"I did not ask for the things that I've been through, and I certainly did not ask my mind to paint and repaint the pictures in flashback form" - Michelle Groth
Drunk limbs crashed to the bed, and Mickey sank into her kiss. She tasted like ash and spearmint, soured slightly with the remnants of the triple vodka and coke he'd bought her at the bar, until she'd stumbled home with him for no-strings-attached sex.
Things were getting heated at a rapid pace, clothes on the floor, bedcover strewn, breathing laboured.
It was ok. This was his choice.
And then she spoke.
"You like that?"
"You like that Mickey? Ey?"
He froze.
The warehouse.
"What's wrong?"
"What's wrong DC Webb? Not rough enough for you?"
Delaney's words.
"Mickey?"
Jesus, the smell.
He pulled away and sat up, frantically searching for clothes.
"What's going on?"
"You have to go."
Mickey rived day old track suit bottoms from the floor and covered himself.
"What? Why?"
A shirt. He needed a shirt.
"I can't"
He pulled the t-shirt over his head roughly.
"Look, Mickey,"
He could hear her getting dressed behind him.
"Would you just look at me?"
He shot across the room as she touched his shoulder and rounded on her furiously, breath frantic.
"Piss off alright? Get out!"
"You're mental mate. A proper dickhead, do you know that?"
As the door slammed, the first sob choked free as he angrily sent the stack of CDs on the bedside cabinet clattering to the floor.
The cases cracked beneath his feet as he stamped as hard as he could, the discs as shattered as he felt.
"I'll always have something over you Mickey."
Spent, Mickey sank to the floor and cried.