He Rescued Her (Revised for Contest)

She awoke and shifted, looked out her window. All she could see was a haze without her glasses. 'Damn it,' she thought, 'I've done it again.' She had overslept. Lately sleep had been an escape for her. A blissful passage from wakeful hell into black peace. Ahhhh...the signs of depression. She needed her meds again. Wellbutrin...Abilify...all those gorgeous, round little stones they dole out to shut her up. Shut her down. Shut her out from the rest of humanity - if you can call it that anymore. 'Get out of bed, get in the shower, clean yourself up and move. MOVE! Alright, put on your fucking happy face and DO SOMETHING, you miserable piece of shit.' Self-motivation at its best. 1

The shower felt like knives. The coffee was brown water. As she stepped out into the cold mid-morning air, feeling as though she were bathing in ice cubes, she felt almost alive, but not quite. Three darkly-clad youth were marching toward her. 'Shit, here they come...the Mormon Sunshine Nazis.' Perhaps they were Mormons. It's all the same anymore. To her, God was dead. She had sold her soul to America. Liberalism was her divine cult. 2

And then there was Him. He walked slowly toward her amidst the flocks of people speed-walking their way to oblivion. It seemed the others flowed by him like a stone set in a river. There was only him. He took her hand - palm clamy and weak - his dry, solid, and calloused. He said not a word. They were past words now. And there was only them.3

The room smelled of menthol cigarettes, rain-dampened, musky sheets, dirt, and sweat-soaked skin. 'He's had sex in here a lot. I'm most likely nothing but another feather in his cap.' She sat down on the filthy couch, afraid of what sort of nastiness may be on the bed, and casually removed her clothing. No big deal. He undressed. She noticed his naval; he was an outie. A scar on his hip stood out, piercing her eyes with its unusual beauty, deep and wide. Deep and wide. 'Like an obese poet.' She began to stand, but he took her hand first, leading her to the questionable bed that wasn't so questionable anymore. No questions asked. And there they were, fucking on the semen-stained, crimson sheets. 'This would be convenient if I were a virgin - if he were popping my cherry.'4

He pulled out a pack of menthols (the scent had not betrayed her) and some gin. 'How honorable...he waits 'til afterward to get me drunk.' He left first. Left her to scrounge through his fridge. There was nothing but mustard, bread, and chocolate syrup, which went nicely with the remaining gin. When she opened the door to leave, she thought about buying some fish nets and high heels, or perhaps a teddy, feeling sexier now that she'd fucked a total stranger...but she decided against it ultimately. Instead she went to work, late as usual.5

Good thing she overslept. 6