My heart should not have been restarted.
Touted as a miracle by the medical profession. They said it had to be my will to live, but the problem was, I had no will to live. I wanted to die, to join my wife, and instead I was stuck between the living and the dead. A purgatory of my own making.
It was all my fault, and no matter how many times someone tried to tell me differently, it would never change the fact that I was responsible. My actions brought down the anger of a very powerful, very dangerous man.
After a few minutes I was able to sit up on the edge of the bed, my vision clearing while I tried to calm the pounding of my heart. That was when I noticed the overwhelming suffocation of the silence.
The sun had barely crested the horizon, so I doubted there was much activity on the streets below. The condo had also recently been updated with energy-efficient, dual-pane windows, leaving the only sound being the blood that pumped through my veins.
I got up and left my room, heading to the kitchen for a glass of water or maybe some vodka. It was Saturday. Nobody could fault me for wanting to get shit-faced at seven in the morning. The vodka could help drown out the nightmare that still had a hold on me.
In the kitchen, I popped open one of the many prescription bottles lying around, this one for Vicodin, and spilled a couple onto the counter. I pulled open the refrigerator and wrapped my fingers around the vodka. I was more than aware that I shouldn’t mix the two, but I didn’t give a shit. I wasn’t driving or operating heavy machinery. The most I’d do is order takeout maybe and push buttons on the TV remote.
I headed to the living room, bottle in one hand and pills in the other. After unscrewing the lid, I slipped the pills between my lips and bottoms up.
The alcohol burned as it slid down my throat. I was thankful for the feeling as I needed it to cover the oppressive numbness that consumed me. After I screwed the cap back on, I set the bottle on the floor and pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and wrapped it around me.
It was going to be a long fucking weekend that I just wanted to silence it all. Drown out the misery, drown out the attraction to Delilah, and drown out the world.
Maybe later I’d go to the club and see if I couldn’t find a girl to help me get off. I needed a pussy. Hopefully that would calm down the craving to bend Delilah over her desk.
The combo of pain pills and vodka did the job, sending me back into a blissful, dreamless state. I awoke around noon and ordered some food. One day I would find the grocery store and maybe make my own food, but ordering it to be delivered to my door was so much more appealing.
I didn’t leave the couch and spent hours just staring up at the ceiling. With nothing else to do and nowhere else to go, I sat in the emptiness. In the silence, the numbing minutes and hours, the loneliness sunk in.
I’d been able to keep it at bay for years, but for some reason the craving for the soft caress of physical contact was almost suffocating. That itch was the only thing that drove me to get my ass up. That, and the sun had gone down, the only light that filtered in coming from the streetlights way below.
Somehow, I managed to get in the shower. As the water rained down on me, I wondered if every weekend was going to be filled with the same nothingness. The answer was yes. It’d been the same for years, the only difference being that I was working again. I had a schedule, a routine.
That difference, though, was what created the stark contrast of my day-to-day. Constantly surrounded by people, women, talking, wore me down, but it also enhanced the nothingness that was my life outside the office.
By the time I was dressed, the club would just be picking up. I needed a fuck. A hot, rough, get-all-the-fucking-aggression-out-of-my-system type of fuck. A cleansing, mind-wiping orgasm.
The music was loud, the lights low, and the bar packed. As I looked around, there were lots of beautiful women, some even with their eyes on me as they sucked down whatever their fruity alcohol of choice was.
I ordered a beer and leaned against the bar, surveying the place.
“Hi,” a female voice rang out next to my ear.
I turned to find a pretty, petite blonde next to me. She had overdone makeup, over-bleached hair, but her full, dark pink lips were enticing. With a short skirt, a lot of cleavage, and on the curvy side, she was just what the doctor ordered.
All I had to do was smile at her, show some sort of interest, and I could have my dick between her thighs in less than an hour.
“Hey.” No smile, no look of interest. She wasn’t right. The beast was dispassionate, not even responding when someone pushed her from behind and her hand bumped right into my crotch.
Nothing.
“S-sorry,” she stuttered as a blush began to cover her cheeks.
Normally, I would have said something like “Trust me, baby, you’re all good. You can touch my cock however you want.”
Some bullshit to seduce her, to get her thinking about my dick, so it would be easier to get it in. But instead, all that came out was, “It’s okay.”
She backed away, returning to her pack of friends, and I looked back out at the crowd.
Fuck.
Something was off. Maybe it was me, maybe not. The drinks weren’t doing it, the women weren’t catching my attention even when they threw themselves at me, and I couldn’t understand why.
When the fuck did it become impossible to pick up a woman?
You know when. You’ve only had one fuck since you first saw her.
I hated that he was right. The weekend after I first saw her was the last time I had a one-night stand. After that, I was working so hard to change my life that the times I did try to go out, I wasn’t in the mood or no women enticed me. I was in the mood to fuck, but I did not feel like putting in the effort to charm my way into a pussy.
Seven months of nothing but my hand, and it looked like that streak would continue.
If my sex life had been reduced to my dick pining for Delilah, the next few months would make the first few weeks a fucking cakewalk. Delilah intrigued me more and more each day, which only served to piss me off. I didn’t want the pull to her, the attraction that had me waking up with a hard cock every morning.
“Fucking cock-blocking bitch,” I grumbled to myself as I headed out to the parking lot.
My fucking dick went from zero to hard in less than two minutes just thinking about her. As soon as I was in my car, I had my dick out. It was so hard, I contemplated going back in and finding that little blonde, but I had a feeling that I wouldn’t be hard anymore.
Touted as a miracle by the medical profession. They said it had to be my will to live, but the problem was, I had no will to live. I wanted to die, to join my wife, and instead I was stuck between the living and the dead. A purgatory of my own making.
It was all my fault, and no matter how many times someone tried to tell me differently, it would never change the fact that I was responsible. My actions brought down the anger of a very powerful, very dangerous man.
After a few minutes I was able to sit up on the edge of the bed, my vision clearing while I tried to calm the pounding of my heart. That was when I noticed the overwhelming suffocation of the silence.
The sun had barely crested the horizon, so I doubted there was much activity on the streets below. The condo had also recently been updated with energy-efficient, dual-pane windows, leaving the only sound being the blood that pumped through my veins.
I got up and left my room, heading to the kitchen for a glass of water or maybe some vodka. It was Saturday. Nobody could fault me for wanting to get shit-faced at seven in the morning. The vodka could help drown out the nightmare that still had a hold on me.
In the kitchen, I popped open one of the many prescription bottles lying around, this one for Vicodin, and spilled a couple onto the counter. I pulled open the refrigerator and wrapped my fingers around the vodka. I was more than aware that I shouldn’t mix the two, but I didn’t give a shit. I wasn’t driving or operating heavy machinery. The most I’d do is order takeout maybe and push buttons on the TV remote.
I headed to the living room, bottle in one hand and pills in the other. After unscrewing the lid, I slipped the pills between my lips and bottoms up.
The alcohol burned as it slid down my throat. I was thankful for the feeling as I needed it to cover the oppressive numbness that consumed me. After I screwed the cap back on, I set the bottle on the floor and pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and wrapped it around me.
It was going to be a long fucking weekend that I just wanted to silence it all. Drown out the misery, drown out the attraction to Delilah, and drown out the world.
Maybe later I’d go to the club and see if I couldn’t find a girl to help me get off. I needed a pussy. Hopefully that would calm down the craving to bend Delilah over her desk.
The combo of pain pills and vodka did the job, sending me back into a blissful, dreamless state. I awoke around noon and ordered some food. One day I would find the grocery store and maybe make my own food, but ordering it to be delivered to my door was so much more appealing.
I didn’t leave the couch and spent hours just staring up at the ceiling. With nothing else to do and nowhere else to go, I sat in the emptiness. In the silence, the numbing minutes and hours, the loneliness sunk in.
I’d been able to keep it at bay for years, but for some reason the craving for the soft caress of physical contact was almost suffocating. That itch was the only thing that drove me to get my ass up. That, and the sun had gone down, the only light that filtered in coming from the streetlights way below.
Somehow, I managed to get in the shower. As the water rained down on me, I wondered if every weekend was going to be filled with the same nothingness. The answer was yes. It’d been the same for years, the only difference being that I was working again. I had a schedule, a routine.
That difference, though, was what created the stark contrast of my day-to-day. Constantly surrounded by people, women, talking, wore me down, but it also enhanced the nothingness that was my life outside the office.
By the time I was dressed, the club would just be picking up. I needed a fuck. A hot, rough, get-all-the-fucking-aggression-out-of-my-system type of fuck. A cleansing, mind-wiping orgasm.
The music was loud, the lights low, and the bar packed. As I looked around, there were lots of beautiful women, some even with their eyes on me as they sucked down whatever their fruity alcohol of choice was.
I ordered a beer and leaned against the bar, surveying the place.
“Hi,” a female voice rang out next to my ear.
I turned to find a pretty, petite blonde next to me. She had overdone makeup, over-bleached hair, but her full, dark pink lips were enticing. With a short skirt, a lot of cleavage, and on the curvy side, she was just what the doctor ordered.
All I had to do was smile at her, show some sort of interest, and I could have my dick between her thighs in less than an hour.
“Hey.” No smile, no look of interest. She wasn’t right. The beast was dispassionate, not even responding when someone pushed her from behind and her hand bumped right into my crotch.
Nothing.
“S-sorry,” she stuttered as a blush began to cover her cheeks.
Normally, I would have said something like “Trust me, baby, you’re all good. You can touch my cock however you want.”
Some bullshit to seduce her, to get her thinking about my dick, so it would be easier to get it in. But instead, all that came out was, “It’s okay.”
She backed away, returning to her pack of friends, and I looked back out at the crowd.
Fuck.
Something was off. Maybe it was me, maybe not. The drinks weren’t doing it, the women weren’t catching my attention even when they threw themselves at me, and I couldn’t understand why.
When the fuck did it become impossible to pick up a woman?
You know when. You’ve only had one fuck since you first saw her.
I hated that he was right. The weekend after I first saw her was the last time I had a one-night stand. After that, I was working so hard to change my life that the times I did try to go out, I wasn’t in the mood or no women enticed me. I was in the mood to fuck, but I did not feel like putting in the effort to charm my way into a pussy.
Seven months of nothing but my hand, and it looked like that streak would continue.
If my sex life had been reduced to my dick pining for Delilah, the next few months would make the first few weeks a fucking cakewalk. Delilah intrigued me more and more each day, which only served to piss me off. I didn’t want the pull to her, the attraction that had me waking up with a hard cock every morning.
“Fucking cock-blocking bitch,” I grumbled to myself as I headed out to the parking lot.
My fucking dick went from zero to hard in less than two minutes just thinking about her. As soon as I was in my car, I had my dick out. It was so hard, I contemplated going back in and finding that little blonde, but I had a feeling that I wouldn’t be hard anymore.
