'SOLITAIRE' BY CLAUDIA ACEITUNO!!!!!! GROUP A!!

CONTAINS SEXUAL/GRAPHIC IMAGERY!!!! BEWARE AND TAKE CAUTION!!!!

Solitaire

I’m on the bed, playing solitaire. This is an uneventful occasion, and one that is repeated often. It’s a cool night, but I’ve decided not to cover up. My skin is cold and I have goosebumps. The radio is playing. Quietly. He’s jacking off to the sight of my body, for no particular reason. In between his muffled groans he tells me about the time he ate too much cake with his father when he was a child. He says he feels like throwing up. So do I. I put my robe on, and head off without saying a word, leaving him and his sweaty body on the chair in the corner of the room. I go open the door to the dimly lit bathroom and sit on the toilet. I think about eating some biscuits and making some tea. I hate tea, but maybe I can pour it on his skin while he’s asleep. He probably wouldn’t even notice. My urine smells of bad cider. I flushed and wiped myself. I took some toilet paper with me. I entered back into the room and saw him, flushed, covered in his own sticky cum. I kindly wiped it, drip by drip on the toilet paper. I look at him as he dozed off in the chair. I carried his frail body in my arms and lowered him onto the bed. His chair sat dazzled in the reflection of the moon. I close the curtains.  

I sit patiently and watch him from beside the bed while he sleeps. He leaves me bored and tired by the day’s end. Some days are easier to deal with than others - though there is only so much you can do to keep yourself from imploding. Nothing he does is exciting, his snoring and vomiting are about as normal as cleaning the dishes now. Nevertheless, I am dedicated to taking care of him. It’s what I promised to do. The radio dulls over and creates noise over the chilling silence. I sit and think about how happy he used to be when we would sit down in the park together. Now all I do is tend for him, day after day. There’s no connection, no love. It feels like a dead end. It’s as if we had a peak and from then on it’s just been downhill from there.

Still immersed in my thoughts, he reaches out and grasps my hand. He must still be awake. His touch is surprising to me, and is almost comforting, but I was so shocked by his movement that I immediately took my hand back. He is insulted, and mumbles under his breath. He peeks one eye through at me and looks at me inquisitively.

“Why are you so grumpy all the time, baby?” he slurred.

I refused to answer. He starts smiling, almost drooling at me, as if he were a pathetic young man flirting with a teenager on the street. I turn him and gesture to him to close his eyes.

“You’re no fun.”

Why do I do this to myself? I’m wasting my life with this old pervert. I think about his face - old, and scarred. He never told me how he got that scar, only that his father gave it to him. He is handsome. I think of his heavy breathing, his chest moving slowly up and down whilst he conquerors his dreams, conquering me.

I shut the door behind me and put my coat on. I leave the house. I can’t take this anymore. I need air. My life is a joke, this man is a waste of space. Why do I care for someone whose only meaning for living in the world is to masturbate while gawking at my breasts?

I look at the cars passing by. I sit on a bench by the road. I watch all the drunks tripping over their feet. They look at me and say:

“Why you so grumpy, baby?”