デンジ
Denzi.
remember the departed man of no return.
He was like one of those poorly written romance novels that littered her floor, dog-eared with bent spines and her small, adorable, slanting handwriting. He had sworn he would never read them – and he didn't – but on some occasions, curiosity swallowed him whole and he would peruse the summary. It was generally the same: the boy and girl would meet somehow, somewhere, and they would fall in love on the spot, but their families wouldn't allow it, so they ran away from home and most certainly ended up happily ever after, with a couple of children to boot.
His finger would always hover at the last (almost always trailing) sentence before he threw the paperback to its home once again. He had seen enough of real life to know that books never told the truth; his parents were proof enough: they despised each other; it was almost a wonder how he was ever born.
He would always stare at the sorry looking book on the worn, hardwood floor before he would rise, turn with a scowl and slam her screen door shut behind him.
It frightened him just how close his world was to theirs, just how easily it could fall apart, just how long it took to mend it back together.
Their relationship was a beautiful, elegant one, to say the least.
It was filled with sunset walks on deserted beaches, midnight kisses at deserted coffee shops, clasped hands while meandering through the outdoor market.
It was silent and discreet, and they both liked it that way; they both agreed that there was absolutely no substance in flashy, raunchy relationships.
But Volkner never confided in Jasmine that sex-driven love lasted a bit longer than beautiful, endearing, till-the-end love.
He supposed he was afraid of losing her before their relationship had even truly begun.
He was a stupid, foolish man to be afraid of something as petty as love.
They always kissed in solitude, never near her childish, frilly, purple bedroom; she wasn't that type of woman. They would always embrace one another on her sagging, dilapidated charcoal couch; he would send small, short, silent butterfly kisses up and down her neck, and she would give him long, honey-sweet kisses near his forehead and ear. She would wind her tiny, bony fingers through his corn-yellow hair, and he would rest his head on her shoulder, and breathe in the familiar, homey scent of lilacs and honeysuckle. She would cup his face and plant one lingering kiss on his lips, and she would pull away almost instantaneously, making him yearn for her even more.
But that was the end. It never lasted more than four minutes (Volkner had timed it once, he had admitted this sheepishly to Jasmine) and never faulted in order, always ending with her long, saccharine-sweet kiss. It was always the same, and Volkner situated himself comfortably, relieved that everything in their relationship was constant.
He was guaranteed that much from her.
Alcohol had turned him into a raging, hungry, desperate, despicable monster.
Jasmine writhed and squirmed under his dominating hand; she was pinned down neatly under Volkner. (He despised himself for imagining her as a tiny Deerling, ready to be devoured.)
He began, rather cruelly and mockingly, with the beginning of their little couch ritual. He leaned down and placed short, butterfly kisses down her neck and along her collarbone, ignoring her rapid shuddering and flinching. He slowly crept lower and lower, kissing near the hem of her white, one-piece dress. Volkner lowered himself over her and smelled her hair, inhaling its scent as if it were a stimulant.
After this "step" (Volkner had formed their ritual into a sorry set of rigid, staunch rules), Volkner would be stepping into unknown territory. He would be free to do as he liked (he should have hated himself for thinking this).
After a moment of sadistic, thoughtful silence, his long, probing fingers slowly pulled down on the white, cotton straps of her dress. Her body immediately became taut, as rigid as a piece of plywood. He pulled farther and farther until he was satisfied and set off to work.
He kissed and kissed, each kiss kindling his mad, desperate urge to discover every part of her small, slender body. His fingers pored over her like a historian over a long-forgotten tome; his lips traced every ascent and depression on her smooth, pale chest. His fiery urge overcame him completely, his fingers pulled lower and lower, fingering – until he looked up at her face.
She had the haunting look of a dead maiden, laid to rest underneath a brilliant, blue sky. Her lips were still, her cheeks looked hollow and sunken, her skin was a pale, pasty gray.
But her eyes told it all.
They were dead, completely hopeless, all life sucked out of them. Her eyes weren't a rich, chocolate brown anymore; they were a fathomless and depthless grey. Jasmine seemed to register that Volkner was looking at her, and a miniscule portion of her former self returned. Her eyes suddenly became steely and guarded, hatred seeping through every pore of her delicate, porcelain-like features.
Her hands groped for the straps of her dress, and she pulled it over her goose bump riddled chest.
"Volkner."
Those two syllables that bounced off her lips jerked him out of his beastly stupor. He looked down at her, and her eyes had become that horrible, dingy gray once again. Jasmine had lost all the life within her; she could only mouth one word: "Leave."
Volkner did, like a pitiful dog with its tail in between its legs.
Outside, the cool night air smelled sickeningly like blooming jasmines.
fin.
#2 on the 100 Themes Challenge. Currently writing one for Steven and Flannery.
Link for original playlist: 8tracks (.com) / wizardcity / complicated