I hate him. I love him. I hate him. I love him.
Footsteps behind the door end my thoughts of Bob. She's back. Oh my God–
"Housekeeping," he says before he knocks twice.
I permit him to enter my room, which is a mess of plastic dime bags on the floor trailing from the kitchen to my bed. I am honoured to have a visitor. I hide beneath my sheets to not expose my nudity to this man, who I assume is gay anyways, and continue my masturbation.
Mister Housekeeping sweeps around as I get off to my joyous realm of delinquent captivity. I've gone mad - don't think I haven't noticed.
My favourite song plays on his walkman device. I want to cry tears of joy, beyond intoxicated – but I will not burst my bubble of masturbation for a fitting wail.
I finish to the thought of Bob. My eyes meet the housekeeper, who knows I am very well pleasing myself as he remains in my room watching me out of the corner of his eye.
—
I stare at myself in the mirror comparing my body and face to the woman on the beach. The brunette with the shades. Her turquoise tankini. The tone of her soft pale skin in the sunlight.
Oh my god. My skin. I need a vitamin for all the drugs I've been doing. I feel my body fiendishly craving a glass of orange juice and a nutritious meal. But starving it, somehow, appeals to me. You do get higher when you haven't had a thing to eat. Self-love is for the weak, anyways.
Spineless, mindless Bob lingers in my mind as I shower the juices off my thighs along with sweat on my body from the heat outside. I am insulted, not heartbroken. Insulted. Not. Heartbroken. I never loved the man but he provided comfort and financial security. He was a rock just as such as an indiscriminate scrooge who only cared for himself. I cannot say, to some extent, I am not the same.
—
Hours go by. I lay in my bed now sober. I am crying hard over her mental BDSM. I've never been through this with my husband. Missing someone you don't know is a stranger feeling than you think.
My serotonin depravity forces me to remain in bed all day pushing away any responsibility I have to look after myself. Not a single footstep is heard behind my door. I am alone with my depression, left to suffer until I remove myself from this bed and fall in love with someone else.
Drugs are bad.
—
I wake. My head is spinning as soon as I am on my feet. Vertigo. I nearly fall onto my bed having barely a sense of balance. She is a witch. The lady who drugs me out of her pure hearted love for heartbroken, ego-shattered women. And yet I love her.
I wonder if she is an M.D.
I'm interrupted from my daydreaming by footsteps behind the door. They have arrived early, at 7A.M.
I look out my window to be surprised. She is on the street, walking briskly to the beat of her music. She knows I desire our eyes to meet. Her face is beautiful. I can tell because this time, she is not wearing her shades on her face but has them set above her head. She appears sadistic to my suffering. She is my goddess.
I'm fully aware of my weak interior because obsession with other humans says a lot about me running away from all suffering. I'm no coward to tragedy, the aftermath is what fucks me. I'd like to say many people are the same.
I wait for my medicine to kick in, swinging my legs off the bedside. She left me an upper while I was gone. Just one this time. I have been deemed irresponsible with my drugs. She knows about my benzodiazepine-opioid overdose.
—
"Celeste." He said, a fat grin across his face making him resemble a frog. "Will you marry me?"
I still remember this moment very vividly.
"Yes," I answered as I wiped away my tears.
I didn't have a deep affection for Bob at all. But something happens to your sex drive when you are around wealthy men. You crave sex with them. If not, the gifts they give you for it. Everything I wanted at my fingertips. I was marrying a grown man and his money.
I longed to see the look on his bitter ex's aging face on our wedding day.
—
The high is horrid. My head is spinning with nightmarish thoughts. Did Danielle sell her house and move in? Economical Danielle. Accepting sexual bribes before she decides to take my place.
I shudder. I'll bet Bob planned this years ahead. Because I can only imagine their affair has been going on that long. Drive me to the brink of insanity, get rid of me and play the role of the caring ex who calls once a day to check in. Fuck you, Bob.
I'm going to need an extortionist to get back at him because he is such a fucking schizoid.
He is so bleak. He loves blue eyeshadow and false lashes. Faking your amusement during sex gets him off too. He has a small dick and finishes in five minutes. Should I be glad I left him?