An abandoned bottle of beer stood on a table nearby, and I walked towards it, picking it up and bringing it to my lips. A hand reached out of the darkness, wrapping itself around my wrist before I could take a sip. I gave a start, my eyes travelling along the thick muscular arm, meeting deep blue eyes shining out from the darkness. Not empty. Not abandoned. The stranger stared at me, his mouth twisted in a questioning smile, and I felt an energy buzzing in the space between us. The promise of escape. Obliteration.
Standing, he stepped towards me, his eyes still locked on mine, his hand not leaving my wrist. He plucked the bottle from my hand, taking a swig before holding it to my mouth. I let him pour the cool, fizzing liquid onto my tongue, swallowing thickly. Wordlessly, he put the bottle back on the table, then took a step closer. I didn't move away as he closed the space between our bodies. He grabbed my other wrist, glancing only briefly at the blood seeping through the crisp white bandages my husband had lovingly wrapped earlier. Holding both of my wrists against my chest, he began walking me backwards until I felt the wall, hard against my spine.
For a brief moment, I felt a cold wave of terror. I shouldn't be here. I should leave. But I didn't move. His twinkling eyes fixed on mine. He lowered his head, his lips inches from my own, his breath on my skin, seeping through my parted lips, warming somehow. He sank lower, and I didn't stop him as he kissed me, hot and rough and fierce. It was so different from what I was used to I almost pulled away. But I couldn't. I wouldn't, because in that moment he was the only thing standing in the way of my empty, meaningless reality, and I needed it. I needed him.
His fingers ran down my throat, unbuttoning my dress and slipping inside the wet cotton, grazing against my bra as his tongue slipped deeper into my mouth. Beer and cigarettes. Different.
His hand slipped beneath my bra, cupping my breast.
It doesn't matter.
His other reached beneath my skirt, fingertips running up my thigh, pushing aside my underwear.
It doesn't matter.
His breath was on my neck. I felt the hardness of him pushing against me and I knew I should stop him, but still I said nothing. I wanted him to keep going. I wanted to feel him push inside me, to have him fill the gaping, hollow darkness that had consumed me completely. I felt as though I had been opened up, scooped out and discarded. I couldn't stand it. He paused for a second, pulling back a little, his eyes on mine as if to ask, “Is this okay?”
This was my chance to say no. No it's not okay. I'm a wife, I'm a mother. Of course it's not okay! Only I was none of those things now. Roxanne Bowen was dead. I was just the empty shell that was left. So I said nothing. Instead, I lifted my foot, placing it flat against the wall, spreading my knees wide as I opened myself to him. And then, it was too late. His lips found my throat, and he was thrusting into me, hard and full and fast. And I was right. It was exactly what I needed. I rocked my hips, taking him deeper, letting myself be carried away. But it was different. It was too different. He smelled all wrong, our bodies didn't mesh like they should. He wasn't Lucas.
I can't do this.
He ground his body against mine, and rather than the pleasure I needed, the distraction to numb my pain, the emptiness inside me was growing somehow, bigger than before, threatening to swallow me up from the inside out.
What am I doing?
His body pushed against mine and I could smell the cheap aftershave on his neck.
I can't bear it.
His hands came to my bottom, lifting me higher, grunting as he slid deeper.
I have to stop him.
He freed my breast, his tongue circling my nipple, teeth grazing against my skin. My mind flew to Oscar, suckling softly, seeking the warm milk I had made just for him and I felt a spasm of utter repulsion at what I was doing.
I have to get him out of me!
Suddenly I was screaming and thrashing, pushing against him. I swiped my nails across his cheek and saw blood well up, three long wounds marking his skin. Stunned, he stumbled back, hands up in surrender, cock still swinging from side to side. Disgusted, I pushed past him, yanking my dress down, fumbling with my buttons. Back through the ocean of sweating, throbbing bodies. They groped and grabbed, rubbing against me as I passed, calling to me. I hated them all. I needed to get out. I needed air. I couldn't stand it! Finally I broke through the double doors, past the cackling girls and burly bouncers, and I ran. I ran as if I could escape myself, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't seem to get away.
Chapter Twenty
About a mile from the club, I could run no more. My legs gave out and I fell to my knees, the hard wet tarmac sending tremors of pain through my bones. I wiped a wet, gravel smeared hand across my forehead, sweeping my hair back from my face before vomiting the entire contents of my stomach onto the pavement. I paused for a minute, breathing hard, before climbing up onto shaky legs, bracing myself against a lamppost.
What am I doing? What did I just do? That wasn't me. I don't know who that woman was, but it wasn't me! Tears were streaming down my face and I wiped the wet fabric of my dress ineffectively across my cheeks, looking around at my surroundings. I felt utterly lost. Where had I run to? I didn't recognise a thing. I had no idea where I was, and I didn't care. I didn't want to be found anyway.
Across the road, the bright lights of a Tesco superstore shone welcomingly in the darkness. I walked blindly towards it, feeling a burst of determination. I stepped through the automatic doors, head down, relieved to find that nobody tried to greet me. Here, I was anonymous. I liked that.
My body seemed to know what I was looking for before my brain caught up. My legs carried me towards the alcohol aisle. Row upon row of neat, colourful bottles. Wine... beer. And the spirits. My fingers wrapped around the neck of a bottle and I smiled as the weight of it swung into my hand. Jack Daniels. I had never been a whisky drinker. I'd always preferred gin, or wine. But in this moment, the thick glass bottle was what I needed more than anything else.
Cradling it to my chest I quickly paid, not waiting for my change. I held the bottle tightly, as if afraid someone might take it from me, heading for the door and walking back outside into the darkness. The streets were quiet now, a fine drizzle misting the air, chilling me to the bone. I walked with purpose looking at signs, following a well trodden route down to the river. I stumbled down the sloped grassy verge, the mud sliding beneath my feet, and continued along the tree lined tow path.
The moon was barely visible behind the thick clouds, and the path was unlit. I reflected how I would usually be terrified walking in such a vulnerable situation. Any other day I wouldn't dream of being so reckless. But this wasn't any other day. If I slipped and fell, it wouldn't make a difference. If those looming shadows the trees and bushes were casting across the path turned out to be a serial killer, I would simply thank him for speeding up my departure.
It wasn't that I was fearless. No, in fact I felt a constant pulsing terror at what was coming, what I was leaving behind. But beyond the fear, there was one presiding element. Coating me, sheltering me within it's cold clammy grasp. Numbness. I was sure it must be a self protective measure. If I remained numb, I wouldn't have to face the reality. If I was numb, I could avoid the burning, unfiltered agony simmering just beneath the surface.