Black Beauty (Z.A. Love Story// Explicit)

5// (The Other Woman)

The air had been much cooler, or maybe it was because I hadn't been eating much? I didn't feel like wearing a bra, and had just put on a black sweater and a pair of black tights and socks. I didn't feel like lighting the fire place, or turning on the artificial heat.

   I didn't want to eat, nor did I want to drink. I just felt alone, and tired, and dull.

   My phone had two unread messages; one from my mom, and one from Richard. I debated reading the one from Richard, but it would probably worsen my mood. I was too afraid to give a shit.

   "Hi sweetie, how are you?" My mother sent me. The truth was I was very exhausted and burned out like a disregarded cigarette on the cold pavement. But why would I tell her that?

   "I'm fine" Is what I replied.

   I walked back to the sofa, and layed down, now staring up at the white ceiling, and looking at the lonely chandelier above me, gaining dusted webs. No spiders lived there; I could tell.

    It seemed, again, like the most suitable thing to fill my void with was to try to fall back to sleep and forget about the real world and the stupid problems I carried.  I crawled back into my bed, and curled up into a fertile position, trying to get my body warm again.

   I then began to feel tears well up in my eyes, softly, and felt the warm, heavy lump in my throat grow. Shit, why the hell was I crying? It felt pathetic. It felt pathetic that I wouldn't cry because I felt pathetic.
 
   I involuntarily told myself to not cry, even when I'm alone. There are people on earth with bigger problems.

   I hated telling myself this.

   Only one small tear ran down my cheek onto the pillow. It left a lonely, wet spot on the fabric.

$$$

   It was after I fell asleep that outside had turned deep blue again, and the sun was setting, and the day had evaporated before me.

   Shit, how the hell did I sleep this long? I rolled over to look at the digital clock in all of it's glow-green glory. '6:34 pm'.

   My stomach was twisted in, and I felt nauseous because of how long it had been since food was in my system. I didn't want to get out of bed though. The thought was like poison. I didn't turn the heater on in the morning, leaving my room chilled and uncomfortable. I didn't want to eat, but if I had someonce around me who cared, they would want me to.

   My chest was flat and my boobs were small. I probably should eat, but the biggest obstacle felt like going out in public by myself. With somebody, I would feel fine.

   My makeup was smeared on my face, making me look like a dark, whoreish Barbie doll abandoned on a bed. I let my body lay down for a few more minutes, then gathered enough strength to tell myself to get up, and go get food to eat.

   I felt a little sick standing, and walking towards the bathroom to shower. My legs felt heavy like stone.

   I undid the back clip to my bra, and let my pale, small breasts fall into the open air. They looked like dull flaps of skin above my ribs. They felt embarassing, and I could feel my face get warm just by looking at them in the mirror. I slipped my panties down, and didn't bother to look down.

$$$

   The hot water burned lightly, but it felt good, and the air inside the apartment was cold, and I didn't want it to end. Stepping out of the shower was like forcing myself to wake up early in the winter. It was that painful.

   I put a bathrobe over my wet, naked body, and walked into my bedroom and sat down on the bed. I faced another problem that all other women encountered on a daily basis. The choice of what to wear. I had a lot of clothing, most of it I rarely wore because having favorites is common.