Todestrieb
"Yes, maybe," you begin awkwardly, backing away from him, picking up your jeans, then putting them back down. "I'm sorry. I've had a really upsetting day. I'm really sorry." You fumble around until you find a pair of sweatpants, which you quickly pull up all the way to your ribs. They scratch against your burned thighs and again your eyes fill with tears. You look away.
"Don't be ashamed, Anna. I really like you. But I'm worried about you. Are you sure you don't want to talk some more?"
"I'm sure," you cry, still staring at your torn underwear on the floor.
"I'd like to give you my number, if you want to talk later."
"No, I don't want to talk. Not now anyway." You attempt a little smile. "Please just leave."
"Okay." For a moment, he rests his palm on your cheek. Then he picks up his jacket, fumbles with the door and steps out, closing it behind him very gently, until his searching eyes are concealed on the other side. You sink down onto your hands and knees as the last of your energy is spent. The only thing in the room is the torn panties. They stand out in sharp relief as everything else fades into a nondescript gray.
Could it really be true? Is she really gone? You paw gingerly at the wet cloth, following along a bright green stripe, still warm from your body. Is her body still warm? Or is she
"Mama," you gasp, turning towards the wall. You close your eyes tight, trying hard not to think of anything at all, not to remember anything at all. Slowly, the sounds and the smells drain out of you, leaving you gray and still on the floor. The only thing that remains is an innocuous little pulling in your stomach, that same void that you almost filled with him. The thought of him makes you even hungrier and suddenly you are sitting upright. "I've eaten nothing all day," you say to yourself. Careful not to look at the floor, you grab your keys and abruptly leave your apartment, forgetting to lock the door behind you.
You walk aimlessly down the familiar hill. You already know where you are going. You don't have to walk as though you were trying to get somewhere. The air is fragrant with food. People pass you by on both sides. Cell phones ring. Dogs bark. It's an ordinary day, just an ordinary day. But what an extraordinary appetite!
In a moment or two, you are seated at Volpe's, your eyes devouring the menu. You order a large Caesar salad, chicken parmesan with a double side of fries. You order a large cola. Actually, why don't you add the soup of the day as well, since it's included in the salad special? You tap your fingers impatiently on the greasy tabletop. You're so hungry. You are so fucking hungry. If you don't have something to fill up your middle, you think you will break in half.
The next thing you know, you are halfway through your feast. You haven't tasted anything since the first few scintillating bites. All you feel is texture. The tenderness of the chicken, the crunch of the lettuce, the chill of the cola. You cover your mouth with a fist as you burp painfully, feeling the acid burning in your throat. You swallow it back down, tipping the soup bowl against your gaping mouth. More, more, you need more. By the time you are walking slowly back up your hill, you have a sticking pain in your gut. The emptiness is much worse than before and you look around desperately for a remedy, for anything
Suddenly, there is a sweet acrid aching in your jaw and you double over someone's lawn, loudly throwing up the grotesque contents of your stomach. You start choking as a barely-chewed piece of lettuce catches in your throat. You collapse to your hands and knees, the sky spinning in circles above you. A grayness begins to creep in from the edges as you fall flat on your stomach. The impact sends a reflexive cough through your whole body, propelling the lettuce sideways from your mouth. You lie gasping on the ground, your whole body abuzz with the thrill of death. You get to your wobbly feet as quickly as you can, brushing yourself off dismissively as you half-run, half-stagger back to your apartment. You close your eyes, desperate not to lose that feeling.
You bolt the door. You grab the torn pair of panties. You claw your pants off. You throw yourself onto the bed. Your chest rises and falls in quick succession. You open your mouth wide, slowly feeding the wet cloth down into your throat. You push it down further and further. You start to gag. With both hands, you grab furiously at yourself, rubbing and pulling and thrusting with your fingers. The same grayness begins to seep in from the sides of your vision. You thrust your hips up and up with the last of your life force.
A burning lightening rips its way through you and you scream with all your might, dislodging the panties into a thick dripping pile on the floor as the last of your cries subside unheard. Occasional spasmodic shivers continue to shake you as you fall vacantly asleep.
"Don't be ashamed, Anna. I really like you. But I'm worried about you. Are you sure you don't want to talk some more?"
"I'm sure," you cry, still staring at your torn underwear on the floor.
"I'd like to give you my number, if you want to talk later."
"No, I don't want to talk. Not now anyway." You attempt a little smile. "Please just leave."
"Okay." For a moment, he rests his palm on your cheek. Then he picks up his jacket, fumbles with the door and steps out, closing it behind him very gently, until his searching eyes are concealed on the other side. You sink down onto your hands and knees as the last of your energy is spent. The only thing in the room is the torn panties. They stand out in sharp relief as everything else fades into a nondescript gray.
Could it really be true? Is she really gone? You paw gingerly at the wet cloth, following along a bright green stripe, still warm from your body. Is her body still warm? Or is she
"Mama," you gasp, turning towards the wall. You close your eyes tight, trying hard not to think of anything at all, not to remember anything at all. Slowly, the sounds and the smells drain out of you, leaving you gray and still on the floor. The only thing that remains is an innocuous little pulling in your stomach, that same void that you almost filled with him. The thought of him makes you even hungrier and suddenly you are sitting upright. "I've eaten nothing all day," you say to yourself. Careful not to look at the floor, you grab your keys and abruptly leave your apartment, forgetting to lock the door behind you.
You walk aimlessly down the familiar hill. You already know where you are going. You don't have to walk as though you were trying to get somewhere. The air is fragrant with food. People pass you by on both sides. Cell phones ring. Dogs bark. It's an ordinary day, just an ordinary day. But what an extraordinary appetite!
In a moment or two, you are seated at Volpe's, your eyes devouring the menu. You order a large Caesar salad, chicken parmesan with a double side of fries. You order a large cola. Actually, why don't you add the soup of the day as well, since it's included in the salad special? You tap your fingers impatiently on the greasy tabletop. You're so hungry. You are so fucking hungry. If you don't have something to fill up your middle, you think you will break in half.
The next thing you know, you are halfway through your feast. You haven't tasted anything since the first few scintillating bites. All you feel is texture. The tenderness of the chicken, the crunch of the lettuce, the chill of the cola. You cover your mouth with a fist as you burp painfully, feeling the acid burning in your throat. You swallow it back down, tipping the soup bowl against your gaping mouth. More, more, you need more. By the time you are walking slowly back up your hill, you have a sticking pain in your gut. The emptiness is much worse than before and you look around desperately for a remedy, for anything
Suddenly, there is a sweet acrid aching in your jaw and you double over someone's lawn, loudly throwing up the grotesque contents of your stomach. You start choking as a barely-chewed piece of lettuce catches in your throat. You collapse to your hands and knees, the sky spinning in circles above you. A grayness begins to creep in from the edges as you fall flat on your stomach. The impact sends a reflexive cough through your whole body, propelling the lettuce sideways from your mouth. You lie gasping on the ground, your whole body abuzz with the thrill of death. You get to your wobbly feet as quickly as you can, brushing yourself off dismissively as you half-run, half-stagger back to your apartment. You close your eyes, desperate not to lose that feeling.
You bolt the door. You grab the torn pair of panties. You claw your pants off. You throw yourself onto the bed. Your chest rises and falls in quick succession. You open your mouth wide, slowly feeding the wet cloth down into your throat. You push it down further and further. You start to gag. With both hands, you grab furiously at yourself, rubbing and pulling and thrusting with your fingers. The same grayness begins to seep in from the sides of your vision. You thrust your hips up and up with the last of your life force.
A burning lightening rips its way through you and you scream with all your might, dislodging the panties into a thick dripping pile on the floor as the last of your cries subside unheard. Occasional spasmodic shivers continue to shake you as you fall vacantly asleep.