Let Me Go

He reached for the used cloth hanging on the thin wooden arm of the rocking chair. He scrubbed his soiled hands with the cotton rug. Yes, soiled – soiled with all her filth. He was tying her hair up when she started to release the contents of her little stomach – oatmeal and raisins. The stench was tolerable but it was filthy still, just like her. But she was unforgettable so he stayed with all her gruesome glory.

“Let me go, Philip.”

The voice was calm and reserved and very much sane. These were the good days. He was sitting on the chair close to her frail body as lifeless as a scare crow. She was very ill. She reached for his arm, his hairy arm with her dainty yet bony hand with those long fingers. He almost smiled with his crooked teeth.

Her fingers seemed so fragile next to his and he wondered how long it’ll take to crush that hand of hers. He can almost hear the crispy sound of snapping bones and the rawness of a blood-curdling cry. He almost laughed with his deep, dark, voice.

On bad days, she would scratch his face as she jumped up and down from her bed. He can hear the frame of the bed creaked. He would hold her shoulders as he felt her pressed her body and rubbed herself on him.

“Let me go, Philip.”

She would scream as she pressed her filthy mouth to his ear and dip the tip of her tongue to his earlobe. He can hear her breathing. She was grinding her privates with his manhood as she closed her eyes shut, moaning and swearing.

“Fuck you, fucktard. Oh, oh, oh…”

She stopped scratching his face.

“Let me go.” She screeched.

She gripped his hair and pulled the dark strands hard. He was breathing heavily almost rhythmically along with hers. He observed her distorted face and pale cracked lips.

She looked very filthy so he looked away as she continued to rub herself on him. He watched the liquid dripping from the ceiling. The foreigners upstairs must have spilled something and ignored the dirty fluid. Drip. Drip. Tick. Tock. Drip. Drip. And then she shook. She pulled his hair harder, the fine strands brutally yanked from their roots.

Her body shook violently as if electrified then she was limp, lifeless, so he carried her body and placed her on the bed as he watched her trembling lips.

He pulled her underwear to wash her filth. As quickly as he pulled the white cotton fabric down her long legs, he was welcomed with an explosion of scents – the stench of her unwashed privates and the aroma of her feminine fluids. The colorless liquid flowed freely between her thighs.

He washed her underwear right away as he beat his manhood to satisfaction. Those were the bad days.

“Philip, please.” She whispered.

He took her hand and placed her fragile fingers close to his nostrils, no scent flared. No scent that he yearned for – just earthy musk.

But five years ago, she was different, almost perfect.