Copper Hearts

Lustrous Copper

I know every answer to my newest evolving predicament and that is a secluded beach house. As I sit at my desk high on meth looking at leases I can easily swing in my favour, the thought of my mother looking down at me ashamed of my actions she knew nothing about causes my eyes to avert themselves left. Her son is a decrepit crook. A creep. A advantageous man of no morals.

A true fiend of a weakling coking myself out of feeling the bitter most of anger. Why can’t I be less on edge?

It’s her f*****g innocence, that is why. And I am not speaking on behalf of my mother’s feline outlook. The dancing doll takes a brilliant heart and turns it to a lustrous copper, a poison, a blinding venom via the bloodstream in excess. Perhaps I’ll shove pennies up her asshole every night as she remains chained to my bed until her death date.

How I’ve seen so much death in my life allows for my mind to succumb to finding peace. I begin jerking off to my obscene fantasies of eating and f*****g her whilst she remains under the impression we’ve escaped from this world. I will force her to dye her hair blonde so no one shall recognize her.

God, how deeply I would fist her cunt on a nightly basis. Daddy always knows what is best for his little girl.

I quickly read through her recent posts to find images and poetry on historical war zones. f*****g wonderful, a blooming terrorist lurks inside her. Could we ever be more melancholically similar?

As I’m about to switch tabs and make the offer for our getaway, something compels me to pull out my c**k and stroke it progressively harder as the minutes go by to onscreen camgirl porn of a college student playing with herself. Again, I am jerking off. I am a despicable dog begging for the remnants of my master’s meal; I lick the plate fiendishly and continue to drool puddles once it’s over. Always wanting more.

–

“Wake up, man. Did you get any sleep last night?”

Short answer? No. Do I need it? Also a no.

I nod in acknowledgment to Kurt, a licensed practical nurse on the general floor. Out of concern he asks but why must I find myself disdainful of it? Once my wife passed away, I was never able to respond to love properly again. Every movement in the air between I and a potential lover came out as stressed and estranging as awkward could become.

It is not one’s fault that another human’s compatibility with mankind varies between people based off the trauma they are elected to face at dark points in their lives. There is a term for this and it is called blatant disappointment and inability to move forward as trauma has shaped you before it has happened.

I cannot save her. She came to me from the shadows to f**k me up beyond repair, I knew it when she said the three regrettable words. And didn’t take them back. How dare she try to manipulate me like this. How could she be the one devilish counterpart for years at a time just to end our enticing fun slipping up with her words one eventual day?

I love you.

God.

She is the end of herself. Just like my wife. I believe they even fantasized about death in the same imagery. More like she is a spitting image, repulsing me with her high hopes.

The boulevard of broken dreams exists for all. I finish running over patient prescriptions, in where I find notes stating every unfortunate I’m assigned to has done something f****d up this weekend prior to or post arrival. Whether or not it’s true, I must act on it. I initially fell asleep doing this and woke having to quickly prepare myself for the most dampening part. Intake.

It isn’t purely my responsibility. Prescribing is what I do, Amanda Presley brings them in and warms them with her kindness. They are like stray cats, these druggies off the street who wind up on bipolar medication, the elderly with dementia, teen moms — the entirety of society’s unwanted, we see here.

I don’t actually know how badly the patients would suffer without Amanda, our head social worker. She has influenced and changed many lives just by instilling hope in those who saw through with absent self belief. If she were to ever know what the male staff do once she has left the premises, every night, I believe she would make us face disciplinary action.

Indefinitely.

I arrive home to five missed calls from the muse. Her voice sounds shaky, jumping between intoxication and whispers, as though she has been doing methamphetamines in her free time. What the f**k?

Meth has its two twenty first century purposes. Studying and f*****g. What could she possibly be up to? Is she succumbing to the future her stepfather wants for her?

I need to act faster. She is losing her innocence. Soon she will be invincible, some femme fatale I cannot rattle from a secluded beach house. She isn’t stupid enough to be a meth junkie. She’s getting to know her filthy lovesick self.

I begin to wonder how many fingers she inserts when she m*********s in her lonesome. Does she dress slutty for it, get naked or remain clothed? Is she seeing other men?

I need to see her.

I call her back. She answers on the first ring like a typical stupid girl who is desperate for my attention. Her “hello” sounds natural, not flirty, not strained.

“I’m coming to pick you up. Meet me outside.”

As we f**k, she rides me several times. I grab the n*****s of her C cups and stroke them with my thumbs making sure to slap her t**s as she rides me harder. And harder. I even fit two fingers inside of her as she bounces up and down, making me moan at her slamming into my c**k. She is quite skilled yet tight for a plain jane. I also couldn’t help but notice her ass got larger in size.

Oh, Melody. You’re going to die f*****g.