The Whore On The Third Floor – Part 4

The Whore on the third floor, 6lack free

I’m lying on my back with my legs spread out.

Like a woman waiting to be fucked.

Will it hurt?

Will there be blood?

I wear my skin comfortably, but my bedroom floor feels cold against my skin. I try to warm it up. It will have none of it. Thanklessly, the floor digs into my shoulder blades. I should have laid on the rug. Too late. I’m too tired to move now. The floor squeezes my bare buttocks. My nipples are freezing. I’m too tired to care.

The ceiling. So far up there. So inviting. It calls out to me. There is a rope between us. Ready and willing to connect us.

Come to me. Rest in me. Warm in me.

It says.

I rise. The floor lets go without a fight. Nobody fights for a whore. The cold stays behind with the floor. Nobody chooses a whore. I step on the stool. I grab the rope. I bet it will look good around my neck. It does. I’m feeling warm again.

I kick the stool away.

I’m high. I’m floating. The ceiling receives me. The rope faithfully keeps us connected. Grabbing onto my neck like its life depends on it. It won’t let go, it whispers. It will never let go, it promises. Maybe it won’t hurt. Maybe there’ll be no blood. Maybe I’m stupid.

The rope tightens its grip. My neck is on fire.

I shut my eyes. My mouth flies open. I try, but no sound comes out. My eye sockets move up and down. My hands try to free my neck. I feel like my hands are always trying to save my neck. My flailing legs are searching for the cold floor. Wishing for the cold floor. The rope keeps its promise. Never letting go.

My buttocks are not cold anymore. My nipples are not freezing anymore.

We are friends, the rope and I.

The rope seems to say, “We could be more. You know we could be more.”

It tightens its grip. I guess we could be more.

I hang on. Waiting for the noises in my head to die down.

Hoping that maybe, just maybe, you’ll finally see me.

Brenda.

The woman who’s lived the last month reliving the first day she met the man of her dreams.

The woman who ran out of Lydia’s apartment when she was reminded of sad events she would rather not remember.

The woman who believed that her memories were hers to forget and no person, man or woman, not even Lydia, had the right to go digging inside her head.

Her who ran back to her apartment on the third floor because even though she had succeeded in replacing bad memories with good ones to this point, good memories of Philip in the restaurant downstairs, in her bed upstairs, in her life forever, something was wrong and now the bad memories were rushing back, excited to have an outlet. And the door was now open.

And there was nothing she could do about this unpleasantness but wear the rope around her neck.

Now she was back to the day of Philip’s funeral. Back to the tears and the heartbreak. Back to losing herself. Back to hearing her heart split into two when she threw a ball of dirt atop her husband’s coffin. She could hear the thud from the falling soil for days to come. Every time she closed her eyes. She tried to make it stop but the smell of the earth stuck to her nostrils.

Now she was running away from the stench of the earth that had swallowed her husband. She was trying to get rid of the resounding thud that kept ringing in her ears. All she wanted was silence.

And so she left her mother-in-law’s homestead in the dead of night to look for silence. Her mind was loud. She kept walking. She would go wherever her feet would take her. She trusted her feet. She alternated one in front of the other. And she walked around the quiet village, not quite sure where she was going.

The moon introduced her to a man who was following her. A man he already knew and considered a friend. He said hello. What are you doing out here, Brenda?

I couldn’t sleep.

Understandable. I’m sorry about Philip.

Thank you. And thanks for coming all this way to help lay him to rest.

No problem. What are friends for?

What are friends for indeed? They walked together. She assumed he’d seen her leave and had followed her to make sure she was safe.

She assumed wrong.

You’ll see that on the night of her husband’s funeral, when her heart had sunk the lowest. When she was so broken she couldn’t tell her heart from a bowl of crushed grapes because both had the same consistency. When her husband’s body was barely cold. Even before the soil that now covered his grave had shrunk an inch down. When all she needed was a straw to clutch on to keep her from drowning. When nothing could stop her tears from flowing. When she could barely stand up straight to support her own weight. When her legs could barely muster the strength to move her from point A to point B. Someone decided that this was the perfect time to force themselves on the whore.

So the friend who was walking with her that night, listening to her tell him how she was afraid she would never be able to shut her eyes and sleep again, that friend, threw her against a tree like she was a pack of meat. Pinned his left elbow to her neck. Used his right hand to take off his pants and to rip off hers and with the bark of the tree digging into the back of her head, with tears flowing from her eyes to the man’s left elbow, with both her hands trying to save her neck from breaking, the whore felt the man slide inside her and rip her apart. And take the little life she had left in her. And breathe in her face. And call her a whore. Over and again. And tell her how he’d thought of doing this so many times, whore. Asked her if that is what she lives for, whore. Sought to find out if she would go back to her whoring ways now that her husband had given up the ghost. Whore.

It hurt. There was blood.

Maybe you’ll see me now.

Dangling from that ceiling. Wearing only my skin.

Maybe you’ll see that the same face that breathed into me while forcefully spreading my legs and pinching my thighs and punching my stomach, was the same face that I saw while I sat in Lydia’s living room as she made me a cup of tea. The same arm that choked air out of my lungs while forcing my head against a tree was the same one that held Lydia’s shoulder in the picture on her wall above the talking TV. The same mouth that asked me how I liked to be fucked, was the same mouth wearing a smile that was directed towards Lydia in the picture. You’ll notice that men like Robert who rape women always have a woman or two standing beside them.

You’ll now see that I’m surrounded by neighbors who don’t really know my name and who I allow to call me the whore on the third floor. I don’t mind the name. I even lived up to it. And then Philip came into my life. And then he left me. Because my love for him refused to protect him from having a road accident. So he left me. My Philip just died on me and left me exposed. How could he do that? Why would he leave me to people like Robert, who wait to pounce when you have no fight left in you? Why do people like Philip die and those like Robert live? Don’t these accidents know where the bad people live?

Take a minute and see me. Individualize me. Look at me. Have you seen breasts like mine before? Nipples like these reacting to the cold? A belly button shaped like mine? Have you held hands like mine? Felt this silkiness on anyone else’s thighs? Have you seen legs quite like mine? Flailing at the center of a whore’s bedroom? Legs that are trying to save a breaking neck? Trying to save a whore that’s running out of breath? Trying to save a heartbeat on a countdown? Have you seen an assemblage of body parts trying this hard to save a whore from herself? And fail miserably?

Look again. See me one last time. Call me a whore one more time.

Yes. It hurts.

After the hurt comes silence.

THE END.

Image Credit.

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5 thoughts on “The Whore On The Third Floor – Part 4

  1. Beautifully written. Sad ending ☹️. Your sense of imagery and personification is wonderful. I enjoy reading your artistically written work.

  2. I, in a thousand ways did not expect it to end this way. But wait, don’t things happen how we wish they would not?
    Beautiful piece. I felt a piece of my heart depart 🙁

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