This Town
This town was pure beauty -- in an unholy, twisted, fog-drenched, fucked sort of way. The sky never saw the sun. Just full dark -- no stars -- or cloud-covered and lit like a dim stage.
The days were long. The nights... longer.
I questioned why I came here -- like a goddamn broken record spinning, skipping in my mind.
Why?
What the fuck for?
These damp, mildew-stained streets led me nowhere, but somehow held a fucking promise. A pull. Something that made me -- forced me -- to keep going.
To keep searching through the stain that was this town.
I've spent a lifetime dreaming, feeling, wanting the heat that rips through my muscles at night when no one's looking.
But here...
Well, fuck. I've never felt so alive -- so crippled by my own devices, my own lure.
There's something caught between guilt and freedom in this place. A longing. A temptation that stirs in me like the wind stirs the stink in these streets.
It's an awakening -- a moment stretched out in time that eats at me with every breath I take.
It's absolute need. Dread. Desire.
It's fucking lust.
The nights?
Not a train. Not a whistle. Not a bark. Not a problem.
Problems were just a state of mind anyway.
I thrived on leftover items from a shitty, leftover burgh.
I pooled resources -- weapons and smokes. My holy trinity.
Despite the lack of company, I cruised backyards, alleys, tree-covered parks, cemeteries.
The hospital was full of meds -- antibiotics, painkillers, stuff they used to lock up.
The police station? Maps, guns, and... well, recreational drugs.
I rode out storms in motels, abandoned houses, old malls, and busted-up restaurants.
When things got dicey, I played dead -- or ran like a fucking coward.
There was no need to play the hero here.
No need to do anything but survive.
Survive... freely.
Monday.
The rain split the town in two -- a fierce swell on the north side and a goddamn typhoon to the south. I got caught in the former for longer than I'm proud to admit. I knew it was coming, knew it was about to unleash -- but distractions come easy here. I chose the havoc. The chaos.
Looting vans near the river.
I ducked under the awning of a local record store, smashed the front door, and got the hell out of the wind and rain. Like most places here, the city's power was fickle -- like it picked and chose what I had access to.
To my surprise, the record player had juice.
I put on Vera by Pink Floyd and let it play from there -- haunting and beautiful.
Like a soundtrack to my new lifestyle.
The fog rolled in thick and slick -- couldn't see out the windows.
Hidden by a storm that felt like it could sweep away my sins... if I just gave it time.
Like any good storm.
I browsed the rock section, flipped through some classics, some oldies... but it wasn't until I hit the pop bin that I found her:
Raylee Steele.
Never heard of her, but damn -- the cover looked straight out of Playboy.
Twenty-two years old. Strapless dress. Perfect tits. Legs like polished chrome.
She looked like sin wrapped in vinyl.
I stripped naked right there like it was center stage. Held the record cover in my hands but didn't dare look -- old masturbatory trick from my teenage years. I focused on the front door instead, the deadbolt still unlocked, the blank stare of security cameras, the posters of beautiful women on the walls, all judging me with glossy eyes. I spread my legs and started working my cock.
Eyes closed, I let Raylee take over. Her breath on my skin. Her lips traced mine. Hands down my back. Legs wrapped tight around me. In my mind, I sucked her tits -- drank from them -- felt her delicate folds slide around my cock and squeeze. She pumped with those hips. Gripped my shoulders and dug in her nails. Bit me. Rode me. Fucked me.
When I was close, I opened my eyes and finally stared at her. Like a countdown. Faster. Harder. Tighter. Then my cock swelled in my hand and I came -- a fat, violent burst -- right over her pretty face, her tight body. Soaking the cardboard sleeve, soaking her.
The hours rolled by slowly, like ice trying to melt in the storm's cold -- too stubborn to move, too frozen to quit. I fell asleep behind the pay counter as Bob Seger sang me something to dream about. When I awoke, the fog had lifted from the windows but not the streets. I dressed, put a rhythm in my step, and got back to those vans; when it was time to work, I rarely fucked around.
***
Tuesday.
The air was heavy. Sleet came down at a slant, turned to rain, then gave way to snow -- two inches of calm blanketing the town. The weather here didn't give a damn about the planet's tilt; seasons didn't arrive in months -- they came in hours. Still no sun. But the buildings and high-rises did their job, blocking the worst of the wind. It swirled overhead and stayed the fuck off my shoulders.
For that, I was grateful.
The west end of town held a small, elegant white church -- a bright red door, stained glass, and a steeple that reached into the sky like it still believed in something. Not my usual place of business, but when the clouds went damn near black, I figured it was my best bet to avoid whatever hell was about to break loose.
The door was unlocked.
I passed the holy water stoup without checking if it was filled or dry. The place was dim, lit only by what little daylight filtered through the stained glass windows lining each row of pews. At the altar, someone stirred.
I stopped. My body tensed -- half-ready to bolt, half-ready to fight.
Then her voice broke the silence. Smooth. Slow. Sweet like fog sliding through the streets.
"If you think God is here..." she said, turning toward me, "you should think again."
Her eyes lit up like a goddamn billboard -- bright blue, full of promise. A sky I hadn't seen in ages. She must've been nearing thirty years old, twenty-seven, twenty-eight? The musty air clung to her dress, outlining her curves in all the wrong -- or maybe right -- ways. The lace hem floated just above her bruised, dirty knees. She was barefoot. Her tall black boots sat nearby like she'd just stepped out of them to become this.
I hadn't heard another voice in what felt like ages -- let alone a warning. From her sullen tone, a tone that hinted she'd given up on light, or God, truth, love -- I knew she was in the wrong town. To me, she was a target. Weak. Displaced. Somewhere far from grace, yet broken by the truth that what she sought wasn't here. I came here to avoid the storm; she was here to disappear in it.
"Yeah, well... God's gotta be somewhere, right? I figured I'd start looking here," I lied.
"My name's Nicolas," I lied again.
"Who are you?"
"Mia." She sat down in the front pew, her back to me. Amateur. Novice. Fucking prey.
I moved through the pews, checking each one for traps. The back clergy office -- door closed. The pulpit -- still. She seemed alone.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"Will you sit with me, Nicolas?" she said.
"Just for a moment. My daddy used to bring me to church every Sunday. It was so long ago. I barely remember him."
Daddy issues. Fucking perfect.
"I think I've got some time," I said, carefully lowering myself beside her. The mahogany pew creaked under my weight.
"Do you need anything? Can I do anything for you?"
"No." She straightened her posture, shoulders tall.
"When the sun comes out I'm planning a day at the park. Maybe a picnic."
"That's... nice," I said, realizing this girl was either very skilled at deception or completely clueless.
"You know this town isn't exactly safe, sweetheart. Do you have any way of protecting yourself?"
She looked at me with those big blue eyes -- and the innocence staring back told me everything I needed to know.
She wasn't carrying. Not even a pea shooter.
"Well, I'm pretty handy. If we're disturbed here tonight, I can keep us safe," I said.
