Read Online Complicated: A Tainted Love Novella by Ghiselle St. James - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ghiselle St. James
Tags: Tainted Love
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mere words.
I hate hearing Marshall cry, but I can’t stop my own tears either as the reality of the situation sinks in. It’s been two days and no Delilah. The tears we all cry now are tears of desperation. We miss her, we’re scared, and we’re helpless but not hopeless. We need some good fortune, a shift in the atmosphere or something. We cry because we need our girl back; and as time slips by, so does she.
As a child, my father would always tell me that a crying man was a weak man. My mother would tell me that a crying woman was a fool. Both of them detested emotional displays due to their collagen-injected demeanor. Everything was always plastic with them. Fake. Stepford. I never did quite fit into their plastic bubble and I’m glad I never did.
When I was five, I fell off my bike and scraped my knee. I went crying to my mother who had been drinking in the sitting room and flipping through a Cosmo. I’d thought for sure she would have scooped me in her arms and tended to my wounds, but as soon as I neared her, she shrieked and plucked me by the collar and moved me away from her. She called one of my many nannies, Bernadette, to take care of the “situation”.
As we stepped out to the foyer, I saw my father and I shook out of Bernie’s arms and bounded to him. When he saw the tears streaming down my face, he stooped and became eye level with me. I thought I saw a smile, but I was proven wrong when he said, “Crying is for wimps, Rachel. Stop your sniveling and patch yourself up.”
I stopped crying immediately. Bernie took me to the kitchen, cleaned my cuts, dried my tears and gave me ice cream before kissing me on the head. That evening, I swore that I would never cry again and I didn’t. It wasn’t until I met Delilah that I started feeling again. I know I should create some distance between Marshall and me, but I can’t help myself.
My feet carry me out of the emotional safety of my bedroom, and closer and closer to the sobbing man. As if his despair calls out to me. I step into Delilah’s room and a grand sense of loss, coupled with the broken man hanging his head low, causes my knees to buckle. Like calls to like, and Marshall’s broken heart calls to my own. I want to give him something to take his mind – our mind – off of our mutual loss. It’s selfish of me, knowing this will never be anything more than our bodies connecting, but I begin to strip out of my clothes, pulling my blouse over my head.
Marshall hears the shuffling and his head snaps up from its prone position and pools of sorrow greet me. It halts my movements, my blouse dangling from my fingertips, as we silently communicate with our eyes, blue locked on brown.
“What are you doing, Rachel?”
“I’m making us both feel something other than despair.”
“Rachel…”
“No, no more talking.”
I step toward him, my movements slow, but determined. Stopping in front of him, I pause, allowing him to make the next move; to show me if he wants this too. My rapidly pulsing heart lurches to my throat when his hand makes contact with my hip and he pulls me into him. His other hand snakes up my leg until he reaches my hip, where he grips me tightly and buries his tear-stained face into my stomach.
For a moment, a frisson of panic rises, until I remember that there is no baby there and he didn’t know that there had ever been one. Panic morphs into relief and relief morphs into desire as Marshall nips the skin of my waist. I shiver from the contact, my fingers finding their way into his hair. The soft tresses are like a calm to my raging heartbeat, but the feel of his warm wet tongue on my skin also sets me ablaze.
A feverish moan leaves my lips and I grip his hair tighter, trying to hang on, as my legs begin to shake from the overload of pleasure from his simple touches alone. He pops the button on my jeans and slides the zipper down before pulling them down. Marshall looks up at me, all traces of sadness gone, now replaced
I hate hearing Marshall cry, but I can’t stop my own tears either as the reality of the situation sinks in. It’s been two days and no Delilah. The tears we all cry now are tears of desperation. We miss her, we’re scared, and we’re helpless but not hopeless. We need some good fortune, a shift in the atmosphere or something. We cry because we need our girl back; and as time slips by, so does she.
As a child, my father would always tell me that a crying man was a weak man. My mother would tell me that a crying woman was a fool. Both of them detested emotional displays due to their collagen-injected demeanor. Everything was always plastic with them. Fake. Stepford. I never did quite fit into their plastic bubble and I’m glad I never did.
When I was five, I fell off my bike and scraped my knee. I went crying to my mother who had been drinking in the sitting room and flipping through a Cosmo. I’d thought for sure she would have scooped me in her arms and tended to my wounds, but as soon as I neared her, she shrieked and plucked me by the collar and moved me away from her. She called one of my many nannies, Bernadette, to take care of the “situation”.
As we stepped out to the foyer, I saw my father and I shook out of Bernie’s arms and bounded to him. When he saw the tears streaming down my face, he stooped and became eye level with me. I thought I saw a smile, but I was proven wrong when he said, “Crying is for wimps, Rachel. Stop your sniveling and patch yourself up.”
I stopped crying immediately. Bernie took me to the kitchen, cleaned my cuts, dried my tears and gave me ice cream before kissing me on the head. That evening, I swore that I would never cry again and I didn’t. It wasn’t until I met Delilah that I started feeling again. I know I should create some distance between Marshall and me, but I can’t help myself.
My feet carry me out of the emotional safety of my bedroom, and closer and closer to the sobbing man. As if his despair calls out to me. I step into Delilah’s room and a grand sense of loss, coupled with the broken man hanging his head low, causes my knees to buckle. Like calls to like, and Marshall’s broken heart calls to my own. I want to give him something to take his mind – our mind – off of our mutual loss. It’s selfish of me, knowing this will never be anything more than our bodies connecting, but I begin to strip out of my clothes, pulling my blouse over my head.
Marshall hears the shuffling and his head snaps up from its prone position and pools of sorrow greet me. It halts my movements, my blouse dangling from my fingertips, as we silently communicate with our eyes, blue locked on brown.
“What are you doing, Rachel?”
“I’m making us both feel something other than despair.”
“Rachel…”
“No, no more talking.”
I step toward him, my movements slow, but determined. Stopping in front of him, I pause, allowing him to make the next move; to show me if he wants this too. My rapidly pulsing heart lurches to my throat when his hand makes contact with my hip and he pulls me into him. His other hand snakes up my leg until he reaches my hip, where he grips me tightly and buries his tear-stained face into my stomach.
For a moment, a frisson of panic rises, until I remember that there is no baby there and he didn’t know that there had ever been one. Panic morphs into relief and relief morphs into desire as Marshall nips the skin of my waist. I shiver from the contact, my fingers finding their way into his hair. The soft tresses are like a calm to my raging heartbeat, but the feel of his warm wet tongue on my skin also sets me ablaze.
A feverish moan leaves my lips and I grip his hair tighter, trying to hang on, as my legs begin to shake from the overload of pleasure from his simple touches alone. He pops the button on my jeans and slides the zipper down before pulling them down. Marshall looks up at me, all traces of sadness gone, now replaced
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