]

[Sara]

[size=1]*looks slightly embarassed for having not replied earlier*

I loved it, but Elite pretty much summed up all I could think to say..

Sorry, Charles, should've posted.[/size]

[Mitch]

[color=black][size=1][font=rockwell] It was great. But I think you could've let us feel his emotions a tad more, and that this piece as a whole could've been written a lot more darker and deeper than this.

Eh, sorry it took my eons to reply.

It's great. I can tell you're taking after Poe's writing in some small ways here and there just by reading it. My main complaint, as I said, is that you didn't really let us feel anything for these characters. Sure, I could feel something. But the characters could've been more strongly shown. Because when I read this, I really didn't care about this two characters as much as I wanted to. And the person who's In first view I kind of don't understand in some fashions, due to the fact you really didn't give too much of why and what his motives were. Perhaps I'm just being too picky, but that's the overall feeling I found when I was finished.

I'd say I loved the last two paragraphs the most. They were what gave away the most of his character, and the image was pretty vivid in my mind.[/color][/size][/font]

[Queen Asuka]

[color=hotpink][size=1]Charles, I seriously didn't know you were a writer. That was some good work. So do you ever win any types of awards for the short stories you write?[/color][/size]