A Study in April

Day 7 - A Heart Stripped Bare (Mature)

Is it just the whiskey talking, or do you look like something a god could've sculpted with his own hands?

Probably; if so, he did before you went and done tried getting killed on multiple occasions. Only the powers know what the war's aftermath must've done if you look like a beautiful atrocity, a goldsmith's discarded work gathering dust in some keepsake box. It glints in your eyes, a color thick and warm as honey. Not sure if it's me-could be me or the murkiness of my drunk subconscious-but there's longing there, somewhere. Could be the drink, or I could just be wanting to see you peek up at me between my thighs.

Do you want to love me? Love me like I did her? Like I do the monster that sprouted out of her loins, a feeling so raw and licentious and obscene?

Brazen as it is to admit, your figure is lithe and powerful, a sight scandalous enough to ignite fire in the pit of my stomach. It's no wonder you like showing it off so damn much. All hard, pronounced muscle wound lovingly around concrete bones, I find it hard to believe you didn't walk straight off an artist's canvas ready to be taken home-but you sure act like it anyway, getting drunk enough to camp out next to me in my bedroom at least three times a week, letting the most incendiary witticisms roll off your tongue as if trying to provoke me into caging it with my own.

You're always trying to bite the ring off my finger. That's the reason behind everything you do.

"Hey," you say, voice foggy and eyes lidded from a night of debauchery, "y'know, Smiley, I don't joke around when I say that shit around ya."

I take another long swig, hoping that the burn will numb my anger a bit. It takes enough to kill five men to even have me tipsy now, and the increasingly concerning pile of discarded bottles is enough to prove it. "You're not even serious about a lot of things, sport."

"But I am. At least right now."

"And how are you so sure?"

"'Cause I think an awful lot 'bout shoving my tongue 'tween your teeth." The words come out slurred, a testament to our degeneracy. "Even when I'm fucking sober. Can't get it outta my head."

"Not uncharacteristic of you to admit that to a married man."

"And when's the last time you committed seriously to your wife, you prune? We've known each other longer."

At this point, whiskey doesn't cover it. I'd rather swallow a bottle of motor oil than listen to you remind me of my crimes against fidelity, but thoughts of the kid come to mind: he's already more than enough proof, the spitting image of a lover long gone and an obvious stain on our union. I told her he was adopted. She knew better.

No point in angsting over it when I've already lost.

"Well? I'm waiting. She already knows well enough, and your sweet bairn-" your voice almost softens in reluctant affection "-he's the most aware out of anyone in town, but they won't leave."

"He can't," I say. "And there's a lot on the line for her, you know; aristocratic women aren't much but olive branches between families these days. The harpy will keep clinging to me, even if it's by a single hair."

"Even if she sees ya biting the pillow?"

"Even if she sees me."

"Goddamn." You nestle closer to me. "So what am I supposed to do with all these feelings, huh, Smiley? Keep 'em here until I die?"

Your hand slips onto my chest, and there's no stopping it from me. It feels strong and calloused against my own tender skin, prompting something hot and swelling to bloom beneath my belly. Is this what I do now? Looking straight into the army of skeletons inside my closet and walking backwards into my life of lies?

Is this what it all is? Is this what I am?

It isn't enough. It isn't enough. The drinks keep pouring down my throat like flaming water, burning the edges of my esophagus until I stare hazy and wanting at a man with hundreds, thousands dead at his hands - the same as me, the same waste in the same landfill, molded from the same putrid scum. The only one who understands.

The bottle leaves my lips. "That's what I do."

It's silent for a while. You trace circles over my heart, chin on my shoulder and nose hovering dangerously close to the crook of my neck. The air hangs overhead with the weight of your contemplation. I've never been so close, so agonizingly close to feeling so loved and so suicidal at the same time.

You rise and kiss me plainly on my mouth.

"And look where you are now, dear."

Without a conscious thought, I give in to temptation.