Can't You Hear Me Screaming? {Juniper One-Shot}
Sept 7, 2014 18:57:05 GMT -5
Post by Death on Sept 7, 2014 18:57:05 GMT -5
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[googlefont="Homemade Apple:400"] Juniper Slagg district twelve |
You walk across the dust and gravel of the road, your worn fabric shoes with their flexible canvas soles rubbing against it and kicking up dust behind you as you make your way next to your little brother. Well, not so little anymore. Mason will be a grown man soon. He's taller than you and almost entirely muscle. Fastest kid you've ever seen. It’s twilight. You can tell because even the sky is coated with a layer of coal-dust and grime. A sunset is like a fire, you muse to yourself as you traipse along. There's the white-light blaze of the daytime and then the slow burning down of the sky. Flashes of orange and pink and red and sometimes even a purple that dyes the normally pure white or gray clouds. But it's not sunset anymore. It's twilight and twilight is dirty. Not as dirty at the dead of night, but enough to make you want to take a long, hot bath as soon as you get to your lover's apartment. Mason swoops forward and seizes your small, spidery hand in his own. He doesn't lace the fingers. He just... holds them. Carefully and gently, but still firm enough to know he doesn't want to let go anytime soon. "You're beautiful," Mason murmurs. "And you're handsome," you shoot back with a grin. "No, you're seriously the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." You glance over at him, an eyebrow raised. "Where's all this brotherly affection suddenly coming from?" He smiles and squeezes your hand. "Just trying to thank you for everything you do." You laugh and shake your head before readjusting your hand in his grip. "Let's get you to Marcus'." Something drops in your stomach. Almost a dreading sensation, mixed with anticipation and excitement. But, mostly, it's just dread. It'll take five minutes to walk to Marcus' house and then another five to get to your lover's. Just ten minutes. You'll insist on bathing first-- since everything in the Seam gets covered in grime-- and that will be maybe five or ten minutes before the lure of a woman naked in a tub of water will draw your lover to the bathroom. That's twenty minutes. Tops. Twenty minutes to prepare yourself for another night of doing things that are causing a blush to rise across your cheeks at this very moment. Part of you loves it. The part that he sees. To him, you're the whore he pays to attend to his ahem needs because he doesn't have the time to go out and catch his women the normal way. Plus, he's a nice guy. He knows he'd just be using girls and breaking their hearts. He'd told you. He'd told you that you made his life so much easier. You like making him happy. Making his life more livable. But he's making your life a living hell. Not on purpose. He's employing you. You can't help but be grateful to him for that. And he pays you very well. Exceedingly well. But you don't let anyone know that. Your income is more than enough to support yourself and the teenage boy you call your brother and provide for you to make a sizable nest-egg. Maybe, someday, you could quit the whoring business and open... a dress shop? A bakery? Something frilly like that. A bakery, though. You could make good bread that people in the Seam could actually afford. Bread that wasn't unpalatable. Bread that would make people want to talk to you again. Mason doesn't let go of your hand as you march up the Larkers' front walk-- which was really just a soft dirt path spotted with sharp stones and surrounded by very tall and very dead grass-- and step onto their porch. Their house is like yours. Mostly wood. Coated so deeply with grime and other shit that the wood has been stained an inky gray color. The outside is rotting in some places, where it comes away in gigantic hunks of splinters. That's what this house is. It's a brick house. Except the bricks are made of wood splinters. You let Mason knock on the door for you. Dad's worn leather bag is around his shoulders and sags slightly. You know it contains what he'll wear tomorrow and a generous portion of lunch. Of course, the food quality still isn't fantastic, but you managed to get a piece of really nice bread-- the kind that melts in your mouth-- and some kind of bruised fruit that cost a fortune. Mrs. Larker pulls open the door and smiles, warmly greeting Mason into her home and completely ignoring you. In the background, you can see two or three teenage boys, one of whom must be Marcus. You see his lips move and you hear his voice. But it takes a moment to register exactly what he says. "Looks like Mason's slutty bitch of a sister came with to drop him off," one of them says. It's not Marcus, but Marcus cracks a small smile. Mason's face looks dangerous and he glares at Marcus as he enters the house. Mrs. Larker closes the door before you get a chance to see what happens next. And you don't bother to stick around to hear the argument you know is going to take place. You push back tears. You try to keep them pushed back, but you can't. You can't and your feet are carrying you so quickly to your lover's house. The tears are streaming down your face and you can't stop them but you don't want people to see. You'd rather your lover sees your tears so he can kiss them away. So he can lick the salt water from your face and then kiss each eye and then your lips and your neck and then wherever else he wants to, because tonight he owns your body. His door is a simple wooden door in a concrete structure. Sturdy. Stable. Everything you need. How is this man everything you need right now? You catch yourself on the door, panting, and knock twice. He rips open the door and gathers you into his arms before pulling you back inside and closing the door behind him. He locks it and stands over you. He's got to have five or six inches on you. Your lips tremble as you reach up to kiss him and tangle your fingers into his curly brown hair. Your lips move together, tugging gently at each other. It must have lasted at least five minutes, because by the time you break the kiss and he's holding you against his chest, kissing the top of your head, your heartbeat has mostly stabilized. But then you remember why it was pumped up in the first place and you burst into tears again. You kiss his neck, desperately trying to lose yourself in this world. In this moment. He severs your kiss quickly and holds your face between his hands. They're cold against your cheeks. Cold and calming and everything you need because inside you're screaming and crying. You cup your hands around his and close your eyes, just enjoying the feeling of skin touching. "You're pushier than you normally are this evening," he says before kissing your forehead. "Wait. Are those... tears?" You push his hands away and turn away from him, rubbing at your eyes with your sweater sleeve. It's a huge sweater. A baggy one that used to belong to your father and had holes in a few places that allowed olive skin to peak out because you didn't wear a second shirt. You did wear leggings though. A pair of hideous and grungy leggings you pulled out of the trash bin and took home because they had once been worn by a wealthier person who obviously didn't want it anymore. Under that, undergarments. Under that, skin. Plenty of soft, grimy skin. "Juniper, babe, are you all right?" he asked before taking you in his arms from behind. He cranes his neck and manages to land a kiss against your neck. You lean back into him and let him continue until you feel teeth. You inhale sharply and wipe your eyes again. "I'm sorry. I just... I just saw a man beat a cat to death," you say, tugging the lies from your unwilling lips. "And I was so shaken up I... I couldn't--" "Babe, it's fine," he says, turning you around to face him. "You're here now. You're safe. Forget that cat. There's another one I'm more worried about." You blush. You blush and blush and blush and he laughs at you. He throws his head back and laughs loudly. Proudly. His hands on your arms. You wrap your arms around his chest, pressing your face into the crook of his neck, before you murmur, "I need to bathe first, all right? And then we can get started." He nods and kisses your forehead. "Sure. Anything, babe. Don't want to be bedding a piece of coal, now do I?" "No," you murmur, before kissing him and disappearing into the bathroom. You turn on the lukewarm water that comes out a murky brown-- but lighter than the water you use for washing back at home-- and strip off the clingy leggings and the loose sweatshirt and everything else before stepping into the tub. And the tears start again. They leak out of your eyes while you rub a cloth over your skin and turn the bath water almost black, but smelling like your lover. Like a light, clean soap. You can barely see the bottom of the concrete tub through the grime or your crying. You give yourself five minutes, the salty water dripping down your cheeks and into the tub, before you do one final, all-over scrub and drain the water out. You don't bother getting dressed and he doesn't mind. Neither of you do. It's dark now. It's pitch black. Must be midnight? One? He insists you stay the night because he doesn't want to be held responsible for you getting mugged or raped on your walk back into the Seam. To be honest, though, you wonder if he's just one of those people who needs a bedfellow. Maybe he needs someone to wrap his arms around and hold while he sleeps. You've been sleeping fitfully. Waking up crying. He's a heavy sleeper. He doesn't hear. In the darkness of this room-- this room with the bed just big enough to fit two people-- you've never felt more alone. Bitch Slut Whore Prostitute Twat Cunt They swirl around in your mind. The things you've overheard. The whispers of the people who were once your closest friends in the world. The ones who have shut you out. You're still and quiet beside your lover, but your mind is screaming. Your heart is screaming. Everything inside of you screams with fury. But the only thing that comes out is tears. You sniff loudly, drawing the unbecoming mucus back up into the furthest reaches of your nose, and draw in a deep breath. Then, it's silent again. No crickets. No wind blowing. No rain gently thrumming on the rooftop. "Can't you hear me?" you whisper in the darkness and the aloneness. "Can't you hear me screaming?" |
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