we do it the hard way.
CAN YOU HEAR ME
She was running swiftly she was afraid to trip on any moment. And she did after running away for her life. Who wouldn’t in those high heels that so hurt her feet earlier but decided to go with to flaunt her new purchase. She wasn’t exactly rich but she was a fashionista. And she had a thing for showing off her expensive new stuff.
Even though she lay on the floor and felt the searing bruise on her knee she did not regret her decision to wear the shoes. She however, regretted her carelessness not noticing the source for her fall, a lipstick arbitrarily laden on the luxurious red carpet of the hotel.
It was like a scene from the movies, a helpless girl running away from her perpetrator, her killer fast approaching, brandishing its knife in the air like a crazy person, as if so eager to slice her perfectly sculpted Kim Kardashian physique.
She tried to rise but it was no help, she twisted her ankle she just found out, it was too late. It was time to face her death. She was crying and screaming profusely but she was ready. Fighting back was moot.
Her killer slowed its pace as it was getting near her. Its slow steps increased the suspense and its knife gleamed along the bright orange lightbulb that complemented her skintone, which she complemented back earlier to her gay make-up artist.
The killer was beside her now, just a millimeter away from her new shoes, it bothered her the possible bloodstains on them, her death did not seem important in this moment than her shoes. At least the shoes could be saved. She wanted her collection to be photographed when she died, she thought.
Silence. She has stopped her noises and closed her eyes awaiting the fast and painful death she was going to endure.
She slams softly to the bed as he pushed her and then took his clothes off. She was excited. She never had someone so handsome before.
He was a model and his body was amazing. He wasn’t meaty like those Abercrombie boys, he was a little skinny resembling the Prada boys. He was tall and he was muscular. He also spoke in a British accent which added to the burning attraction she held for most of the day.
The hours she spent lusting all over his round bum was almost eternal. She craved for him like she craves for those expensive katsu meat she tasted once upon a time at Japan. She wanted him like a girl wanted other girls to envy her. And now she got what she wanted.
Them, alone in a motel after the photo shoot, doing what any two people would do alone in a motel room.
But she was surprised as he took off his boxers and saw something unexpected. His junk was not like any other, it didn’t resemble a chopping knife, it was a chopping knife.
She rubbed her eyes to see if it really was what it was, to make sure the five shots of Vodka she downed at the bar earlier didn’t impair her senses but it really was a chopping knife. This gorgeous male model had a chopping knife for a penis. And it was huge.
She was taken aback at first but after a few seconds staring at it, she wanted it like fresh tomatoes wanted to be as pizza toppings.
The environment is clinical, but the vibe is more like a morgue. It’s quiet, only the soft clicking of keyboards is audible, soft murmurs about what’s happened to someone on Facebook, tasks unfinished and the colorful static hum of Showtime on the TV.
Makes you wonder where everyone else is, makes you wonder why ANC or CNN isn’t on, makes you wonder why you’re left on a desk doing nothing but contemplate on your bad fortune.
The temperature makes it worse, you yearn for comfort, the cold dry air sucks out all the happiness of the sun out there, it makes you feel so alone, so confused, abused, used. But you remind yourself to be proactive,and yet, there’s nothing to be proactive about. There is none but the mediocrity of the activity you’ve been assigned to.
You’re frustrated, you want to surpass the level of responsibility given to you, you want to do more, be more. You feel you can do so much more but there’s nothing for you. The pie dish is empty. And so are you