Copper Hearts

Displacement; Melody

Melody sits on my living room couch with a stack of papers on her lap. She has a seductive smile on her face as she holds up one of the sheets pointing to the headline. “My parents read this very article and said I should get into journalism as soon as I can. Months later they say our conversation never happened.”

“Rough.” I respond.

Her hazel eyes travel to the tracks on my left arm. She says nothing and continues her rant. I read about twenty of her articles. They are well written but I’ve seen better.

She hugs her knees as she sits across from me. I can tell there is something on her mind in the way her eyes wander. God, I hate it when she keeps things to herself. This is why I hack every one of her accounts I possibly can.

She finally asks me, hours later, if she can have a intravenous shot. I feel the blood rush to my d**k at the thought of getting her high.

“You will not tell anyone.” I say as I band her up. “You will raise your arm the second I remove the tourniquet. And cover the injection site so you don’t bleed on my couch.”

She nods. She is excited. As much as I am with my intentions to watch her eyes roll back as the drug hits her. My libido tends to affirm to the use of drugs in barely legal teens. Not that I plan on f*****g her tonight.

I poke her vein. She watches the blood appear and get pushed back in. I undo the rubber band as fast as I can, she raises her arm with her forefinger above the spot. She stretches her hand as she bends her arm, her eyes going half-lidded.

“Thank you.” She says in a tone of pure intoxicated bliss.

She lays back and rests her head on my shoulder as I administer my own. A significantly bigger shot than I chose to give her. My tolerance has always been high, having never officially quit for longer than eight months.

I groan as the heroin hits me hard. The best feeling on earth. The feeling that made love look like a sick human delusion we suffered from in reality.

I carry her to my room an hour later. She is having a junkie nap on my couch when I wake her by slapping her cunt.

“Gosh,” she purrs. “What time is it?”

“Bedtime.”

She assured me when she arrived that her friends were covering for her as she stayed at a “college student’s” dorm for the night. Being stupid girls who didn’t question anything, they facilitated her alibi. She is eighteen anyway. Her parents cannot realistically put living restrictions on a legal adult without kicking them out.

My peace is paramount. She sleeps beside me, moaning in her sleep to wet dreams as I stroke myself. I c*m all over my hand minutes later to the curve of her slim waist in my hand. Her long legs wrap around my body as we sleep together and I kiss her forehead throughout the night.

I am not in love with Melody. I don’t feel passion in the form of this particular virtue. I am a pleasure dom and she warms my heart in way that are aromantic. Which I choose to remain. I am a sapiosexual aromantic with no intentions to love a kid. Even going there in my mind throws me off.

I appreciate that she feels the same. We are a solely s****l couple. Platonic. My obsession with her being not tied to any emotion. Yes, I am possessive of her. No, I don’t aim to marry her.

I only want the best for Melody. And that is not going any farther than shooting heroin with her former psychiatrist.

Acute pain wakes me. Muscle stiffness that I cannot respond to other than groaning out loud settles in and begins wreaking havoc on my nerves.

My drug addiction is the culprit in this epitome of pure regret towards shooting dope and going up in dose too quickly. I need oxycodone, a drug that releases slower into the system via oral consumption. Not methadone. Nothing that would make the issue hundreds of times worse.

I drive Melody home, dropping her off at the end of her street so I cannot be spotted. My intentions of getting stoned again overthrow anything more important today. The amount of depression that has built up inside my resilient mind could make me a candidate for BPD.

I blame my mother for this predisposed trait.

Kitty and I were never close. She spent many of her days locked upstairs in her room perceiving the four walls around her with sheer resentment. Free of reason yet cold and detached. She was a recluse, having been beaten to a bloody pulp by my father when I was five. The amount of confusion I felt that morning towards a woman who had once shown love for me now acting misanthropic towards all around her, I felt my own walls closing at the tender age.

She had cheated on him, it was to my understanding. Being five years old, I didn’t comprehend relationships entirely. I asked the wrong questions. I asked her if she loved my father at all.

She slapped me so hard she cried instantly out of remorse and retreated to her room. She remained bed-ridden after her beating. My father left her shortly after.

Later on in university I learned this was why I could not take turn away from opiates. Broken hearts made for awful outcomes. Which was essentially why I drug my patients. Heroin takes the edge off better than a clonazepam.

Despite the lack of connection with my parents, I always remained a deeply empathetic person. My obligation to look after someone stayed prominent throughout growing up as I aspired to become a paramedic as a teen. My dreams were destroyed by addiction in my early twenties, junk being the only thing to matter in my pathetic dwindling life. I later enrolled at a college for health sciences when I had cleaned up my act for the most part.

For the most part.

Things didn’t change overtime. Because I didn’t change. Even after meeting my wife, my outlook remained bleak as can be. Things do not get better in time. I will say it again. Things do not get better in time.

My M.D. is no sign of life progress, it is a mere reflection of my work ethic. I primarily live my life in shame for what I do. For whom I loved. Every mistake I cannot forgive myself for. Every person I cannot accommodate through my work.

Like Arizona. I know to this day she is still sick; every symptom of her tragic future shone in my face every time I spoke to her. She often droned on about being a s*x worker; I didn’t have the nerve to tell her she was too much a pillow princess to suck d**k for a living. She had no longterm goals aside from surviving major depression. Her short term goals involved feeding necessities that had become too much an overburdening parasitic will to survive inside of her. Like her m**********n addiction, for example.

I did what I could for her and I did it rather selfishly. I do not deserve a practice.

I am drinking coffee in my study when she rings me again. I hesitate to answer. It is 7:00p.m. and I have no intentions of seeing her. Despite my obsession, I myself am a recluse like my mother. My occupation is the only thing that formulates my purpose in society.

“Yes, love,” I answer the call, waiting for her vestal voice to bring warmth to me.

“I was hoping I could spend the night again. My stepfather is home for the next few days.”

My face hardens.

For God’s sake, I’m not her sugar father. In fact, I am a mere thief of her innocence in a situation she clearly lacks guidance.

I cannot stand women who are codependent. What I crave in her is her outstanding ability to stand alone. In every situation I closely watched her, I took note that she depended on herself. In high school, she didn’t follow the crowd. I love that about her. Her cynicism. Her affinity to f*****g older men because she was too mature for the rest of the people her age.

“If there’s a problem, I can go to a friend’s. I just simply adore our time together.”

I stay silent for a moment, choosing my words wisely. She is coming onto me three days into reuniting. What a f*****g fool I am believing she was immune to developing feelings for a fifty-seven year old man. She is not falling in love with me.

“I’d love to see you.” I answer because it’s the truth despite my urge to create a distance between us. I want to feel her skin. The touch of her soft p***y lips against my forefingers. “Do you need me to collect you?”

One fist inside of her and she is creaming all over my hand like the moaning school girl slut she is. It takes about a half an hour of alternating between my c**k and fingers to finally convince her to let me fill her with my whole hand. “You’ll love it, dear.” I insist as I kiss her hip bones. She quivers as I play with her loosening hole, forcing my hand in occasionally causing her to moan in pain. I enjoy every second of her submissive cries.

I reward her for being a good girl, bending her over the bed frame and licking her tight virgin asshole until she cries my name out loud. Which I don’t f*****g like. I spank her hard as an immediate reaction.

Again, her pain gets me off.

Guilt seeps into my conscience as I stare into her eyes to see them gleaming as she rides my c**k. Her ass has grown to be quite giant since two years back. That is all I can think about as she throws her head back, promising she has never been f****d so good before. Or loved, I additionally think.

It’s quite the shame. She is a great f**k.