There will be more in this hotel room, most likely, but this is it for now**.
Still nsfw/18+, but I guess all of the Mouse and Mutt material is inherently not for kids, anyway. Still, worth plopping the label on.
Episode Five.
splinters of
morning light
splinters,
not rays or beams, but splinters
splinters
because they pierce. They pierce her eyes, her mind, the soft fatty tissue
lurking between her ears and desperately trying to maintain some semblance of
control over her actions, some semblance of harmony, equilibrium, homeostatic
measures that maintain temperature and appetite and the urgent need to fuck.
Her arm
draped over her eyes. She would guard herself, now. Protect herself from the
cruel mistress of the heavens, that unfearing, unyielding orb beyond the clouds
above, a god to so many for so long, and nothing more than a hot ball of gas.
Her head
felt like shit.
Her head felt like shit. Her
body felt like shit, mostly, though the lingering sticky sensation between her
thighs was inherently satisfying in a way that turned her stomach. Her skin
felt clammy. Gross. Sweat-soaked, only half of it her own.
Mouse could hear him breathing,
still, so close to her. His head against her shoulder, buried in the same
pillow, the same space, the same dream. A land far from here, far from anything
either of them had ever seen, where the confines of this universe were far from
known. Where innocence persevered. Where her hangover was less severe, and her
thoughts less convoluted, preying on her weary mind like starving wolves on a
wounded straggler.
Peace and War were fighting
again, only they weren’t, because Peace was a Pacifist and would go down
without a fight.
Her head rolled to the right.
His face was immediate, profound, larger than life itself. The gentle slope of
his pointed chin, the slight trace of masculinity he’d allowed to grow on his
face, to spread and breed and multiply like fungus climbing a tree, intent on
sucking the life from it without a second thought, without guilt or fear or
even the knowledge of what either meant. Innocence.
What good was innocence, anyway?
Innocence meant freedom. Freedom from knowledge. Ignorance, romanticized. An
innocent child is unaware of the consequences of his or her actions. When she
was an innocent child, she would push other children to the ground and play
with their things. Protest was an irritation; to feel guilty for her actions
required Guilt, guilt with a capital G, the very force of social ramifications
visited upon her heart a thousand fold for every action.
Now that she was grown up, she
killed people. Professionally. She killed people because she wanted to kill
people, and there were other people willing to call it a career. She traded in
death. Traded in pain. Hers was a craft that left sorrow and devastation in its
wake, that left families torn asunder, that left children without parents.
And it was okay, because They
Told Her So. These are the good guys. Those are the bad guys. They are doing
bad things. Fear Not, Noble Warrior. Your Cause is Sacred.
Innocence was being able to do
what she enjoyed without thinking about it. Innocence was naivety.
That face before her. That
sweet, satisfied face. The face a man, or a boy, or something in-between,
satisfied because it was given what it wanted, what it craved, what it desired,
without striving to achieve it. Satisfied because for a single night, the man
it belonged to was a spoiled child, handed a treat and told to enjoy, not made
to do chores and score points and purchase, Hard-Earned and God-Given, a moment
of joy.
Mouse's eyes fell shut.
Why did the sun have to be so
fucking bright?
Candy. A treat. Pure, simple
joy. Her mind drifted to her hazed memories of the night before, strange and
foreign yet so familiar, visages of pleasure, the silhouette of parted lips, of
craning necks, of arching backs and drifting fingers. Bright and burning, yet
so vague and undefined, like the sun. The motherfucking bright-ass sun.
She could still taste him on her
lips.
Her breath smelled like cock.
A shameful fact, of course.
Shame and embarrassment, pointed fingers, shaken heads. Avert the eyes, Oh
Virtuous Maiden, for the woman before you is the image of Sin. And yet,
curious—to be innocent implied being chaste, somehow. Being Sober. Being Clean.
Innocence, with a capital I, the
absence of Guilt, with a capital G. Innocence was selfish. Innocence knew
nothing of calories or consequences, crushed feelings or lost dreams.
The child raised by wolves is an
animal. She will eat and eat and eat and vomit and eat again, rip her clothes
off, parade around in the buff, roll around in ecstatic agony like a queen in
heat, rut and rut and rut some more, and never think, or think to think, to
care.
A child without society was
free. Innocence was crafted, honed, a sheltered state. Innocence was
un-fucking-natural. The man on her shoulder, sleeping so peacefully, had just
done something innocent. He’d responded, in the only way she’d allowed, by
doing the only thing he could think to do. He’d fucked her brains out.
When he woke, his innocence
would shatter. That drug-fueled haze that impaired his decisions—prevented him
from being a Grown-Up and turned him into a small child on the street, offered,
unsuspecting, an irresistible treat by a charismatic stranger—would be
destroyed.
Suddenly, she felt sick. Sick
from head to toe, from the pit of her stomach to the hair on her head. The
sweat on her skin was evidence not of sin, not of immorality, but worse—of
simple, self-centered, childish desire, imposed on another without thought or
care, without a mind for consequence, without fear of the unknown.
Innocence was vile.
Climbing out of bed was a
challenge. His pretty face, his sweetly-sleeping, still-so-sheltered face,
twisted slightly in protest as her body slipped out from under it. His limbs
curled in tight knots, grasping at bedding, hugging it closely until it formed
some gross approximation of her warmth. The smile returned. Naïve. Unknowing.
Her feet carried her to the
bathroom. Her stomach dropped her to the toilet. She could smell ancient traces
of careless men, piss on the seat and piss on the floor, piss on the wall, piss
on themselves and all over their hands and all over the hearts of those they
told they loved. Her guts twisted in sharp circles. Nothingness spilled free
from her lips, sharp and acrid, burning her throat and tongue and lips, turning
the clear water into a murky orange liquid, chunky somehow, despite the lack of
tangible solids.
Shoulders slumped, legs went
limp, and she found herself leaning against the wall nearby, an arm around the
toilet, jabbing limply at the flusher. Heavy, bag-lined eyes found rags on a
shelf above, ready to be used, abused, pulled across her face and thrown in a
corner like trash.
They were too far away. The
shirt she was still wearing, had never taken off, was removed in their stead.
Vomit was stripped from her lips. Her insides twisted again, but nothing
happened.
She dropped the shirt by her
feet.
Her head leaned back against the
wall, mashed in a corner, hard as stone and yet so impossible to ignore. Her
eyes fell back shut.
She began to drift. A land Far
Away.
A land where people ate candy and slept too much and fucked like animals
and no one gave a flying shit.
A land without innocents.
*Author's note: Sorry that was so bad. I was drunk when I wrote it.
**The other reason it's short is I got too drunk and went to bed.
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