Clara's Descent Pt. 04

Chapter 7

The rest of the day unfolded in a luminous blur, a long cascade of ecstasy and self-loss.

We spent the afternoon destroying ourselves with pleasure. Every gesture, every puff, every sip, every thrust was an offering to our shared downfall. Alex was no longer just a lover. He was my dealer of sensation, my temporary god, the one who opened the gates of hell with divine tenderness.

The meth had ignited a blaze inside me that nothing could calm. I was hot, all the time. My whole body had become sex. My breasts, my belly, my throat, my thighs: everything begged, everything screamed. I laughed, I moaned, I drank, I fucked. On repeat. On repeat. On repeat.

We dragged ourselves from the bed to the living room, from the kitchen to the shower, like two animals in heat, hungry for a pleasure ever higher, deeper, more intense. He took me standing against the wall, on the table, on my knees on the rug, hair yanked, hips bruised. And I begged, either whispering or screaming:

-- More... more... do it, hurt me, give me everything...

Between fucks, he passed me the pipe. I smoked, I screamed. He made me drink straight from the bottle. I coughed, I laughed. I was naked, filthy, euphoric. A burning animal.

-- You're perfect, he kept saying. You were born for this.

And I believed him.

Sometimes we paused just long enough to line up some powder on the counter, fix a spiked coffee, gulp down juice laced with vodka. Then we started again. Our bodies never stopped. After every orgasm, a comedown. After every puff, a new high. Everything was cyclic. Infinite.

I had forgotten Jeremy. Forgotten my name. Forgotten time. I could only think of Alex -- his voice, his cock, his powder, his pipe. He called me princess, and I was -- his submissive princess, wrecked, soaked, offered. I would've done anything for him. I already was.

At some point, I caught my reflection in the mirror -- naked, eyes red, lips swollen, hair tangled, breasts marked by his hands, thighs sticky with cum and sweat. I found myself beautiful. Magnificent. Ruined, alive.

Around 3 p. m., he lifted me and pulled me onto him. I rode him with animal rage, smoking at the same time, pipe in one hand, my nails digging into his shoulders. I came crying. I came like I was emptying out everything that was left of me.

Then I collapsed against him, panting, drunk, burning.

-- You've never seen me like this, have you? I whispered, eyes half-closed.

-- Never, he said. And I want you to stay like this. My perfect bitch. My ruined princess.

He kissed my neck. I started laughing again.

I don't know how much longer it lasted. We kept drinking, smoking, fucking. The light outside had barely started to fade. I only knew one thing: I didn't want it to end. Ever.

Chapter 8

The sun was slowly, lazily sinking behind the curtains.

Golden light brushed the crumpled sheets, the half-empty glasses, the ashes on the coffee table, our two naked bodies collapsed on the messy bed like survivors of a long storm.

I didn't really know what time it was -- only that we were nearing the end. That reality, sly and silent, was creeping back on padded feet.

Alex got up. I watched him move, my stomach tight.

He still had that sovereign calm, that quiet elegance, even naked.

Me, I was scattered, trembling, drained.

-- I've got to go, princess, he murmured.

-- No... stay a little longer... please...

My voice trembled, childlike. My throat was dry, my eyes wide.

I clung to him like a lifeline.

-- Can't, baby. Gotta move. But I'll be back tomorrow, you know that.

-- Tomorrow's too far... stay, just one more hour...

I wanted to cry. To scream.

He had been my whole world for twenty-four hours, and the thought of him leaving tore me apart.

He came closer, stroked my cheek.

-- Don't worry. I'm leaving you something to hold on.

He rummaged in his bag and pulled out a small bag of coke, a few meth rocks, and the still-warm pipe.

-- You smoke, you drink a little, you think of me. I'm yours, you understand?

I nodded, without believing it.

My eyes filled with tears that wouldn't fall.

He kissed me. Long, unbearably gently.

Then he got dressed, slowly.

I watched him like one watches a dream slipping away.

Before stepping out the door, he turned to me.

-- Tomorrow, bitch. Be ready.

And he was gone.

Silence fell all at once. Brutal. Cold.

I felt an immense emptiness open inside me -- a bottomless pit.

I stood there for a moment, naked, filthy and radiant, unable to move.

Then I staggered to the kitchen.

Grabbed the bottle of vodka and drank straight from it, gulp after gulp, like swallowing a scream.

The alcohol burned my throat, cut off my breath.

But it was that or collapse.

I returned to the living room.

Everything was in chaos -- full ashtrays, dirty glasses, sweat-soaked sheets, that dizzying smell of sex and smoke and him.

I had to clean. Jeremy would be home soon.

I had to become her again. The ghost-wife.

I cleaned. Washed. Scrubbed.

I went through the motions, but my head was elsewhere.

Each sponge stroke was a slap against forgetting.

I hid the baggies, the pipe, the coke, the meth.

Everything -- except the burn he'd left inside me.

Just before Jeremy walked in, I took a last drag from the vape, downed a final shot of vodka, washed my face.

I became her again -- the woman he thought he knew.

But something inside me had changed.

I had tasted the absolute. The fever.

And I knew I could never go back.