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From: DevoSpudC <cwilson9@ix.netcom.com>
Subject: Celestial RP 9,10,10 "Emptiness" (f/m, n/c, dark)
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EMPTINESS


   My mask runs down my face like blood, turning my
Prize Winning Looks into a streaked and muddy mess.
I walk blindly, the steady rain mixing with tears
and makeup and dripping down my cheeks. I don’t
know how long I’ve been walking like this, but I
know it’s not long enough. I have to get farther
away.
   My heels click loudly on the wet pavement. I
kick them off my feet. They fly off into the night,
disappearing as I want to disappear; quickly;
quietly; without feeling. I keep walking.
   The asphalt is cold and hurts my feet. It feels
harsh. Real. Liberating. Nothing shields me from
it. The pavement is there, and I must accept it and
deal with it. Someone has always tried to shield me
from the reality of life. Not any more.
   It’s late, and all of the stores are closed. I
pass by a large glass window and see myself
reflected in it. The yellow  glow from the dim
streetlamps turns my skin a sickly color, and my
face is that of a mannequin, mascara-streaked and
lifeless.
   "Look at you," my mother’s voice speaks in my
mind. It is then that I know I have gone insane.
"You’ve let yourself get dirty, you stupid girl."
Her voice is thin and reedy with disappointment,
just as it always has been.
   "Your pretty white dress is ruined."  She
continues, indifferent to the fact that she’s
been dead for two years.
    "Honestly, Erika. How do you expect to get
anywhere in the world if you don’t look your best?
Where would you get in life looking like that, like
dirty white trash..."
   "Shut up, mom," I whisper. My voice is weak,
empty, like the hollow nothing that screams inside
my chest. I can see her face. Her thin lips twisted
into a perpetual frown. I can only remember her
smiling once, after I had won my first beauty
pageant when I was eleven.
   "Well, you never were smart enough to take care
of yourself," my mother chides. "What did you do
without me to take care of you? Ran off from that
nice boy Keith, and got yourself knocked up by some
no-account, greasy garage mechanic who gets himself
killed by some lunatic. And then you don’t even
have enough sense to come in out of the rain."
   "Shut up!" I take the sleeve of my five-hundred
dollar dress and rip it up to the shoulder. It
feels good. I tear the other side, ripping the
sleeve down all the way. I feel like laughing, but
all I can do is make choking noises in my throat.
Just like my real mother, she said the one thing
that would hurt me the most.
   Mark. Oh God, Mark was dead.
   It was a thought so horrible that my mind
couldn’t hold on to it. It kept slipping away like
blood in a rainstorm, leaving only a terrible
emptiness in the core off my being where he had
once been.
   "What would I have done without you, mom?" I
choke into the darkness. "I’d have grown up. I
would’ve known what an asshole Keith was. I’d have
known that he was just going to use me and throw me
away. You always taught me to stand up straight and
be pretty. Pose and smile and keep the checks
coming in, right mom?"
   My voice turns hoarse, but I keep on, saying all
the things that I’ve never said but have always
wanted to say.
   "You were happy that I was a producer’s girl-
friend. It meant more breaks for your little girl,
your little breadwinner!" I continue to tear my
dress until I can squirm out of it. I twirl it to
the ground, then stomp on it. I trample it barefoot
into the muddy street. Keith bought it for me, in
a small but expensive shop in Beverly Hills. It
had been my favorite dress, but that was back when
I thought I knew who I was; a pretty girl with a
storybook life and a promising career. Now I’m an
insane empty shell standing half-naked somewhere in
downtown LA, probably moments away from being raped
or shot or forgotten. And the really funny thing
is, I don’t care.
   I fall to my knees on the curb. Keith flashes
by, all dark eyes, tan, and polish. "God, Erika,"
he says.  "What happened to you?  You look like a
whore."
   Fresh anger bursts out of me from a place I
never knew existed. "That’s all you wanted, isn’t
it?" I say to the air in front of me. "A whore to
fuck and lie to and look good in public with?"
   My voice was steady now, level. "Is that why
you kicked me out of your life when I stopped
modeling? I’d even started to love you. I was
stupid and I loved you. And you couldn’t even
treat me like a human being. Go away! I hate you!
You and mother both!"
   It suddenly fell silent. I could hear the
patter of the rain on the sidewalk, and I realize
8that my butt is wet and freezing from sitting on
the curb. I had been shivering all over, but now I
stopped. I feel each individual raindrop strike me
and trickle down in my hair or on my skin. It was
as if a dirty window had shattered inside me,
letting me look out clearly for the first time.
   "Hey, lady. You all right?" I don’t need to look
to see where the voice comes from. It came from a
young man who’d stopped to help me when my car
broke down on the freeway, a simple, honest man
who’d been the only good thing that had ever
happened to me.
   Mark.
   He is there, standing next to me on the curb. I
try to touch him, and I break a nail on the lamp-
post. I want to cry, but my eyes can no longer form
tears. We were going to be married. I am three
weeks along with his child. He can’t be dead.
   Then, it comes back to me in a rush, feeling
like a cold knife being twisted in my gut. I shiver
and sob as I see Mark smiling pleasantly at me
across the table. He wants to get the waiter’s
attention because our wineglasses are nearly empty.
He lifts his hand to signal, and I hear the screech
of tires and see the flash of headlights as a car
turns and speeds by. I don’t even associate the
popping, chattering sounds with gunfire until I
hear the screams and see Mark moving, sliding over
the table to push me down on the floor. He falls
on top of me, and at first I think the dark liquid
dribbling on my face is wine, until some trickles
into my mouth.
   "Mark!" I scream to the rain, hugging myself in
agony. I’d run away. I’d looked up at what was left
of his face and just pushed him off and ran. I
don’t even remember if anyone tried to stop me.
I ran away and left him there in the remnants of
our veal parmesan and fettucine, and suddenly I
want to die.
   I get up, shivering, then turn and slam my fist
into the window. It only cracks, cutting myknuckles,
but the pain is a feeling, a good feeling. I scream
and hammer at it with both hands until it shatters.
I catch a glint of light from the ground and I 
freeze, staring down at a long shard of glass.  It
reflects my face back at me; its edge streaked with
my blood. It seems to call to me; to promise an end
to my darkness.
   I bend and pick it up, then touch it to my left
wrist. It feels cold, like a corpse’s kiss. Mark’s
kiss. I snarl at the thought and draw the glass
across my wrist. It cuts like a razor, the pain
slicing through the emptiness and into the small
part of me that is still alive. My mind goes
suddenly clear, clear and cold like polished ice.
   I look at my blood pulsing out of my arm. I look
at the glass. I know now that it has tricked me. 
It whispered to me of release, but its sharp lies
only lead to a deeper blackness, one that would
never end. I throw it down and it shatters, its
cold promise broken. I clench my right hand around
my wrist. It is slippery and sticky. My life is
draining out of me, despite the cold, despite the
rain. Not just my life, I realize, but my child’s.
Mark’s child. But that already seems so far away,
like some half-remembered dream.
   I walk down the street, feeling colder with
every step. I can't be dying this fast, can I? I
shiver violently. My blood trickles down my hand
and to the street, dripping into the rain and
washing away, pouring out and vanishing like
everything I’ve ever cared for.
   There are headlights coming, headlights that are
already slowing as I step into the street and wave
my arms, not caring that I am dressed only in a
rain-soaked Natural-Fit bra and a pair of black
silk panties. The car stops, and I stumble around
to the driver’s side as a man starts to open the
door. I hug my arms to my chest, shivering.
   "Please help me," I say.  "I-- I’m in trouble."
   He looks at me for a second, no, looks me *over*
for a second.
   "All right, get in," he says. I hesitate, but I
really don’t have a choice. I quickly walk around
and yank open the passenger door and collapse in
the seat, barely able to shut the door as he starts
driving.
   "Jesus," he says, noticing me bleeding on his
upholstery. He fumbles around under his seat and
comes up with an oily towel. "Wrap this around it,"
he tells me, draping it on my arm. "What happened
to you?"
   I almost laugh. I don’t know where to start. "I
got a little upset," I finally say. I look over at
him, seeing a thirtyish man with brown hair and a
stubbly face, plain features, slightly overweight,
with dark eyes that keep looking straight ahead,
seeming to ignore me. Suddenly, belatedly, I begin
to feel afraid.
   "Where are you taking me?" I ask, my voice
trembling. The car is warm, but I am still
freezing.
   "Home. My place." He looks over at me
curiously, as if to say 'Where else would I take you?'
   "Let me out." I grip the door handle tightly. He
frowns and keeps driving. "Let me out!" I scream,
suddenly near panic.
   He slaps me; a light backhand that barely
stings. I look at him in shock, my mouth hanging
open. No one has ever slapped me before, not even
my mother. 
   "You’re in trouble, right?"  He says quietly.
"I’m taking you somewhere safe."
   I sit there and feel nothing. My life has
crumbled away before my very eyes, leaving nothing
of me that I recognize. I am not afraid, even as
he runs stop signs and red lights, never stopping,
never slowing too much, never allowing me a chance
to jump out. I am still calm when he pulls up in
the parking lot of an apartment complex and takes
me by my bloody arm, pulling me bodily out of the
car and tugging me along the sidewalk and up the
stairs like some disobedient child.
   He holds me firmly as he unlocks the door of the
apartment, then leads me inside. I am too weak, too
numb to resist. He pushes me into the bathroom and
sits me down on the toilet, then fetches a shirt
from the other room and tears it into strips. He
takes off the oily rag and bandages my wrist and
knuckles tightly. I'm not bleeding as much now,
though I still shake like a leaf. He cleans my
hands and arms with a warm washcloth, then dabs at
my face.
   He’s trying to pretty me up, I think blankly. He
looks at me for a moment before leaving and coming
back with a soft terrycloth bathrobe, which he
drapes around my shoulders.  Then he gently pulls
me to my feet and takes me into the living room.
   He sits on the couch and pulls me down on his
lap. I try weakly to squirm away, but he locks his
arms around my waist and holds me there tightly.
   That’s all he does. He just holds me there,
letting the warmth of his body soak into me. I let
my head fall against his chest. Despite his
strangeness, I feel much like I did when I was a
girl and my father would hold me on his lap to
comfort me. As I begin to warm up, some of the ice
that had formed inside me begins to melt, and I
cry softly against this stranger’s chest. Later he
might rape me; he might kill me. But right now he
was my father, whose shoulder I had cried on a
hundred times, and now I would do it once more
before the darkness swallows me.
   As my tears begin to slow, I look around
blearily. The living room is cluttered but not
dirty, and lacks any traces of a feminine touch.
He is alone, like I am now. I almost feel sorry for
him, but I am still too numb inside to feel much of
anything.
   "What’s your name?" He suddenly asks. His voice
is calm. Soothing.
   "Erika," I answer into his chest. "Who’re you?"
   "Carl. Are you hungry?"
   I am surprised to realize that I am, but then I
remember that Mark will never eat again. Or laugh
again. Or make love to me again. I feel sick. I
shut it off, I shut Mark off. I have to. It hurts
too much.
   I nod. He slowly slides out from under me and
walks to the kitchen. I wonder why he is doing
this.  He is helping me, probably even saving my
life, but I still can’t trust him. People just
don’t get involved with other people’s problems,
not unless they want something. Especially
bleeding strangers that appear in the rain.
   As he moves around the kitchen, I take a closer
look around.I am sitting on a long, soft, light
beige colored sofa, which lists slightly to the
front and left, probably from a broken foot. In
front of the sofa is a wide and solid-looking oak
coffee table and five feet past that is a medium-
sized television sitting on an imitation mahogany
book shelf, along with a compact stereo system.
The TV remote sits on the coffee table, along with
a stack of various magazines and one brown plastic
coaster. A tall fluorescent lamp stands next to the
shelf, illuminating the room with a soft yellow-
white glow.
   My senses somehow seem clearer; sharpener than
they’ve ever been. I can smell the faint odor of
spilled coffee on the cushion I sit on. I can hear
the soft murmur of a television set in the
apartment below. It is Jay Leno, making yet another
tired joke about President Clinton. I let my eyes
rove. The books on the shelf are mostly fiction,
with a large variety of sci-fi, fantasy, and
horror. Stephen King seems to be a favorite, along
with Edgar Allen Poe, Arthur C. Clarke, and Isaac
Asimov. My host seemed to be a well-read person, at
least.
   He returns in a few minutes with a cup of hot
soup. He gives it to me, and I thank him and hold
it between my hands, the warmth helping to steady
them. I am no longer shivering, though I feel like
a character in a Poe novel, perceptions twisting
and being driven to madness by the chaos of life.
Carl sits next to me--not too close--and turns on
the television.  He flips channels, stopping on
MTV. Gwen Stephani dances around on the screen like
Madonna, but Carl’s attention is on me.  I look at
him, the lyrics seeming very loud in my ears.
‘Excuse me, mister, you’ve got me all wrong.’
   Feeling nervous with his eyes on me, I take a 
sip from the cup. It is plain chicken broth, still
rather hot, but it tastes wonderful. I drink it
down quickly, burning my mouth a little. The heat
spreads down my throat and stomach out into my
body.
   "Feeling better?" He asks after a minute.
   "Yes, thank you." I did feel much better. 
Almost alive.
   "Why did you do that to yourself?" He asks,
indicating my wrist with his eyes.
   I don’t answer for a moment.  "I ... I lost
someone today. My fiancee.  He was... killed." I
feel the tears starting again. 
   "I’m very sorry," he says, looking at me with a
sympathetic expression. I look back down at my
empty cup. "Would you like more?"
   I nod, and he takes the cup and refills it. I 
sip at the warm broth, still feeling weak, but
stronger than I was.
   "What do you do?" He asks tentatively. "Are you
a model?"
   "I was," I answer tonelessly. "I don’t know what
I am now."
   "You’re very beautiful." He leans closer,
putting his arm around me and squeezing me gently.
I don’t protest. I know what’s coming, but I won’t
fight him. I don’t have the strength, or the anger.
   He takes my hand and kisses it. "I won’t hurt
you," he says as I look at him. "I just want to
make love to you." In a strange way, I feel
relieved. I believe him. He doesn’t want pain or
violence; he just wants to use me. I’ve been used
before, though not so blatantly. I think I can deal
with it.
   I say nothing as he stands, then pulls me to my
feet and guides me to his bedroom. There is no
fear in me; no desire; no anger. Only resignation.
I am powerless in this, just as I was powerless to
stop Mark from being murdered.
   He steadies me with an arm around my waist as he
slides the robe off my shoulders, then lowers his
head to kiss my neck. His lips are warm. He reaches
around and unclasps my bra. He pulls it off and
cups my breasts in his large hands. His hands are
also warm, and cover my small breasts completely.
He slowly removes his hands, then bends slightly to
take a nipple into his mouth. It hardens as he
sucks at it. It feels pleasant, but that’s all.
   He nurses at my breast for a few minutes before
switching to the other and slowly sliding down my
rain-soaked panties.  He seems to want to take his
time.  He slides my underwear down around my feet
and runs his hands up my legs to caress my ass.
His breathing is heavy and shuddering.
   Standing, he gently pushes me down on the bed so
that I’m lying on my stomach. I look back to see
him drop to his knees behind me, then lean forward.
I feel his mouth on my butt, kissing over the
cheeks and down the cleft between them. I feel his
tongue on my asshole. It feels nasty. It feels
good. I grit my teeth, trying to fight the
conflicting sensations. He slides his tongue down
and over my slit, coating it with his saliva. At
first I think that he just wants the added
lubrication, but he keeps tonguing me, kissing and
sucking at my pussy until it begins to awaken;
despite my numbness; despite my lack of desire.
   I feel him searching for my clitoris, and as the
heat grows between my legs, it emerges for him to
find. He sucks and nips at it with his lips, and I
lie there helplessly as I feel a orgasm being drawn
slowly out of me. In a short while, I climax
silently and emotionlessly on the bed, the only
sound is the rasp of his breathing and the wet
sucking noises of his mouth.
   He moves behind me, then I feel the pressure of
something warm and blunt at the entrance to my
vagina. It slides in slowly without pain, just
filling me steadily until I feel it nudging the
entrance to my womb. He groans as his penis
bottoms out. I can feel his crinkly pubic hair
against my ass, and his testicles brushing against
the skin over my clit. He stays there for a long
while, and I feel my insides molding themselves
around him, my pussy clamping itself snugly onto
his penis. It seems to want him. I don’t, though
the sensation of his intrusion is like the pain of
the glass window. It takes my mind away from the
other feeling, the other pain, the one that has
stolen my soul.
   Slowly, he begins to pump his hips, driving
himself in and out of me with long strokes. I lie
there like a cheap whore, motionless and silent as
he humps me eagerly. I turn my face away from him
and he stops, pulling out of me gradually until I
hear a wet sound as his penis pops free. He gently
turns me over on my back, so he can see my face
again.  He grabs me around the hips as he slides
back in.
   It’s not me he’s fucking. Its my face.
   After a minute, he begins to pump faster, and he
grunts as I feel his penis swell and send a hot jet
of semen into me. He groans and rocks his hips,
trembling as he ejaculates heavily in my body. At
least I don't have to worry about getting pregnant.
   He stays there between my legs, his penis
beginning to soften in my vagina as he kisses my
neck and breasts. After a while he pulls out and
cleans me up with a washcloth. For a rapist, he
seemed very considerate, even passionate. I
wondered how long it had been since he’d had a
woman, willing or not.
   I crawl tiredly under the sheets, and he joins
me, quietly whispering how good I was. A little
while later, with the lights still on, he fucks me
again, this time for almost ten minutes before
he comes.  I lie there with my eyes tightly closed,
wanting only to sleep. He finishes and turns out
the lights, then snuggles up to me under the
sheets, holding me like I was his girlfriend. For
tonight at least I suppose I was, and somehow that
brought me a small measure of comfort.

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