Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 104532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Tiger’s bell rings energetically as he runs after her and slips into the house before she closes the door.
Leon doesn’t eat chicken.
That’s the sum of what I know about my husband.
I don’t even know if he has allergies. Just as well, or I may have been tempted to slip those allergens into his food.
A cloud moves in front of the sun. I look at the sky. Thunder rumbles in the distance. A wet, earthy smell hangs in the air. When the first raindrop explodes on my dress, I can’t put off going inside any longer. I use the keys Leon has given me to let myself in and pause at the entrance. The house is dark and quiet, a beautiful but lonely prison. I should think about lunch, but I don’t have an appetite. Grabbing an apple from the kitchen, I crunch into it while unpacking my drawing utensils.
For the rest of the afternoon, I work on an apocalypse scene. The woman, who’s still nameless, walks the deserted streets in a torn golden dress while rain plasters her hair to her face and her clothes to her curves. I make another drawing where she’s handcuffed to a dark-haired alien, standing in front of an altar to take their sacred vows.
In the next scene, her new husband bends her over the altar and consummates the marriage. She’s barefoot, still wearing the tattered, golden dress. Then she’s laying on the altar with one arm hanging over the edge. On the ground, just below her limp hand, lies an apple with a bite taken out of its sinfully red skin. The rose creeper behind the altar is twining around her wrists and ankles, the thorns drawing blood. Her alien lover is a dark figure on the outskirts, a blurry entity paying witness to the scene.
Even darker then, the creeper has sprouted roots in her belly, and the thick stalk that is nourished by her blood sprouts ethereally beautiful red roses. Her forced husband is absent. Where his figure used to be, there are only shadows, charcoal grey infused with the perfume of candy-apple roses. She’s complete in her isolation, drawing her last breaths to feed the flowers.
There’s no sequence to the drawings, no particular story to be told, but the images pour out of me, the movement of the pencils and brushes like a calming balm on my turbulent thoughts.
The grumbling of my stomach reminds me I’ve only eaten an apple all day. Too hungry to continue working, I hide my drawings, wash up, and make a sandwich. The bread tastes like cardboard, getting stuck in my throat, and I only manage to eat half of it by washing it down with a cup of tea.
The later it gets, the increasingly anxious I become as I anticipate facing Leon. As much as he wanted to tie me to him, he hates my presence in his house. I know when I’m not welcome, but he won’t let me leave.
I pace the lounge for hours, not knowing when to expect him back. Last night, he left work earlier than usual, but when he’s not home by eight, I assume he’s staying at the office as late as he normally does. It has long since grown dark outside. I switch on a light and go upstairs.
As I didn’t have time for a shower this morning, I have one now. When I exit from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around my body, I stop dead. A tall man stands in the shadows with one shoulder braced against the wall.
I give an involuntary start.
With a lazy movement, he flicks on the lamp. A golden glow washes over Leon’s face, illuminating his wavy hair that falls messily over his forehead. We stand quietly as he assesses me with his dark eyes from the distance. He’s still wearing the same suit of this morning, the jacket stretching over his broad shoulders when he crosses his arms.
“Drop the towel,” he says, his voice gravelly.
I swallow.
“Drop the towel, Violet, and lie down on the bed.”
I could argue, but I don’t want to. Why, I’m not sure. Maybe it’s because I’ve been lonely. Maybe it’s the twisted way in which the command heats my body. Or maybe it’s laying myself on the altar, sacrificing my soul for my sins, but I do it. I pay the price. I drop the towel and walk over to the bed. Avoiding his eyes, I climb onto the mattress.
“On your back,” he says, uncrossing his arms.
I lower myself slowly.
He walks to the edge, carrying something in his hand, something thick and long and black. He holds it in front of my face, showing me. A dildo.
His command is cold, impersonal. “Open your mouth.”
When I comply, he slips the thick toy past my lips, stretching my mouth with the crest. “Suck it.”