Roofers.

5. Apathetic dusk.

Scarlett POV.

Nobody ever spoke of how addictive spacing could be. 

Nobody ever spoke of the pure unadulterated bliss you got from merely running your fingers along a potential's skin. No one spoke of the fireworks in your fingertips. The explosions in the sweet, innocent kisses. The euphoria that made your highs so much higher. Nobody cared to mention how low the lows could get if you'd let them. And how would you explain that shit, anyway? 

If I told you that his skin was like silk and that the sound of his sweet whimpers resembled the holy hymns of angels. If I told you, the sound of him begging me with a desperation that wouldn't falter had become my sermon. If I told you the sight of his dilated eyes filled with tears as he stared at me with the promise of pleasure embedded beneath flakes of grey and silver shimmer. You'd think I was insane — nothing but a devoted worshipper, drunk on sacramental wine and seated at the doorstep of a forbidden church, banned for radical eccentricity and stories too bold to speak of.  Or perhaps it was a dream. Perhaps none of it had happened, and I was just a prisoner to fictional romantics.

The thing is, no matter how much I hated Mr centre of the universe, I had to admit that I liked how it felt to be near him. And I hated the absence of that feeling. I hated the coldness of my palms and the charcoaled evidence of fireworks that stained my fingertips. I hated the hazy feeling of this painful withdrawal.

My rehab was in our silence. In our empty, rushed glances. We both knew we were addicts, but none of us were willing to admit it. We were each other's relapse, and he was like the worst kind of drug. The kind that made you feel the best but simultaneously fucked your life up the worst. Sobriety was overrated anyway.

See, in my world everyone was either a dominant or a submissive. That was your attribute, the source of your desire, the driver of your decisions and social standing. The dominants were mostly male, and submissives were mostly female. Relationships tended to work more with compatibility, meaning one person could technically be compatible with any other person. The dominants, as demanding as we are known to be, made most of the decisions. Not to say submissives didn't have that capacity, it's just that the dominants were allowed to. The dominants, whom of which were mostly male, could climb the corporate ladder as easily as they pleased. They were heard; listened to more, merely because they were believed to be stronger, smarter, more assertive than the average submissive. 

Most submissives didn't mind, because let's be honest, who could refuse a carefree life, having a faithful dominant provide for your needs and wants whenever you so pleased. Even though that wasn't always the case. Because like with all things in life, those dominants weren't always the best people. And eventually, subs would get tired of being ignored and abused and harassed simply because of their attributes. Simple things like walking outside alone was basically like being a pole dancer in a strip-club. Especially with the way some dominants would jeer and taunt, pedestrians.

Take my mother, for example. She was one of the first submissives to own and run a large scale company alone. And to think after all she's proven to this fuckery of a planet, she still has subordinates who think it funny to slap her ass or call her anything out of her name. It's as if they think she wouldn't mind because of her attribute. My mother is known for having bones of steel and the mouth to put dominants in their place; forcing them into either seeing her as their equal or superior. I was proud of her for it.

But every once in a while you'd get a reverse, some fucked up sperm cell that decided to meet the egg the wrong way round. Leading to female dominants like me and subs like mister universe. Forced into hiding or lying to avoid all the snide comments and stinging glares.