Tub Of Blood
Drowning in a tub of blood. The coppery taste lucent on her tongue.
She never asked for help, and she didn’t want it. She was in a room full of people and felt so alone. She heard their voices but never actually heard them. A mummy, a walking zombi, someone on autopilot was what she had become.
She wanted to scream at him, yell at the top of her lungs until she felt like she could breath again. Watching them all just sitting around a large oak table researching the new big bad in town, none of them knowing that behind her facade she was drowning. She just sat in her seat, with her dusty old tomb and pretended to flip the pages once in awhile. No one seemed to notice that she never looked down at any of the pages, ever.
And it was all his fault. The bleached blond just feet away from her flipping threw his own book with a bored expression plastered on his face, and dirty Doc Martins elevated on her fine oak. She hated him. She despised everything about him. And she desperately wanted to throw her tomb at his skull and hearing bone crack. But she didn’t, she just sat there looking at him, no expression on her face.
She knew he knew. He knew exactly what he was putting her threw; showing up at her home for a research session that he wasn’t even invited to. Yet she never revoked his invitation into her home. She knew he knew that she felt like she was drowning in her mind, suffocating and slowly murdering her self from the inside out. And he never seemed to care. In fact she could bet her life on it that he didn’t give a dammed at all.
She was a convenience for one night. A substitute for a sick obsession, and when he was sated - his itch scratched. She was thrown to the wolves as he let the door hit her on the ass. Then again he was a demon, and that's what demons did.
She wasn’t naive, she knew what he was doing that night. He was using her and took every open moment to make sure she never forgot that. But he was etched into her mind now, and he never said a word to her after that night.
It was killing her. He made her feel like a red-headed rag doll, to use as he pleased. And that wasn’t far from the truth in her mind.
She went threw the stages. Depression, Regret, Anger, Self Hate, Spike Hate, then back to Depression again - until she hit the point were she felt like she was drowning in a tub of her own blood. And everyone in the world was oblivious to it. Still were. And what hurt even more was she knew he knew. But he never once paid her any adieu.
She hated him, wanted to ram the wooden leg of her chair into his chest a thousand times over. She wanted to hang him on a cross doused in holy water and watch as he burned and turned to ashes as the sun rose. She wanted to so desperately erase him from her memory. His touch, his lips, those fingers, his soft skin. Everything about him made her want him, and want to vomit simultaneously.
But she couldn’t, now she was just a walking shell. She couldn’t focused on anything like she used to, her emerald eyes were now hallow orbs of what they used to be. The same expression always engraved on her pale features. And maybe it should worry her, terrify her with what she was allowing herself to put her threw.
He finally looked up from his book, and his eyes met with hers for a brief second before he shut his book, grabbed a new one from the piles of books stacked on the table, lit a cigarette and continued with his research. And that action of simply being brushed aside killed her a little bit more.
Drowning in her own blood. That’s what it was.
And she knew he knew.
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Im not sure if this story could use a sequal or even turn into alot more if you think so leave a review, let me know you want more to this story and you just might get it. :P
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