The overused and over sized mug that made her think of having breakfast in
She was as faraway from her body at this moment as she could be, however- sick, at home, her throat swollen up and raw as if she had swallowed a giant cock for over a week’s time (the kind of the size that just wasn’t fun anymore), and not in the usual fashion – just parked there, in the back of her throat, seemingly never to leave. She couldn’t even say “ahhhhhh”. Due to this illness, the giant coffee mug was filled not with coffee, but Sweet with tea, the dark Irish sort she was addicted to, along with some sweet honey and cloves. Her belly, full up with thoughts of swimming trunks and summer lights strewn across green, moist, leafy trees……barefoot, and feeling every tiny knot of the dirt and its ground creeping up around her steps, wasn’t strong enough to even take her usual infusion of bourbon into the tea she drank, though she thought something as manly as that might please the cock in her throat to take a walk, just for a little while, or find someplace more pleasing to go. She sat there, in the late afternoon blister of orange light that would simply come upon her in an instant, casting its paint across her equally burnt orange walls, forming shadows and shapes that sulked across her home, i.e. sanitarium as sluggish as the actions of oncoming Winter.
This late day sun actually warmed her face, her brain caught even more so inside the thick skin of her hair and head, in that manner which mainly takes place under the duress of illness. Glassy eyes, bloodshot, a slow step and absolutely no want or feeling about anything. Just that the sick left her. The silent stillness of the moment sat completely right with her, however. The year was winding down, and her body had simply turned itself on its head, forcing her into this. She had to be forced into most things, but once she lifted off, there was no stopping her. Zero to a million. This was especially true of the lasciviousness of her nature. More then often to the shock of the co-participants. You didn’t see her coming; well, that wasn’t true exactly. You heard her, which she was also known to blithely apologize for later on. Again, other than being sure she took note of herself and her actions, and let you know that she did, she was light as a feather, above and beyond the realms of shame and regret. It was quite beautiful to see, reflected back, or so she was also told, usually when her short, but dexterous fingernails did their work, up and down nape of neck, hairline and back.
She now gently ran her fingernails backward over a small, red scratch on her forearm, forcing it ever so slightly to bleed in one minuscule, round corner. She loved to pick scabs since she was a little girl, climbing in trees, planting and picking flower formations and fashioning secret symbols out of the chalk from stones on the pavement just around her mother’s clothesline. She fell down a lot, and was always a quick bruiser. She never minded, though; as long as it didn’t hurt it was just fine. The consuming of alcohol, especially wine, had only added to her so called “klutz” factor. Whenever her hip or knee would catch something, she enjoyed using the line “I don’t know where I end and the <insert klutz inducing object> begins”. It was Always the object’s fault, as well (Always). Whatever anger, Mediterranean passion and old-world rage she held fast to, rarely had to do with other people, but most often objects and their not cooperating as she needed them to. Terrible phrases would emit from her mouth having to do with whores, rape and motherfuckers. If they only knew what they had in store for them had they been able to talk back, well, then maybe her misplaced rage would have a proper outlet. Nothing emitted from her now mute mouth, throat cocked closed as she wet the tip of her finger and repeatedly smoothed over the droplet of blood which was just enough to need tending; her minor self mutilation (and the limit of it – she never understood those types. Hurting themselves so they feel alive…much better ways to experience that, she felt) having reached its peak in her sullen boredom. She licked the blood off, the rusty sweet taste on her tongue was a pleasant change to the bland, senseless lack of anything. The orange light dying and shining shyly on her little wound made her blissful as she tried to swallow in vain, again and again. She sat back on her easy chair (more of a loveseat, or somewhere in between) without formality, with one leg stretched over the arm of the chair, and one tucked beneath her thigh. It gave her some kind of gentile, flirtatious equilibrium.
Her father had fallen asleep in this easy chair, and started his dying there, in a somber instant. After a day of working around the house, projects started but not quite finished, his decades of hard work and fire movement encircling his heart like a band of slaves, needing to put the master down, so they could finally be free. She knew her father had completely expected it; and yet didn’t at all, or so his face told her mother when he awoke for a moment, grabbed his head and fell back again, into the gaudy mauve fabric of the chair (her mother’s choice), strongly rooted on the floorboards of the last house that he would build up from nothing, from blueprints and the never-ending construction of his imagination. She often sat here, in these moments and brought herself back again to the place of leaving, when he woke up from his manufactured hospital sleep to say goodbye to her, the last of his fire warming his hands in hers, his smile apparent, his brown eyes tearing, holding her with a force so much greater than that of a dying, old man. When she found herself back there, she would cry for the briefest of moments, or simply sigh in the belly of the feeling, and let it go, remembering all the love he afforded her, and the most treasured prize: the natural and passionate ability to be herself in all of her darkness, godliness and golden glory. Like being dropped in the center of the maze, and you have to imagine yourself a way out. There is no such thing as cheating – you can draw a map, lift yourself far above the aisles and see the pathways, or take the hand of a guide. Once you could imagine your way out, it didn’t seem quite so fear inducing. Once the fear of her father leaving her in this life, had, with a kiss and a squeeze of his hand in earnest goodbye and thanks, dropped her there in that maze, it was as if nothing could ever scare her again. Of this she was most settled, and thankful. There were parts of her, which he couldn’t even account for, but she was meeting them head on with open eyes and a heart worth hitting the trails with. She did feel, though, that she held less love in her same roadside heart than before. That she felt was unchangeable. But at this rate, she couldn’t imagine being healthy, energetic and not cock throated again, so maybe the fast moving sunset had more in store for her than she could ever imagine. She was willing to live with that loss of control, and her feelings simply warmed to it, as she enjoyed the paternal comfort of the ugly mauve easy chair with the floral pillows. Her father had earned his rest in this chair; and she had earned hers here today. She thought about re-upholstering it, so she wouldn’t have to see it in the very same and direct way, the mauve colour scheme of her mother’s last couch set with him, and she didn’t have to, as she did now, cover it with brown throws tucked neatly and tightly into the folds, the orange top throw too small to not get messed up by the chair’s recipient ass, no matter its size, shape or ability. No matter how hard she tried to cover it up neatly thus, the mauve bottoms or corners peeked out, and let themselves be known when she’s least expected it. She didn’t have the money to re-upholster the chair really, but she didn’t want to let it go. It was a good chair, and seemed to belong in the center of her home.
After trying to lazily re-tuck the throw just under her ass to hide its messy folds, she licked her little cut once more, and picked up the slim, coloured shot glass of her family moonshine, which she often poured on approaching winter nights such as these (or mornings, or afternoons) alongside whatever other beverage she was working on at the moment. She sipped her moonshine, letting its lively texture cascade in sumptuous, romantic skips down her tender throat. If anything would burn away the deep, sharp caverns of her poor, overly seduced throat, the moonshine would. It had always worked for her Daddy.
