Everyone has a dark side...some just know how to use it. Three different women with three different secrets, but secrets can only stay buried for so long...
I lay on my back with my eyes closed. I was concentrating on the way the water felt on my naked body. I was hoping the feeling might distract me from the tingling sensation in my lips that hadn't stopped since kissing Matt. I'd never really enjoyed kissing before. I didn't see the point of it really. It's just a short, cheap trailer for sex. But kissing Matt...
I glanced down at the back of my hand, there was a red scratch across it from being scraped against the rough wall by him. In fact, I also had a small graze on my knee from where it had been rubbing up against the hard concrete.
The guy had taken quite a gamble. That could have played out very differently with me screaming assault and him getting arrested for attacking me in a public toilet only...
How the fuck had he known I would play along?
I fully submerged myself. Sometimes I like to look at the world from the bottom of the bath. The world looks different like that, peaceful. And it is silent. I hold my breathe down there until I can't any longer- until my lung burn and scream at me and the pain becomes too much to bare.
I feel alive like this... even though my body is dying of oxygen deprivation. Just like mommy once did to me.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I climbed out of the bath and stood in front of the mirror. It was completely fogged up from the steam and I took my two fingers and wiped a small line across it where I could just see my eyes. I stared at myself. My big, black eyes. Someone once asked me if I was on cocaine because my pupils looked so big. I don't use cocaine. They've just always been that way. Black.
Ironic, don't you think, since they're supposed to be the windows to the soul and all that shit. Well, at least my eyes don't lie to the world then.
***
There was always a weird tension in the house when a show about him came on TV. You could feel it. It was as if the atoms in the air were charged or magnetized and you could almost feel them buzzing around you, prickling at your skin.
And tonight was no exception. I glanced over at my mother, she was packing the dishwasher frantically. She looked panicked. Sick even. Her face was pale and drawn and her hair was scraped back tightly as usual. In fact, she scraped it back so tightly that it distorted her features somewhat. It made her eyes look longer than they really were and her forehead bigger.
Every now and then someone will make a crime documentary about him, or the crime network will run a special expose on him. Only a few moments ago we'd been watching one of those shows where ordinary people find a crappy, dirty painting in their cellar that turns out to be a long lost Picasso worth $50 million when the advert came on. Serial killer Night, it said in cheerful with glamorous lettering. The music was dramatic and they flashed his face across the screen.
She immediately flicked the TV off, picked up the plates and walked off to the kitchen.
I jumped up and followed her. "Let me do that." I took the plates from her and started packing them into the washer, I could see that her hands were shaking slightly.
