AllFreeNovel
Share Us
PART ONE
MISDEEDS
CHAPTER ONE
I’M MOSTLY SANE. PROMISE
Darina
Seeing things that aren’t actually there isn’t new to me, but my visions don’t tend to be as disturbinglyfilthyas the spectacle on display tonight.
Usually, my glimpses are on the boring side. I see the strangest of folk who no one else notices, no matter how noisy they are, no matter how real they seem to me. Some aren’t that different from us, other than the shine of their eyes, the shade of their skin, the sharpness of their teeth, or perhaps, the way they move. Others stand out. Dainty men and women no taller than a three-year-old but shaped like grown-ups, with hair the color of moss or fire, and skin any shade from ink black to deep green. As a child, I genuinely believed they were there, and I’d talk to them.
Sometimes, they answered. Sometimes not. A few, I’ve learned, can even pinch. They left bruises.
In my youth, I’d acknowledge those things, not understanding how they’re supposed to be any different from the old neighbor walking his dog or that beastly little minx who teased my sister. To me, they were just as real. And because I saw them, they saw me.
They touched me.
I was about twelve when I learned to stop talking about them—and hide the marks, so no one would ask me how I got them—because antipsychotics arenotfun.
I’ve always struggled with the concept of reality. After over twenty years of flirting with madness, my current definition is, “whatever other people say it is.” If someone I know exists reacts to something in front of us, it’s actually there. Otherwise, I ignore the shit out of whatever I see. It’s not as hard as it sounds, with enough practice.
It’s hard to ignore a couple screwing each other’s brains out in the alley behind the bar where we smokers inhale our poison. But they aren’treallythere, because if they were, everyone would stare. Whisper. Some pearl clutcher would definitely call the police to get them arrested for indecent exposure.
They look real. Theysoundreal—wet noises, slaps of flesh against flesh, deep grunts and high-pitched moans. The familiar stench of sex fills my nostrils, so they even smell like they’re definitely here. But no one else notices, so I don’t even bother asking Rain if she can see them.
I keep staring, though. My shrink would say I shouldn’t engage, shouldn’t let my mind wander through visions to escape the painful monotony of reality. But I’d wager if Dr. Tanner could come up with such a delightfully dirty porn track, she’d also have a hard time looking away.
My thighs clench involuntarily, and I feel my breath catch in my throat.
It’sthathot.
Who knew I had a thing for voyeurism?
The woman’s impossibly lithe, with smooth skin that seems more blue than white—another indication she’s a figment of my imagination. To my knowledge, people don’t come in shades of blue. Her hair’s silver-white, whichcouldhave been done by a decent hairdresser. But there’s no point rationalizing that she could potentially exist. I know she doesn’t.
She’s riding a tall, pale guy with dark hair. I can’t see him well from this angle, as she’s in the way. He’s half seated, half leaning on a narrow windowsill. Her shimmery, slightly translucent dress is pulled down all the way to her navel, exposing tiny, pierced tits with dangling little rings.
Jesus, I need my vibrator.
Maybe I should take Dr. Tanner up on her offer for a referral, and see someone new to try to make sense of my visions. Now that I don’t chat about non-existent people, my appointments with psychologists are strictly voluntary—no one’s making me take pills, stay in sterile rooms for weeks, or confess all the inner workings of my brain. But maybe, just maybe, I could find someone to talk to who won’t send me straight back to a psychiatric hospital. It might help. If my brain is coming up with this mess, there’s likely a reason.
Or maybe you just need to get laid, Darina,I tell myself dryly.
Sometimes, the simplest explanations make a lot of sense; what’s the point in looking further? I’m seeing porn because I’ve neglected my lady bits of late. How long has it been, six months? Maybe more. Yet the very thought of picking up some guy to satisfy my baser needs sounds…exhausting.
I like theideaof sex. In fact, I adore it. The friction, the excitement, the anticipation is a rush like no other. In practice, however, it tends to be over too soon, or last too long without bringing any real satisfaction. I’m guessing it could be amazing with the right partner, but over the last few years, I’ve grown tired of tedious one a.m. encounters. I still fuck occasionally—and then I remember why I don’t bother.
I need the kind of fucksheis getting.
Here I am, watching them again. Heat pools between my legs as I stare, yet again marveling at the strange twists and turn my brain takes to come up with images like this.
I don’t feel bad about staring. They’re too taken with their pound fest to pay any attention to little old me. Besides, they’re not really here.
“Rina?” Rain calls, tugging my wrist. She doesn’t tend to favor physical contact, so it’s likely not the first time she’s called me. “What are you seeing this time?”
Busted.
