Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
But as soon as we arrived at the apartment, I dashed to our room and locked the door. Abel pounded on it, demanded to be let in, but I refused. I didn’t want to be near him and I didn’t want to be away. Does that make any sense? I wanted to know he was close but not close enough where he could touch me. I knew he was dying to. I knew he’d give anything to touch me and I wanted to punish him. And I wanted to listen to his breaths. Wild, savage breaths.
It’s night now, darkness galore. Abel has gone quiet; he’s stopped pounding at the door. I know he’s close though.
I can’t sleep; the mattress is too empty and my mind’s too full of things. I clutch the pillow to my chest like I would Abel and cry into it. But it’s too soft and not warm enough. It doesn’t have arms and it doesn’t tuck its heavy thigh in the dip of my waist. It doesn’t breathe, doesn’t talk in his sleep like my Abel does sometimes. The stupid pillow makes me cry even harder.
God, I miss him so much and he’s only on the other side of the door, waiting to be let in. I don’t want to spend only my second night as a wife all alone. He should be with me, by my side, making love to me. He should be here. Period.
But I can’t let him in.
In my mind, I see the warehouse, those people. When I was in there, watching them, I thought they were in love. I really thought that. Now I think, what if they were in love? How magical would that have been? How wild and chemical and explosive? They would’ve set the camera on fire. People would be talking about them for days. Then I think that it’s just porn. It’s cheap and disgusting. It has nothing to do with love.
I think of our neighbors, who are loud. They are in love, right? I think so. I’ve only seen them a handful of times, both thin and reedy and dark haired, and they’re always engrossed in each other. They have to know that they are loud. Do they just not care? Do they not mind that others can hear them? Maybe they’re so in love that it doesn’t even enter their minds.
In the darkness of night, it doesn’t seem so bad, having sex on camera, having sex in an alley, having sex where people can see us. My skin tingles as I imagine people’s eyes on us. The skin of my upper thighs feels chafed after the way I’ve rubbed my legs together. I’m losing my mind. I’m crazy for thinking this.
When the dawn comes, I’m exhausted, but still, I can’t sleep. I debate calling Sky but it’s too early for her. She must be sleeping. Besides, I just talked to her and I don’t want to tell her that in only twenty-four hours I’ve managed to mess up my marriage.
My parents would be happy though, right? In fact, I assume parents sense these kind of things. It’s not surprising. We share genes, habits, behavior. It makes sense that they would know when their child is in trouble. My mom must be sleeping like the dead tonight, no care, no worries. My dad must be feeling lighter because he already knew that Abel would be bad for me.
So, they win.
I’m fucking pissed and angry and I want to smash something. I want to hug Abel and never let go.
But I can’t. Because he lied to me. He wants me to do unspeakable things in front of a camera.
Does he, though?
He never said it, never said the words. I assumed. But then why was he aroused?
Why was I?
I don’t remember going to sleep but when I wake up the room’s super bright. I open the door and see Abel hunched by the opposite wall. His neck is slanted at an odd angle. He’s going to have a kink from sleeping wrong. He does that. He usually sleeps wrong and then grumbles about neck pain. I bought him a nice pillow a few days ago because I know he won’t buy one for himself. That’s another thing he does. He has zero materialistic desires. All his desires are either emotional or carnal.
Like I’m something disgusting. Like I’m a monster.
I see his lonely, disappointed expression back at the alley. Hear the crack in his voice. It breaks my heart. It makes me feel ashamed of myself. How am I different from the people who brought me up if I never gave him the chance to explain? How am I… better? Again, I get this urge to hug him. I want to kiss all his hurt away, but I don’t. I can’t. Not until we really talk about this.