A Hazy Day...

A Lazy Day...

The fact that the first thing I wrote and posted in this website is this story is enough proof of what you can expect from me.

- Rokusisu.

It's a sunny day.

I lazed around in my home. My thumb's getting tired from switching from channels to channels. Nothing is interesting today on TV. I throw the remote to god-knows-where. I'm too tired to do anything today. Let alone THINKING of doing something in this god forsaken heat. Global warming is fake news, they said. Geez, man. I closed my eyes for a brief moment.

It's a lazy day.

________________________________________________________________________________

I was woken up by the sudden knock from the door. I lazily lifted myself and make my way towards it. Who could've visit me today of all day? My parents are away to San Francisco due to "business duties" or "You either coming with me or I'll bring out the divorce papers, Karen!". Either one of those. The knocking's getting louder. What do they want from an unemployed 20 years old like me? It's getting louder with each step I take.

"Alright, alright, I'm coming!"

I gripped the door handle and braced myself.

"Want a sprite cranberry?"

"...."

"Want a sprite cranberry?"

"...wha...."

A tall, black man with basketball jersey greeted me by offering a fresh, cold Sprite Cranberry in this scorching heat.

"Want--..."

"I get it, I get it... And no, I don't want any uh...."

"Sprite cranberry?"

"Yes! Wait, no!"

I closed the door abruptly, only for it to immediately stopped at the end by the man's Air Jordan.

"What the--...."

The man invited himself to the house and look straight at me the eyes.

"The answer is clear...."

I regret asking that. If there's a sea of mistakes that I could redo, I would take that question back in a heartbeat. The tall man answered by pinning me into the wall beside the door.

"It's the thirstiest time of the year."

Our lips pressed. His tongue wrestled it's way into mine. Taking a moment to register all this, I decided to try to break free from his clutches. His grip is too strong. I'm powerless.

Our lips parted. My lungs are begging for more air as I exhaled more than I should.

"Want a sprite cranberry?"

The man breaks the silence and let his right hand make its way under my shirt. His index finger circling around my nipple, pinching at times.

I let out a small moan. I try to hold it in. The circling keeps faster, the pinching keeps getting frequent. I can't control my moans anymore. The black man smiled like any black man should. I looked away from his eyes in response. The pinching stops. His hand now reaching for some place I knew was going, but didn't expect to be this soon.

His jersey pants fell down to the floor. I opened my eyes and saw what I believed to be the infamous urban legend:

The Black Mamba.

"Want a sprite cranberry?"

________________________________________________________________________________

"AAAARGHHHHHHHHH!"

Heavy breathing. Me. Living room. TV still on. No knocking on the door.

I try to calm down and collect my thoughts as what the freak just transpired.

"...."

It's just a stupid dream. Caused by this damned heat. And my throat is aching. Not only that, my rear feels ....numb? Ignoring that I went to the kitchen to grab something to drink. Thinking back, what does even that dream means? I cracked open a cold one and let the cold liquid runs through my throat. Back to the subject, why did I moaned in that dream as if I....liked it? Maybe I'm just lonely and starving for human interaction. Mom, Dad, please come home now.

Now you mentioned it, this drink tastes familiar....

It's as if....

It's a Sprite Cranberry.