Void

This story comes with a trigger warning. If you suffer from depression or you're suffering from a depressive episode, this story might not be for you.

***

How do you do your make up when you're sad?

I ask myself, as I stare in the mirror. The pools of my eyes are only slightly overflowing; not enough to form a tear, but enough to reveal the hurt that still clings to my chest. I will them away. I've wasted enough tissues today.

So, how do you paint your face when you are feeling blue? You obviously don't want to go too wild with the eyes. Perhaps some mascara to hide the most stubborn smudges on my lashes that neither tears nor remover washes off. The eyes are the mirror to your soul, they say. They will betray you first.

No eyeliner, no eyeshadow. Just some highlighter to brighten up the gloom.

And the lips. Of course, my only ally. Paint them bold, big, luscious. Let my sensual mouth distract people from my sorrowful eyes. That lovely bright peach lipstick, where is it?

I smile at my own genius. The smile doesn't reach my eyes.

- - -

"Do I know you from somewhere?"

I look up from my drink. I had been lost in thought.

I do not know where he had come from but suddenly a kind-looking guy with auburn hair is standing right in front of me. Dressed up like your average hipster, a metropolitan lumberjack that is more likely to plant a tree than to cut one.

"I'm sorry, not that I can recall," I mumble a reply.

He chuckles.

"No, I mean... Is there a chance I may have seen you somewhere? Are you maybe an actress or a supermodel or something?"

Is this guy for real?

"No."

I'm like 5'2 but still I couldn't help but feel a little flattered. Don't kid yourself, I tell myself. It's just an excuse to strike up conversation.

"Really? You just have this... aura of someone who has stumbled into a wrong party. You look so classy but a little secluded drinking here alone by yourself. Maybe it's just guys being a little intimidated by how pretty you are.

What a sweet talker. Still, it's all in kind.

"Thank you."

"You are very welcome."

"My friend just went to get some drinks from the kitchen." I don't know why I feel like I must explain myself.

"Yes," he muses. "That brunette in the red dress? I believe she got distracted."

"Did she now?"

"Yes, in fact she did."

Fucking typical.

He eyes me from head to toe, a faint smile on his lips. I feel weirdly small standing next to him. He's a tall guy with broad, well-built shoulders. I like the intelligent spark in his green eyes, which makes him appear motivated, like there is a purpose to his speaking with you.

The way his eyes are looking at me, I wish they were brown. Eyes of someone else.

"So, why are you moping here by yourself? Why not get to know some people, maybe even dance a little?"

He flashes me a friendly smile.

"I'm an introvert. I don't like being the center of the attention. Wallflowers for life."

"You make a very pretty wallflower. But wallflowers don't mope. You look like you don't really want to be here."

Fuck, is it that obvious? A wave of shame and despair washes over me. I had gone through so much trouble to act like my cheerful self. My thoughts shift to my friends and the hostess of the party. Have they noticed? I hope they don't think I'm unappreciative of their company. Sometimes I truly act like a moody teen, so irreparably self-absorbed as to not think how my behavior might be interpreted by those who care about me.

"We could go somewhere else if you like," the guy suggests innocently.

I take a deep breath. For some reason my mind just goes blank and I hear my heartbeat pump ideas into my head. What's the point in pretending to be alright if no one's buying it? Everyone's better off if I'm not there to pull them down with my misery.

Perhaps all I need is a good distraction.

"Sure, why not."

The words come out of my mouth like automated. I'm not sure I even mean them.

"Seriously?" he laughs. "Shit, I really didn't think that would work."

"Seriously. Let's get out of here."

Is it even me talking? I've gone on autopilot. The ship is sailing in a storm without its captain.

"You don't even know my name!" he exclaims in disbelief.

"What is it then?" I ask with disinterest.

"Matt..."

"And I'm Fiona. How do you do? Let's go."

- - -

He follows me down to the taxi stand in silence. Maybe he is having second thoughts, perhaps he assumes this is some kind of a trap. I almost expect him to backpaddle. But no, he saunters behind me with his hands in his pockets.

"So, where to?" the taxi driver asks.

"Uhm," Matt looks at me uncertainly. I simply nod in response.

"Manila Drive," he tells the driver.

I quickly send Maria a text, telling her that I'm heading home. I don't want her to worry. I don't want her to tell me what I'm doing is incredibly foolish, possibly dangerous. Somehow, I just don't care whether what I'm doing is a good idea. But for some silly reason, I want my friends to think I'm safe.

Manila Drive turns out to be in the industrial area of the city. Not the best neighborhood, not the worst. The cab parks in front of the number 67. It was exactly the kind of crap building you as a millennial might live in, grey and functional. Assuming, of course, that you can even afford to live on your own.

"Any roommates I should know about?" I ask while he is unlocking the door into the building.

It's weirdly quiet on the street. Snowflakes were soundlessly falling off the sky, creating a thin white film on the asphalt. As the taxi drives off, its tires leave black stripes on the its white canvas. Otherwise Manila Drive is hauntingly deserted, which I thought was eerily unusual for a Saturday night. Maybe the lack of shops and restaurants is the cause. Everybody has a better place to be. Everybody but us.

"Nope," Matt replies to my question. "I live alone."

"Sweet."

"Well, except for my cat."

Do murderers keep cats? I'm sure if a murderer kept a pet, it would be a cat.

His flat is a simple loft studio with iron beams, concrete walls and ceilings. It doesn't look as cold as it feels. Matt had chosen some colorful yet tasteful furniture, presumably from Ikea. Striped carpets decorate the bleak floor and the stylish rectangular sofa had oriental-inspired pillows on it. He may not have been the most inventive of home decorators but still he displays basic knowledge on how to live comfortably.

A black cat comes to greet us as Matt takes off my jacket. He's a gentleman like that.

"Meet Iggy," he introduces us.

Iggy is a skinny little fellow but with a soft and shiny fur. I pet the little thing who greedily nuzzles my hand.

"Hi Iggy," I greet him. A murderer or not, Matt did seem to take good care for his pet. "How old are you?"

"He's only two, just a little baby."

"He seems very sweet."

There is an awkward silence as he gestures for me to make myself comfortable. This must be new to him as well, I think. Even with one-night stands there is usually a little more courting involved. What we are doing feels almost like we are conducting necessary business.

"So," Matt begins, "how do you want to do this? You just want to get into it?"

I breathe in and try to keep my cool.

"Pretty much."

"Too bad," he says nonchalantly.

I stare at him in confusion.

"Excuse me?"

"We aren't doing it that way. Would you like a drink?"

I am a little taken aback.

"Sure," I finally mutter.

"I got OJ, sparkling water and beer."

"Water will do."

"As you wish. I hope you don't mind me drinking a beer."

I take a seat on her sofa, wondering what's up. Perhaps I have come off as too aggressive? Desperate even? A lump is forming itself in my throat. I'm a great catch, even for him. He can't have gotten cold feet now.

He hands me the drink, for which I mumble a thanks. He takes a seat next to me, his elbows resting on his knees, looking at his hands. I feel myself shrinking in anticipation of a lecture.

He sighs and takes a sip from his beer. He leans back.

"So, how did we get here?" he asks me.

"We took a cab."

He rolls his eyes with a smirk.

"No. What made you... this?"

"Well, both of my parents are natural blondes..."

"Stop pretending like you aren't comprehending me," Matt pleads. "You were standing alone at a party with no intention of engaging. Look at you, you are even dressed for a funeral."

Guiltily I look at my little black dress. I always liked its simple elegance but it's hardly something anyone would wear to a funeral. Too informal.

"I'm sorry you don't like my dress," I say, genuinely upset that he isn't pleased with it for some reason. "I thought it would contrast well with my lipstick."

"Neon orange and black? Is that what's trendy now?"

Unexpectedly he places his hand under my chin and pulls my face closer for him to inspect. My heart immediately jumps up to my throat. It's not that he isn't being gentle. His green eyes calmly study the mask I had painted on my face. I see his concern; it makes me feel ashamed. Why must I be such a poor actress?

I try to pull away, but he hushes me quiet. Obediently I let him assess my face, avoiding his gaze as much as I can. With his thumb he brushes over my brightly painted lower lip. The wax leaves a shiny stain on the fingertip.

Slowly he leans in, his eyes locked in mine. There is an assurance in them: he doesn't wish to startle me. And he presses his lips against mine.

I respond to it uncertainly. His lips are hot and wet. I don't remember ever having been kissed like that before, so painstakingly elaborately. His palm from my cheek moves up to the back of my neck, pulling me closer to his face. His other hand he places on mine, warming my cold fingers endearingly.

It is an exceptionally long kiss, like one of those make-out sessions you have as a teen, when kissing alone would startle the butterflies in your stomach. Too late I realize that the kiss has another purpose. And that is when it's already over.

He wipes his mouth on his shirt sleeve.

"Much better," he whispers, looking at my face lustfully.

I feel the heat on my face, on my lips. There is nothing to distract him from my eyes now. I pray the foundation masks my embarrassment. Does he enjoy looking at my miserable face? Is he one of those sadistic bastards who get off on other people's agony?

My breathing is uneven and I'm finally beginning to doubt my decision to have come there.

"You have the most beautiful sorrowful eyes I've seen," Matt says regretfully. His face is soft with compassion.

I look down to my hands. I'm too tired, too exhausted to walk away now. I simply resign myself to his care.

"Did someone hurt you?" he asks me.

I shake my head bleakly, desperately holding back my tears.

"Break your heart?"

I sit there emotionless, unwilling to reply. Confirming it only makes it more real.

He understands.

"Come to my bed." It isn't a plea, nor is it really a command. It's just him giving me directions. Turn left at the floor lamp, continue onwards until you reach the GVARV double bed with dust grey upholstery.

He walks me there by hand anyway.

I stand there like a puppet as he begins to undress me. Regularly he throws a glance at my face, as if to see if I'm still there, conscious.

"You just tell me if you want me to stop," he whispers over my shoulder as I stand still in my simple black strapless bra and string.

He doesn't go on until he receives a response for me. I nod.

"You can cry too if you feel like it."

Somehow the very suggestion makes my eyes water. I swallow it back in.

I can feel his hot breath against the back of my neck. I know he is inspecting me. Like a used car, will it run?

He unhooks my bra and places it gently on a chair that seems to function as his nightstand. The thong is the next to go. He folds them away neatly. I feel like a child, incapable of performing these actions by myself.

He undresses himself with less care, throwing his clothes on the floor and kicking them off the way. I don't even steal a glance. I'm sure he is gorgeous. There is no room for him in my head.

His arms, covered in fine red hair, wrap themselves around my waist. Short as I am, the higher arm presses my breasts tight against my chest. The chill in the room has made the nipples hard. I don't know if he is kissing or merely breathing into my updo. But it feels comforting to be held like that, even with his boner pressing against my ass.

I refuse to close my eyes and allow myself to imagine myself to be held by someone else entirely. That's just not right anymore. He wouldn't want me thinking about him anymore, least of all while in the arms of someone else. Those lips are not his. My lips are not his. He rejected them, just like the rest of me.

A tear escapes me. Matt kisses it away.

He lifts me up with ease, his hands cupped around my ass. My white breasts are pressed against his trimmed chest, my arms holding myself tight around his neck like a baby koala clutching for comfort. He looks up to my face in-between his eager kisses. Maybe he is hoping one of them would come through, convince me that I am still wanted. Sweet lies from a stranger. The things we are willing to do just to make each other feel better.

He presses my back against a wall. God knows how he manages to insert his cock inside me but there it is, inching its way in me.

I let out an involuntary gasp. His length had escaped my attention. With a grunt he dips into me with ease, as if my cunt had become yielding like hot bath water. When had I gotten this moist? Somehow my own body is working against me. What a whore it could be. I hate it. My eyelids clench at the tears of betrayal. They seep through my soot black lashes anyway.

My ass sits on his coarse hands oddly comfortably. He's fucking me up. I'm pinned in the wall like one of those dead butterflies. But he refuses to let me remain dead. He is determined to bring me back to life, resuscitating me with each pleasurable thrust.

I was sandwiched between the heat that Matt was radiating and the icy surface of the concrete wall. His heat is beginning to engulf me, spreading through my very core, melting the frost that has been making it so hard for me to breathe. It's like eucalyptus for the asthmatic. My whimpers are turning into loud complaints on extreme rapture.

My melodious moans generate deep dimples around Matt's sweet mouth. I notice a blissful despair shining in his eyes. To my surprise, it is merely a reflection of the spark that had returned in my big grey eyes.

I cling tighter to the dear stranger as if my life and happiness depended on him. I would cling to him until finally I would have to let go.