Twenty-One Nightmares

Every time I look at the watch, I tell myself he'll come the next time the big arrow points to twelve. I know it's stupid. We all make schedules with round figures in them but things rarely happen exactly as the clock chimes.

And so the clock takes several rounds while I toss and turn, telling myself that I am not waiting, I am just unable to fall asleep.

It's 1:39 AM when I finally hear him. I know where he's been. I can smell her perfume the moment he walks through the door. It's unmistakable because I picked it. I used to use it when I was a lot younger. I liked the plump white bottle and how it smelled like nothing in the whole world; not flowers, not spices, not fruit. Not any of them put together. It's a scent that only exists in that bottle.

And on his clothes.

He knows I'm merely pretending to be asleep. I'm not really putting in so much of an effort. I'm lying on my back and breathing deeply as he flings his coat and trousers on the arm chair beside the bed. He knows I never sleep on my back but he's choosing to respect my façade.

He leans back on the arm chair and puts his feet up on the bed. I can smell them, right beside my face, as my mouth opens up reflexively. I suppose the jig is up but I keep up the act anyway. I am required to be nothing but a passive participant in these mundanities.

He strikes a match and the smell of tobacco fills up my nostrils. The scent of man-made poison from a neat little bottle combining with the poisonous fruit of land is too much for me. It's because that's exactly what I imagine they smell like together. Poison and tobacco. I feel myself visibly quiver.

He leans over and holds my nose shut with his fingers. Even then, I lay still and pretend I am asleep with every part of me but my mouth.

As soon as I can't breathe, my mouth opens and a piece of hot ashen lava falls down to the back of my tongue. I jerk with a start but am pushed back into the bed with his hand over my mouth. The ash is trickles down my throat and a part of my tongue feels scalded. I struggle to cough it up but he holds all my airways shut.

My eyes remain closed but every other part of me is struggles against his hands. It's torturous to cough without opening your mouth.

Suddenly he lets go of me and I hear him lean back into the chair.

I lay still with my eyes closed; still pretending I'm not waiting, just falling back asleep. I'm not sure why he won't say a word, maybe he's just as unsure about why I won't open my eyes. Truth is I don't really know either.

But I keep them firmly closed when he leans over and holds my nose shut again. This time I'm prepared and I don't let the ash fall down into my throat. I roll it up in my wet tongue instead.

I hear him snigger.

He doesn't hold my mouth closed this time. Instead I feel the tip of his cigarette hovering around my lips. I know not to make any sudden movements. He won't burn me, but he's hoping I'm stupid enough to burn myself. I used to be. Now I just lay perfectly still while the proximity to the flame starts to scald my lips. He moves to another spot. And then another. I remain still. I'm not a fan of being burnt.

I don't see him put it out but I hear a fizzling. I assume he dropped his cigarette into my unfishined tea. He hates it when I do that but I guess the rules don't apply to him. I feel his entire weight shift next to me and I turn my face towards him. He pushes me onto my back again and his fingers slide themselves into my mouth. They taste of alcohol, cigarettes, condoms and woman. I'm not sure which one of those things makes me suck on them so vigorously but I know I like it. I wonder, if he spit is on them.

He removes his fingers from my mouth in only a few minutes and I groan my disappointment. I can feel the path they take down my body in a cool wet trail. His fingers stop at the opening of my cunt. I spread my legs open immediately. There's nothing I want more than this. He teases the wet little mouth as I struggled to not impale myself on his fingers.

"So how many days has it been?" He asks.

His finger move a tiny little centimeter inside me.

"*Twenty-one.*"

Is it possible to moan a word?

"*Twenty one.*"

Twenty days nights he's spent with her. Twenty one days since he's fucked me. Twenty one days of tossing and turning and waiting. Twenty one days of smelling her on him. Twenty days since he touched me anywhere as close as he is.

I'm not surprised as he pulls his fingers back out. I know this won't stop until I plead insanity. I hear the drawer opening and I roll over onto my stomach. At least I know how to play this part. I know what is coming.

The cold blade of his knife runs over the tiny column of cuts on my upper back. The older ones already starting to scar and the newer ones still stinging.

"Twenty-one," he says digging the tip of his knife into my back.

I clench the pillow as hard as my eyes. He takes his time and I breathe myself into remaining calm. My eyelids relax as he relieves the pressure and feel my lip get stuck to the pillow as I moan into it.

It stings as he cleans the new wound. Carefully, in a drawn out process designed to maximize the stinging. His toys are weird. And he likes to play with them delicately. Slowly. Patiently. In elaborately devised games.

He turns me back around and pushes the hair off my face.

"Open your eyes," he says from atop me.

"*I can't.*"

"Why not?" He says stroking my eyelid.

I hesitate as I feel his hand gently wrap around my throat. He squeezes it just a little as he leans over me so his face is against mine.

"Why?" He asks again, but this time his fingers say the words.

"Because...What if this isn't just a nightmare?"