NINE

"My mother was out of supply. She was in desperate need of another fix. She was always in and out of rehab and things would be fine for a while and then the cycle would start all over again. My father didn't have money, and she kept pushing and pushing. Demanding money. I walked into their bedroom just as my father climbed over the balcony, leaping to his death."
Immediate awareness lits up her face. Things are beginning to make sense for her now. She's probably figured out that I blame my mother for what happened — I don't have to say it (Zoe knows me almost as much as Clara does). Even Clara said it was clear in the irate set my mouth shaped each time I spoke of my biological mother. And third, I am sure she finally understands why I always say, "I am a broken man, Zoe. A boy that was forced to believe that women ruined lives. I've never known women as human. I've never known women as love. I never wish good for women and I hate myself for it."
She must now know I am afraid to get too close to a woman. To get close to her.
"Selina turned the gun she had been holding to my father's head to me and fired. After that she shot herself. She did it all the time, pointing a gun to my father, I mean. It was just something that made him panic, that made him do as she asked but that night he chose to end his personal torment, the grief on her face was overwhelming for me to witness."
Zoe sinks down on the damp grass. It takes her a moment to look away from my face. Everything from her neck up looks paler than usual. She's taking pity on me. I see sympathy brew in her expressive eyes.
"Oh no, Zoe, no!" I work to sound like an emotional, caring boyfriend. I hold her face tight but tender in my hands before she's had time to blink the tears away. "Please, don't be sad. Not for me. Seeing you like this is killing me."
She blinks up at me and squeezes my hand.
"Now you're Daniel, how?" Her voice is shaking with emotion by the end.
"Ahd found me," I say.
"You mean your mother?" She frowns. "Clara's mother I mean?"
I nod.
"I don't bloody believe it. The one you say disappeared three years ago?"
This is a rhetorical question. At least it should be but this is Zoe and she expects an answer for everything. I nod once again.
"We didn't know each other before then. She just happened to hear the gun shots first, and she took me to the hospital and Bradley 'died'. I walked out as Daniel. Zayed's sister handled all the legalisation of documentation. Managed all the legalities."
"I don't get it, why?"
"Let's break down what happened; my parents were dead, they were broke, therefore had no money to supplement my hospital fees so Zayed stepped up..." I take a breath. "Ahd found me when I was three years old. She'd just lost her younger son to pneumonia, Clara's real twin, and the doctors had told her she wouldn't be able to conceive again" — I pull off my shoes and dig my feet in the wet ferns — "Ahd is better than my mother. She usually fought Zayed off when he was beating me. She'd persuade him to leave me because she was going to give me a mountain of chores and then she'd send me to the kitchen to stare at the walls. Zayed didn't know that the dishes were already clean. Sometimes when Zayed ordered her not to give me food, she'd pretend to be too drunk (She didn't even drink) and nauseous to eat and give me her plate so that I could go 'throw away' the food in the trash bin."
"She is a great woman," Zoe says. She touches my face with her tender hands. I'm careful not to cringe away from her as instinct compels me.
"Yeah." To shrug out of her touch I tell her, while looking and pointing to my father's grave. "My dad was white and my mother was black."
She cracks a smile, one that makes her pretty and so desirable. "That explains a lot."
I can't help myself anymore. I bury her lips with mine. She's delicious. My tongue explores her mouth. I can taste the vodka she drank. I don't drink. At least not when I don't have to.
I release her lips, but, hug her tighter and she holds on to me. At this point, her heart is beating ridiculously fast. I bury my face in her chest and breathe in the scent of her. She smells as sweet as she always had. Her skin is as soft as the first time I held her. I wish I could turn back the time. To rewind. To start all over again. It was a happy time back then. Now the future is uncertain. I'm no longer sure what fate has in store for us. For her. I'm no longer sure I'll ever see her alive again after this. I need more time with her. I need to bury myself in her one last time. But I'm hopeless. I can't stall time. I can only make the best of what I have left with her. I'm killing her today. I can see it so clearly. Her death. My hands around her throat. I'd finally get to cross that off my bucket list.
Her jacket falls to the ground as though it has a mind of its own. I push the thin straps of the dress from her shoulders. I stand ramrod straight when I hear it drop to the ground, my heart kicks into my chest, then she dips her head and covers her breasts that have grown a ridiculous comic-book size. My hands tremble with anticipation. I can't wait to squeeze them, to play with them.
I lift her chin. "Hey. Look at me, please."
She looks at me. She's giving me that special look again. It's an intense moment.
My fingers trail from her slim waist to her ribs. A shiver rolls through her and heat spreads through me with a sudden surge.
"I—I don't think we should do this here... now." She looks around to emphasize her point. Her eyes linger on the open grave. "I mean someone could see us."
That's the whole point. Living on the edge. The fact that someone might see us makes my dick twitch and strain against my pants. I never wear underwear.
"Don't be silly, Zoe," I say softly. This takes all the control I have to get my pitch just right. "Nobody will find us. It's going to be raining soon and besides most people are at work or at school."
She hesitates for a second and then takes a huge breath. Her hands are still trembling when she unbuttons my shirt and removes my jeans. My heart's beating too quickly for it to be healthy. We just stand there, completely naked, staring at each other for a moment. I pry her hands off her chest and shake my head, forcing awe in my eyes, "You're so beautiful, Zoe. I can't wait to make you my wife."
I marvel at her surprise. I'm playing my cards just right. If I keep this up, she'll do my every will. I need that. As long as she doesn't find out I'm never planning to get married, ever, we'll be fine.
My hand moves towards her without my will, just to touch her cheek, to feel her skin under my fingertips. Beneath my fingertips her skin is smooth and delicate, it seems to flow, and almost glides under my touch. Just like it always had.
The scars from our love making catch the dying sunlight, and I run the tips of my fingers against them. They're beautiful. The image of what perfection should look like. I get carried away when I give her these. Go too far. My whip relentless against her flat stomach and busting chest. She was bleeding afterwards. Covered in blood and mascara smeared all over her face I finally knew what most men meant when they said, a sight for sore eyes.
Zoe closes her eyes and inhales sharply when I pinch her nipples and twist as hard as I can.
"I want to love you today," I say, slipping my fingers through her hair. For a few seconds I concentrate on what I'm doing and then lock them tightly into her hair. She winces. My muscles jerk. "Can I do that?"
An array of unpleasant emotions like fear and dread ambush her face. She nods (Why isn't she saying no? Women and their loyalty!) and I proceed to possess her body. To fill her up. Twins deep.
She's lying with her back on my mother's grave. I thrust harder with each loud scream carried off by the harsh winds. I slap her melons with new found enthusiasm. My marks are all over her, just the way I love to leave my women. I'm going to blast, my toes make me aware of this, they curl and surge with a crippling currency. I sandwich her neck and squeeze. She's choking. Her hands wrap around mine to pry me off her. Oh Shit, oh Jesus, she feels so good. So tight.
She can't breathe. I pull out and ram into her and her head collides with the tombstone.
I should've cushioned her. I should. No idea why she isn't pushing me off. Okay I lied. I do. This is her way of keeping me. She thinks if she doesn't allow me to bone her the way I want, I'd leave her.
She's right.
I would.
She gasps for air. I'm coming.
Her eyes roll back into their sockets. I'm still coming.
Her grips loosens. I finish.
She's not moving anymore.
Why am I not hoping she just passed out from pleasure? A sensible guy would. That's the problem. I'm not sensible. I'm a terrible person.