Marshal awoke with a long, drawn out sigh, cringing at the thought of living yet another day in paradise. His vision was blurred, his memory from last night still groggy, and the pains in his head made him question if life was really worth living. After stumbling around confused for a few moments, he made his way to the sink and began splashing cold water onto his face. Clarity arriving too slowly for his liking, he stepped out of his room. Looking around in horror, he couldn't help but second guess reality and all that he thought he knew. His usual surroundings had virtually vanished; gone was the dirty laundry, empty liquor bottles and random piles of rubbish. He also detected a lemon scented aroma and could almost hear a faint echo which, if he hadn't known any better, might have faintly resembled a dish washer or laundry machine. Wondering if he hadn't been cursed somehow, he cautiously made his way to the fridge and grabbed his wake-up beer. Then, kicking himself for being unarmed during the time of uncertainty and swearing that there had to be somebody nearby, he made a heroic leap into the next room.
"You!" he cried out accusingly. "Who are you and what are you doing here?"
"Oh, hi Marshal. I'm so glad you're finally awake."
He couldn't help but stare at the young woman in amazement; standing in awe for a few moments and not knowing what to think, he slowly took a seat. Then, wondering if he wasn't somehow in a dream, he started to drink, fully convinced that the world would make more sense afterwards.
Marshal stared at the woman blankly as if expecting an explanation.
"Do you really have no idea what happened last night?" she asked.
The question struck Marshall as an odd one. "Of course I do," he sneered. "I... I..." Marshal was at a loss for words as he tried to figure out what he had done the previous night.
"Well regardless, after waking up in the morning and studying my surroundings, I was appalled that a human being could descend to such degeneracy. I couldn't help but pity you, and did what I could to help out during the time when you were out cold."
Marshal sighed as he looked around and contemplated recent events, cursing when he realized that a vase filled with flowers had managed to replace his lucky bottle of Jameson.
"Listen. I don't know who you are or what you think we've done, but after I get my apology I think that it would be best for both of us if you left," he told her with conviction.
"An apology?" she asked as if not knowing what he was getting at.
"For altering what was once considered a perfect home prior to your unwelcome intrusion. When I've done nothing to upset you yet you still insist on going out of your way to make my life misera-"
Marshal halted briefly as she stepped into the kitchen. "Hey, where do you think you're going?" he fumed while mildly upset that she cared so little about what he had to say. "I'm talking to you!"
It wasn't long before the woman returned with a beer in hand. "Sorry," she told him meekly as she opened the bottle and handed it to him. "I saw that you finished your drink and thought that you might want another one."
"Oh, right," he said not knowing how to respond. "Anyways, where was I?"
"I don't know. Perhaps you were upset about something and wanted to rant about it?"
"Of course! Like I was saying, we need to have a talk about boundaries. You just don't go into a guys house and move everything around. All things considering, I must insist that you leave right now so I can try to fix all that you've ruined."
"Oh, marshal," she sighed. "Do you mind holding that thought for a moment? I know it's crazy, but for some reason this is really starting to irritate me."
"What is?" Marshal asked, more than a bit confused.
The woman turned around and got on her knees.
"This stain on the carpet. No matter what I do it just won't go away!" she wailed as she began scrubbing the floor furiously.
Marshal was amazed that the the woman considered the discolored carpet something important enough to warrant her time and effort. Not knowing the protocol for the situation, he did what he normally did - sat back with a drink while contemplating the world around him. And strangely enough, more and more he found his gaze linger on the woman before him; and despite himself, formally acknowledged that he found her presence to be immensely irritating. He wasn't able to put his finger on it, but for whatever reason he wasn't able to divert his attention to anything else. He couldn't help but notice the sizable cleavage that bobbled back and forth as she worked, and was soon transfixed by their forward and back motion. The low cut shirt she wore barely covered herself, and with every forward thrust she made with her arms he thought for sure that she would expose herself completely. His irritation continued to increase, and more and more he began to see the small, curvy frame before him as a pleading, irresistible invitation of sorts.
Her name, her words, her desires, her family, the type of life she led, the reason for her being there - none of it phased him in the slightest as he considered all the great and uplifting things he could do, and it wasn't long before his wondering thoughts got the better of him. Intoxicated and unable to restrain himself, he got up and pushed her forcibly to the ground. Using his weight he pinned her so that she was underneath him and couldn't escape. Taking advantage of the opportunity, he quickly pulled down her shirt and marveled at the glory which lied beneath. Not thinking about anything else, he fondled her breasts to his hearts content, and was positively delighted to note that her nipples hardened considerably in response to his touch.
Almost immediately she started to struggle, pushing against him wildly trying to break free. "No...!" she sobbed in between heated breaths. "Don't do this it's not want I want!" She started to whimper as he eventually pulled her skirt down and opened her legs. She begged, cried, and screamed for him to stop, but in the end her body betrayed her as her hips shamefully began moving forward to meet each of his thrusts.
***
At long last, the itch that he had had for years had finally been scratched. He didn't know what to think as she continued to lay there sobbing. Perhaps trying to compensate for something that he didn't know he felt, he wordlessly procured a wad of cash and laid it beside her. And, feeling the sudden need for cleanliness, went upstairs for a shower, half hoping that it would do him a favor and drown him. After a lengthy period he returned to the kitchen, and again found himself questioning what he once thought about reality.
"Hello, again?" he asked suspiciously, still bewildered that the woman continued to choose to remain in his house.
"Hey, it's good to have you back," she exclaimed as if nothing had happened. "After the work out you had earlier I thought you might be hungry, so I decided to make a late breakfast. I wanted to cater to all your tastes by making a little bit of everything."
Scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, roasted potatoes, buttered toast, pancakes with maple syrup - it all looked very much appealing, though at the same time he could hear a voice warning him that something was very much amiss. Helpless and wondering if it'd be the last thing he ever did, he succumbed to yet another instinctive desire. And, determined to get the last words in should it come to that, added, "well if you've decided to poison me then for the love of all that's good in the world, how I hope it's something that'll be quick and painless."
"Oh, marshal," she giggled.
In all honesty Marshal couldn't remember eating so well. "Wow it's delicious," he exclaimed as the woman beamed with delight.
"Oh Jesus, what time is it?!" he asked as if suddenly remembering something.
"No need to worry," she told him while knowing why he asked. "I was afraid you might have been burdened with an unforeseen distraction, so I took the liberty of recording the game for you."
"The game?" he asked as if not certain he heard her correctly. "Manchester City vs Real Madrid clashing together for the first time in the group of death; your mind might have been elsewhere earlier but I still thought you might want to watch it."
Marshal looked at her before answering. He seemed to consider each time what sort of woman this was to whom he spoke.
"I don't know what to say," he said at last, certain that there was some type of angle that he was missing.
"You don't have to say anything. Just sit back on the couch, watch the game and let me get you another beer."
For the first time in a what seemed like ages, marshal felt wholly satisfied as he sat back with a beer in hand and watched the match up. He imagined that the champions of Spain and England gave the bookies a bit of a nightmare, as both European power houses were some of the largest spenders in the world. Though each team contained star ridden rosters, he still fancied Real Madrid as the favorites when he considered that they were at home and that Manchester City were still relatively new to European competition. All the same, after getting almost 3 to 1 on his money, he couldn't help but place an affordable wager on a Manchester victory. With out a doubt the money made the game more interesting, as part of himself died inside when Balotelli hit the wood work twice before getting booked for a careless challenge. Then, just as he began to rage over an unjustified free kick rewarded a few yards outside the box, he heard an unknown sound that gave him a short pause. Trying to ignore it he continued to watch the game, but as the sound persisted and grew louder he was eventually forced to divert his attention elsewhere.
Tracey was crying. Initially at a loss for words, he looked back and forth between the game and the crying woman, before reluctantly turning off the TV with a grimace. For the life of him he couldn't remember the last time he tried consoling another human being.
