find me

34. hungry

Sticky hands on sticky skin, sticky bedsheets, sticky breaths, sticky thoughts. Everything felt sticky. Even the dark felt sticky. Like tape glued to her body, to the walls of her brain. Sticky and raw, untouched but also touching everything. Like she couldn't hide from the world and the world couldn't hide from her, mind and body exposed, naked.

The day had been a series of revelations, a non-stop of encountering new concepts and understandings.

A day of repetition and alliterations. A broken record stuck on the same note, scratching that vulnerable spot over and over and over and over.

A day of excitement and hypers.

Hyperactive brain, hyperbolic words crossing her vision, hyper aware of everything and everyone around her.

Paranoid. Powerful.

The density of the air, the coolness in the shade, the sweaty skin of her thighs sticking to the warm surface of the plastic chairs where she sat eating a gelato.

She could see it and feel it all.

Orange juice dripping down the corner of her mouth. Sticky. Wet. Juicy. She swiped it off with the back of her hand. Now the juicy wet stickiness was there too. She should have washed it off, but she didn't feel like it.

It wasn't comfortable but it didn't feel wrong.

Seagulls in the distance crying for their mate. Cigarettes being lit, smoke traveling and dispersing in the air around her. Sweat slowly descending and dampening the back of her neck.

A superpower that forced her to experience the world with heightened senses but also gave her control. An overwhelming influx of information, but with infinite knowledge.

It started in the house, in the morning, after he gave her possibly the best orgasm she'd ever had.

She was so disoriented after, she had to give herself tasks and instructions to be able to function.

Sit down, breathe, sigh. The ground didn't feel solid anymore. The air in the room wasn't enough to fill her lungs. Stand up, smile in disbelief, laugh. Inebriated with a substance much more addictive than alcohol. Take clothes off, turn around. She looked at herself in the mirror. Mirrors are ruthless, shameless, unbiased. Showing everything in front of them regardless of what someone might think of that reflection. Mirrors are not reliable, untruthful. Red marks were all over her chest, her neck, her shoulders. He had left them there. He had pressed visible proof of his passion into her skin, blood vessels had broken under that passionate pressure, creating a painting of bruises. They looked beautiful. Sigh. Look closely, don't look. Look again, stop looking. Close your eyes, shower, sigh. Droplets were falling down her naked body as she rubbed with his soap the altar he had just worshipped with his own sinful hands. She scrubbed her skin religiously, because they way he had touched her, held her, grabbed her, played her like an instrument had felt holy. Sinfully good. Breathe in, breathe out. His hands were sin, his mouth was sin, his eyes were sin. And the most sinful thing of all was his voice, promising sin in every low tone, scratching parts inside of her she didn't even know she had. She was never faithful, never believed in God, never trusted religion. But now... miracles, sins, holiness, they felt real. As real as reality can get. Get out. Dry the skin. The wet hair fell messily on her shoulders while a towel wrapped around her body tightly, she discarded it on the floor as she replaced it with clean dry clothes. The hair was still wet, now so were the clothes. Grab another towel. Dry the hair. It was almost noon and the air was thick with heat, within minutes the clothes were dry again. Sigh. She put some shoes on and ventured into the sunny day. She was starving. So hungry she could have eaten her own clothes. The day was hot. The kind of hot that would make her head go dizzy. She slowly approached the town, changing her pace accordingly with the head, and by the time she had reached the nearest shop, her clean, freshly washed skin was sticky again.