Remix: G Is For Gravity

It was his fault: it was her brother’s fault — him and his stupid talk of revenge, his stupid argument. If it wasn’t for him her son would still be alive: her beautiful son. Nothing he could do would bring him back — and what did he do after they had laid her son to rest in the ground? He talked of revenge. When the police had asked him whether or not he had seen the car that killed his nephew he had told them no — she knew that he was lying. She had asked him how the hell he was going to track someone down and kill them if he didn’t have any information on them? He had just stood there and stared at her, brazen and unashamed of his stupid fucking macho attitude. She wanted justice, she wanted the man who had killed her boy and then driven off and she just didn’t trust F to get the job done. He had talked for so long about his big plan to do something to the people who owned that stupid fucking bar and thus far nothing had materialised. How long did it take to set up a beating? F was incompetent — it stood for fucking useless as far as she was concerned. She had loved her brother; she would have done anything for him; things had changed. She hated the idiotic motherfucker — hated him.
She had tried to stay in the house that night but it just wasn’t going to work — every single thing in that place reminded her of her dead son; it was as if the place was haunted and it tore her heart out of her chest every single time his face appeared before her floating in the chemistry of memory. G had a friend with a flat that he wasn’t using and she thought that if there was any time to call in favours and any time when they were likely to be granted to her it was now. Sure enough when she called Marcos he even offered to drive the keys over for her. She explained that she needed some down time — some time away from other people, and could he guarantee that no one would bother her there? He said he could. He said she wouldn’t see a living soul.
She sat there that first night in the flat and it was no better — sure, there weren’t as many touchstones she could brush against that would stir up images of Farrell but she didn’t need them when the only thing that she could think of was how lonely and isolated she was. Staring at the four walls of a place that was not her own somehow felt worse and she had no one that she could call. Whenever she had felt like this in the past she had called F but that was an option that she no longer felt was open to her. Every night had been the same — that slow settling of a weight on her.
She needed people and she needed to forget and the Hollow Men was just down the road; she’d been in there before and it seemed like an ok place. She dolled herself up, not wanting to look like shit even when she felt it, and she got ready to go get drunk. Everyone knew her and everyone knew what had happened to her. She could get drunk and she was going to be safe — they would keep an eye out for her: that was what each of them had decided privately. They watched her as she downed drink after drink and laughed hollowly and smiled with her mouth but not her eyes. They saw that something was broken in her — saw that she was looking for something to fill the vacuum Farrell had left.
The man that she started making eyes at had been pegged as bad news the moment that he walked into the bar — he had an aura that was so sharp it cut through the bluntest sensibilities in the room to make their hackles rise. Why his vibe had a different effect on her she wouldn’t have been able to say — she didn’t think that it was the drink that did it; she just felt that she had some connection with the man.
She did not think of him as the black hole that he was — she did not feel the light of her life being dragged into the propensity that was his stormy centre — did not feel her future bending and distorting as it was dragged over the ragged lip of his event horizon. There was something extremely vital about him, and it was not as if she couldn’t recognise that sick energy that suffused the spirits of the living dead; she had lived with so many corpses that faked their lives as they passed on their disease. No, she was compelled to move towards him, compelled by his apparent distance and the intensity of the disdain he appeared to have for others.
He seemed possessed by a similar momentum — a momentum that tangled up their onward paths and in a very short space of time had her leading him out of the pub and back to the place where she was staying. Did she want sex? She wasn’t sure — her head was fuzzy; god she had drunk a lot. She was stumbling a bit and feeling a bit drowsy. Not a good idea to drag this man out here this far and then not deliver — then it struck her what a stupid fucking thought that was: she didn’t owe him anything. If she got there an she decided she didn’t want him to come up then that was that. And then they were there.
Fuck it, she thought, why not? He supported her as they made their way up the stairs. She tried to talk to him but he seemed uninterested — there was no opening gambit that she tried which got much more than a grunt or a yes and no if she was lucky. She didn’t care so much — they hadn’t come here to talk. Talking was doing her no good.
When he kissed her it was perfunctory — a step in the process of getting in her pants. She didn’t feel good. She could feel herself growing drowsy and she started to protest — that was when he started to tear at her clothes. He forced his fingers inside her and then he stuck his cock in and began to pound at her. The force with which he fucked her knocked the breath out of her, she bit her lip, tried to speak and tell him to stop but he seemed unbothered — seemed unable to grasp her pain. Why had she let herself in for this. She felt sick, her head throbbed, and then G passed out.