Ten Years After: The Lost Girl and the History Book

Treppe: Good luck with catching up. Glad to have you along.

billy bob: I neither confirm or deny your speculations, though as always they're interesting.

GhostWriter: Thank you! And naturally I say nothing on anyone's take.

JimboIX said:

After what? The affair? The fiasco? The trip? So many possibilities. And the History Book will no doubt provide us with a nice segue back into the world of our favorite Fraco-Italian Kings.

Click to expand...

Indeed.

I wake up to the feeling of acid in my mouth. The kind of sick aftertaste from vomiting that makes your throat gross and your teeth feel like they'll never be clean again.

With still unseeing eyes, I reach up and flush the toilet, feeling the cooling, airy mist spraying up from the bowl to refresh my face as fresh water rushes in where the blobby blotches of my breakfast banana floated however long ago.

I don't know how much time's passed and I'm still in a fog as I slump against the porcelain of the clawfoot tub, one of the few things in this old house that doesn't frighten me at night.

And that's when I remember again.

That Bobby's dead.

I groan and force myself to get up, make myself half-stumble, half-crawl through my kitchen, the dining room, until I throw myself onto the threadbare brown carpet.

The fabric's grainy firmness is soothing in a way that I can't explain. Maybe it's because it lets me know that there's still something solid, something real in this world that isn't too hot or too cold, too light or too dark. It's the happy medium.

I lay there for a while, shoving away the thoughts, the memories of Bobby. Think instead about what absolute shit my life has been since college. Think about how I damned near cost Nick all his happiness.

I need to see him. To touch him, even if it's just to hug him or shake his head. I'm in a desert and he's the oasis that saves me.

But can't think about him too much or it hurts just as bad as thinking about B..Caveman. Yes, I'll try to think of him as Caveman. The asshole. The fucking rapist. He -deserves- to be dead.

I feel a little better, thinking that, enough to haul myself up into a chair and curl, ball-like into it.

The other girls in my life are all having happy lives after they graduated. Grad school for some, babies and marriage or marriage and babies or just babies or just marriage or others. Or they're doing something they love.

What have I done these last six years?

Nothing. Not a god damned thing worth mentioning, that's what.

But I can't just sit here. I've got to get ready.

Nick's coming. He's coming to rescue me from myself.

Tem_Probe: Will do! Thanks for the suggestion.

Black Guardian: Thanks. And indeed we'll have to see what happens.

billy bob: Is sleeping with someone without having feelings for them even as they love you rape? It becomes a question of philosophy, really.

Black Guardian: That would be my own interpretation as well.

asd21593: Thank you. And what do -you- think is going on?

billy bob: Taking things at their literal meaning can get one into some sticky places.

And since I've finally gotten my hands on some cloves, you guys can anticipate at least one update this weekend, potentially more.

I spend the next day giving the dusty, dirty house a scrubbing like it has seen in years, dusting, vacuuming, washing the old wallpaper, brushing out the toilet and so on.

To be honest, there isn't that much to do. I don't have much in this house, only a small pair of bookshelves to hold my books and DVDs, a modest TV, a couch, a chair or two, a battered dining table I got from the Salvation Army and the furnishings that were here when I moved in.

The truth is, I don't even need this two-story, as I only use the first floor. But it was on the market for cheap and nobody wanted to buy it because a woman was murdered in the upstairs bedroom about 15 years ago. Some people say it's haunted by her ghost and sometimes, late at night, I think I hear her moaning and wailing.

It scares me, but not enough to move.

I pass the night before Nick's due to arrive spending time with Little Nick, the whirr of him and my own moans and cries overpowering any spectral presence. My body grows warm and flushed, then hot before I tumble over the edge into an oblivion of pleasure and pain, crying out with my release as I imagine Nick taking me, loving me again as he did before. It's happy, but tinged with sorrow because it's not him in me and Little Nick can only be a weak substitute for the reality of him in me, on me as I once knew, his own groans echoing off the walls of my room in the sorority house.

He calls me when his plane lands and says he'll be there later that night. I wanted to meet him at the airport but he refused because Melody was with him, and... no, I don't want to think about that, so I won't.

I take a long, hot bath and dress in a clinging, sheer black silk robe as I wait for him to arrive. It's pretty, appropriate for mourning because of its color, but also stimulating I hope, because of its transparency. I want him to want me and so I go braless, letting my breasts be only partially concealed by the fabric.

The waiting after his call is unbearable, the minutes dragging insufferably by as I pace in the living room.

And then, finally, the doorbell rings.

I rush to open it and there he is.

He's grown more handsome than ever before. He's put on weight, but it looks like muscle, because even the loose-fitting white button-down shirt and the black, neatly pressed slacks can't hide how toned he's gotten.

He smiles at me with such sadness, such tenderness, that I can't stop myself.

As he's in the middle of saying hello, I rush forward, throw my arms about his neck and kiss him hard on the lips, thrilling to the smoky taste of his lips.

"Oh, Nick... I've missed you so much!"