Last Exit

Author's Note: This is the first entry of "Last Exit", a four part series. This is a slow burn, dark, grounded, and intense narrative that explores concepts like guilt, sadism, masochism, reluctance, obsession, and the concept of "redemption". It includes NTR, consensual non-consent, BDSM, breath play and more. This narrative seeks to explore character psychology and subvert tropes when possible. Please observe the category this story is placed in, as well as the additional tags. As I addressed in "All She Ever Wanted", if this subject matter is not appealing to you, I completely understand. But I still implore you to read on and experience something else.

In addition, thank you to all the amazing readers, writers, and community members who reached out to me in support and to ask me to keep writing. I am here because of you all. I want to specifically mention Logan & Kayla, your unwavering support, friendship, feedback, and kindness is a treasure. Also, thank you to my ad-hoc mentors, contemporaries, and or influences; chadeauxfrommedi, eddie_wilder, Scottgreen, lovecraft68, antarctica77, Jordan45, TheTalkMan, and The_shadow_rising. Your support has been greatly appreciated. Also, a huge thanks to anyone, anonymous or otherwise who sent such amazing feedback. Enjoy.

Last Exit- Chapter 1

The yearbook's pages were still crisp, without blemish, like a scholar glimpsing a revered artifact, Sophia would devote herself to the meticulous study of her earlier life contained within. In a small apartment, quiet, dilapidated and sparse, she poured over every classmate and confidante's autographs, their signatures born from pens, pencils, markers, and other instruments. Peers names ticketed and sorted in long arcs of cursive hearts, their notes full of already aged references, inside jokes, defunct phone numbers and user handles, a library of memory betrothed to the inevitable process of time.

She turned the pages, her long pink acrylic nails picking at the binding nervously, losing to her anxiety. To her, it was a document of the ache of time, of a sworn belief that life was simpler, better, and freer back then. She knew it was a lie. All of it. She knew from the people she hurt, every page in the book a display of her victims, the lives of others she gleefully and without mercy, humiliated, bullied, and ostracized. This was her reminder, of what she could never let go of, and could never be forgiven for.

She unfurled pages, there was a photo of her, in regulation Catholic school uniform giving a peace sign while sticking out her long pink tongue. Turning pages, the sports section, another picture of her, senior year, skin unblemished, athletic, black hair adorned with a long white ribbon that hung gently by her slender face. She was flanked on her sides by sisters not of blood, but by social credit earned through the calculus of luck, effort, and status as cheerleaders. She ran a finger across the photo, the flood lights of the field behind basked them in a perfect glow without even the hint of a filter.

She perused the yearbook further, reflecting what had now become her obsessive ritual. It was her chronicle, told to only herself, a gallery of her memories on repeat stuck deep in her person-hood, feeding the guilt inside. So, she turned another page of the yearbook, jumping when the door opened, Jake stepping through, wiping his well worn Timberland boots on the doormat. He saw her looking at the tome again, speaking softly.

"Jeez woman, ya gotta put that away sometimes. Ain't no need to fixate on glory days, we right here babygirl."

Sophia looked up and mustered a smile, only because of Jake's presence, he showed her something more than what she had known or expected. She looked at the glossy book, held taut in her hand. He slowly peeled it away and placed it back on their bookshelf. Asides from worn paperbacks, it towered over all, to Sophia it was the only thing truly there, the center of her shrine, a monolith of guilt.

Jake sat down next to her on the worn couch, putting his arm around her, his sharp braids hugged his scalp in tight rows. He kissed her cheek, she smiled, a tinge of sadness still visible on her face, he held her with both arms and spoke.

"Ya know, I don't think holding on to that book is doing you any good."

She looked over at it, on the frail shelf, and back to him, nestling her head against his shoulder, combing his full and rooted beard with her fingers, she sighed and spoke.

"I've had it a long time. I umm, it's kind of a part of me. I mean, its, how do I say this? It doesn't matter. Never mind."

"It does matter. Speak, you know I ain't gonna judge."

"It's me. That book, it's me."

"You are you girl. Ya don't seem very happy when you go through it, ain't never seen a smile on your face each time with that...thing in front."

She was silent, breathing into his shoulder, fidgeting with her hands, picking absentmindedly on threads on his flannel. He spoke.

"I aint tryin' to tell you what to do babygirl. If it don't make you happy, why you hold on? That's all. I jus wanna see you happy."

"I can't let it go. You know this."

"I know, I know, fellas who are smart with titles and papers tell you that each week. How about this? Why don't we jus, one by one, take those pages, and rip em out. Ain't gonna miss em. If you do it slowly. All things are better when they are slow, take yer time."

She didn't reply, and closed her eyes, falling asleep on his shoulder, to the sound of him breathing and the worn whine of a ceiling fan above.

***

In her sleep, she found no respite in the clutch of darkness. Her nightmares didn't cease, they too were an endless chronicle, shackled, bound around her neck, clamped round her tongue, all what remained was the past. Every night the same, everyday the same, the walls of her skull a mirror to her history, never free to wander. Always, she started retracing her life, just after high school, each night an attempt to understand the present, but it would never present a solution.

Senior year, she earned a scholarship, went to the University of Florida, which had a prestige all it's own. She would elevate herself to the most elite of sororities after her initiation. After, she sought power, using the only thing she ever knew, bullying. At a chaotic house party, she seduced two boyfriends of her fellow sisters, taking both young men together at the same time in a dim dorm room, another fraternity brother recording the debauchery.

She adored their attention, she felt powerful, both of them sliding inside her, their lips locked with hers, their commentary degrading, her hands and mouth working as one, taken from behind, laid flat, spent and eventually covered by their essence. She convinced herself as they zoomed in on her face covered in humiliation, slick with their use, that she was in control. Their laughter filled the room with mockery as they left. Sophia kneeling, believed she had won.

She instead, lost. They uploaded the video the next day to every platform they could.

The next day Sophia received a broken nose from one of her sorority sisters she wronged. She knew she deserved it. She fell fast to isolation, living with what was an alien feeling to her, that of guilt. For a long while she hid away in a quiet dorm, attended mass, went to confession again, an attempt to absolve herself. It didn't work.

That summer she had abundant joy, dating a charming man, from the same hometown as her. As the long days and warmth came to an end, he cheated on her with a college freshmen he met at an internship. In autumn she relinquished all inhibitions, leading to scandal with her business professor, a spry older man, dark skinned with white hair, dignified in appearance, who wanted to "mentor" her, seeing her "potential". For a whirlwind four months, he courted her, she returned every gift he offered with her mouth, her hands, her body, everything she could to keep him, she was sure she was in love. Her heart told her it was love. After several broken condoms, and a phone call she received from the professor's wife, the crushing guilt settled into her soul. She was alone again.

The rest of her time at university was a whirlwind of poor choices, yet she eventually stood with diploma in hand, walking out into an unknown world. To her misfortune, a recession's grasp on the economy, forced her back home, her parents calling her "lazy, worthless, lacking in ambition, a loser unlike your brother". Her parents became crueler, she became weaker.

Her bed was too small, a relic from her younger years. Her parent's home too painful, a palace of hostility. From the first steps she ever took, to their unyielding abuse, unrealistic expectations, and pressures, it would eventually turn her into the wounded, cruel bully who once felt a comforting bliss in the suffering of others. Finally she broke down, the pressure of failure too much. She swore that God spoke to her, asking her to "change her life lest she face damnation", that she was "chosen to absolve those she hurt", "she would have penance if she suffered more". Instead her parents had her committed.

Sophia soon found herself entranced with the mental health aide assigned to her. He was middle aged, stocky, kind eyes, she told him about everything she ever did, all the people she hurt, all the lives she damaged. He listened to her, truly, and openly. She felt for the first time properly heard, seen. Which is why with his advice, away from cameras in corners unseen, she would fall to her knees to service him, and soon, he would take her in bathroom stalls, he loved the feeling of her body, of her youth, so willing, so unblemished, he buried and seeded himself deep inside her over and over. When their liaison was discovered it ended his career, and marriage. Somehow she missed him, she would never understand why.

She got better. She had to. To forgive herself. To make amends. The medication helped. If at it's worst it made her numb and jittery, it was far better than being enslaved to a near permanent state of anguish. Her parents welcomed her back begrudgingly. She worked, tirelessly, multiple jobs, all of them with name tags, uniforms, screaming patrons and all for minimum wage. She prayed every night, begging for forgiveness. In her free time she tried to find those she had wronged, per her therapist's suggestion.

Every one she found rebuked her, online, in person, wishing her scorn, pain and death. So she committed herself to oblivion, no social media or contact of any kind, complete erasure, so she could start anew. Five years passed. Same jobs, same self inflicted isolation that she rarely challenged. She dyed her hair, blonde, poorly, now stained partially green. She let it grow into long waves, split ends, at her collar, wearing it like a veil of embarrassment around her face. She got tattoos of penance, scripture in Latin, geometric shapes, flowers, angels, almost all unfinished on her shoulders, neck and chest, close to her most vital areas. She now bemoaned every mirror, her now developed soft midsection a contrast to what she once was.

It was by luck and grace, she found opportunity. It was Gerald that finally hired her as a bartender at "Last Exit", an old dive bar, offering nothing of particular worth except odd, themeless decor, and older patrons on lonely crusades of binge drinking. The bar's crowded weekends were full of those that never left the small town. Those who took a pride in their legacies and sometimes their equal ignorance depending on the mood or the season.

Gerald was a good manager. A handsome older man, who had long since been disinterested from relationships outside the professional kind. A widower, he never explained what happened to his wife, still wore his wedding band, only rumors offered little insight. He always seemed disappointed, a hint of sadness presented on his face and tired eyes. Everyone knew him to be a sequestered man who spoke rarely of family or interests. His office was spartan, not a single photo hung, just an empty desk, organized bills, an ancient laptop, and nothing else. Vagueries aside he was, rational, generous and beloved by staff and regulars alike.

Sophia found being a bartender invigorating, and utterly exhausting. She embraced long shifts, to hear the pains, and joys of others. Every patron with the right amount of drinks became a storyteller in their own right. She had within a short period of time, soon heard it all. With significant effort she found herself out on her own again, escaping her parents. She rented a small apartment; occupied by nothing but a bed, and her cat Austin. It was a long walk to Last Exit; no car. Work was a process she could repeat. She would smile, wink, pout, wear self made low cut tops to display her ample wiles, of which made her back ache, her chest obtrusive, a hindrance and often an embarrassment to her.

When she could muster the courage to dress with purpose to try and show off her best remaining aspects, regulars, like Eli would tip their beer bottle back, study her like a piece of meat, taking in every imperfection, regardless of their own appearance. Eli spoke, slurred and aggressive.

"Ya got a real, how do I say this? Jeez, pretty face? Ya don't look the type to work here. But, when I see the rest of ya, ugly ass tattoos and that damn nose ring, shit...ain't gonna be much more weight. Ya should use them tips, get ya self a gym membership. Here, I'm gon give you a twenty, work that babyfat off bitch."

She thought constantly of how she said in the past, infinitely crueler things to peers, to rip their confidence apart. Now, it was her turn. She wished Eli would have continued before Gerald forcibly led him out of the bar, Eli's protests and steady, drunken criticisms of every woman bartender, was a fixture that occurred every two weeks. Eli was exceptionally punctual with his verbal abuse.

She barely made rent, a cycle that felt endless, but manageable. At least she had solitude, like the saints and martyrs she obsessed over, books and histories of them scattered around her hovel.

Then came Jake, another bartender, friendly, tall, lean, skin of sienna, humble, accent with a short drawl from parts unknown to her. He was well mannered, thoughtful, reserved, and he cared deeply for her. They were fast friends, and soon more. He didn't understand her fully, not her convictions, her proclaimed devotion, confounded him. Yet, he respected all of her, eccentricities and contradictions included.

He fell in love with her, found her womanly, intelligent, irresistible and beautiful. Their love blossomed, it was consummated quickly. In tired nights and long weekends they explored each other's bodies, their hands roamed, cupped and grasped. Almost every night was a series of moans, sighs, panting, and hushed gasps, the scent of spent rubbers and sweat, an intermingling layer of intimacy and passion. They spent hours just holding each other, under sheets, covered like corpses in a morgue, hands locked, dead to the world except for each other.

Short mornings, long nights, everyday the same for them, but there was joy, that grew and was fostered even among the stress and strain of life. They decided on a quick ceremony at the courthouse, marrying, without any of their family present, deciding they would love each other always, and forever. She kept her maiden name. Eventually, they pooled enough funds to rent another smaller room, even closer to Last Exit, their new apartment wasn't a place of comfort, it remained just somewhere for them to sleep, haunt, and abandon for work, but at least it was their life, no one else could own it but them.

She repeated this all in her head endlessly, starting from the beginning to the present, everyday when got out of bed and her feet touched the cold unfinished floor, it was the first thought that arrived and the last one she would think of. The yearbook on it's shelf, a camping photo of her and Jake in a cheap frame, was all she had, to remind her, of what her life had been, what it was, and a lingering thought of what it could be, if she could only find forgiveness. Instead, there was every morning, and every day, nearly exactly the same, the same shame, the same sadness.

***

It was the day after Christmas when Gerald suddenly said he was giving ownership of the bar to his son. For Sophia and Jake, the uncertainty of a new manager left them in a wake of paralysis. The staff was called together. Gerald stood in front of the counter, leaning heavily on it, the burden of his ownership already removed. From the back room, his son joined his side.

It was a moment of absolute horror when Sophia through the dim gloom of the bar, recognized Fin. She knew his eyes, had seen them red and teary, at her words, at at her behest countless times. The rest of

him had changed, his face was sharp, noble, even with stubble, slate eyes cold and alert, jaw forever clenched, as if poised poised to scream, dressed all in black, wearing a modest, thin gold chain, a cross at its center. It was just like hers, faded, worn, and scratched

He smiled, broadly, a mask of aloof ease, in reality, a shaded predatory threat that fooled everyone, except her. He crossed his sinewy arms, stepped forwards and began to shake hands with the staff and bartenders one by one, his grip firm, voice jovial, working his way down, never once not meeting the eyes directly of those he spoke with.

As he approached Sophia, she prayed with clasped hands at her waist, rendered faint, and disoriented. Time slowed, her skin burned in agony. She had prayed for anything, a fire, calamity, instant death so that he wouldn't notice her, she wouldn't have to meet him again. He extended his hand, tremors encasing her every finger, as she weakly took it. He spoke with a calm voice, with no hint of malice.

"Sophia Cooper. Been a while."

She felt bile cling to the back of her throat, barely mustering a nod, her lips quivered, as the abyss inside her filled with revulsion. Fin continued down the line of staff, not offering more than a glance to her again. There was no formal handling, no official ceremony, celebration, barely even a goodbye from Gerald. The staff dispersed to their lives, their homes, their long walks and drives away in the cold.

Sophia and Jake walked together back to their apartment, nothing moved, the now familiar parade of headlights, roar of bikes, and silence was all that fell between them. They headed up the stairs, to the coffin they called their apartment. Inside, Sophia sat down, her expression blank. Jake leaned back against the door as it closed, aged torn blue flannel hung slack against his body as he stretched and spoke after a long yawn.

"Babygirl, you ain't said a word since we left."

"It's him."

"Who?"

"Fin. Gerald's son."

"What about him? He ain't even done nothing yet."

"No. It's not umm that. It's not."

"What then?"

"He went to the same high school as me."

"Awww god fucking damn it. Oh shit. Did you..."

"Yes. Badly. Maybe the worst out of everyone"

She pulled her knees up to her chest and rocked back and forth on the couch, her dirtied black high top Converses pressing more sticky stains of beer and spirits into the already soiled cushions. Austin patrolled around her shoulders. Jake collapsed next to her sucking in air through his teeth, and spoke calmly.

"Shit. Well, I'm gon start applying elsewhere."

"Are you blaming me for this?"

"No, I didn't say that. Don't put words in my mouth. I'm just tryin' to be safe."

She leaned back, clutching at her knees to steady herself, her mind replaying her crimes, sins, and cruelty in rapid fashion, tears flooded her eyes, and she fell to her side in silence, her face a mask of suffering. Jake put his arm around her shoulder, he knew better than to speak. She owned all her pain and regret no matter what he did to try and help her let go. When she finally regained her composure he spoke.