Author's notes:

Last chapter was fun to write. I had a very distinct goal: to take the movie cliche of the woman fighting the man, add a dramatic sound cue, and suddenly she's kissing him passionately.

This isn't even headspace. I don't want to say, "she felt" this, or "she knew" that. However, the camera did focus on her. Her actions, her reactions. The adjectives and adverbs all revolved around what she felt, what took place in her mind.

How is this different than "she felt" and "she knew?" It demonstrates it. By doing so, it makes the reader part of the moment. Or at least that's the goal.

(Those of you just joining here, start with Callan and Sian 1)



The throbbing on the right of her face nudged her awake. Sian groaned as her hand rose to touch her cheek. The room was dark, and streetlights cast their glow in harsh rectangles of light on her ceiling.

She laid on her futon, covered in a sheet, one with the stiffness and musk of dried exertions. The lit ceiling pounded her eyes, but once closed, she saw translucent images of him, of her, of them. The triphammer beat in her ears grew soft, replaced by his harsh grunts, her sharp cries.

Her hands clapped over her ears. Her eyes squinted shut, causing splotches of faux colours to explode in the black. She didn't just hear her cries, but her sighs, her giggles and her pleas. She heard his voice, calm and low, praising and steadying her as they ... as they ...

Her eyes shot open. "No!" erupted from her lips. She sat upright, the sudden waft of air chilly against her damp bare skin. Her arms ached. Her legs were rubber. Her belly and buttocks were sore, but not from any strikes or blows. They were aglow with that faint ache after a workout. And her hips, her hips she could not bear to think about.

Stumbling in the dark, she cut her foot on a piece of broken glass vase before finding the light switch. Once the light came one, she looked at her arch. The cut was minor, one that bled and hurt more than it ought for its size. She put her foot down on something. Her purse lying there where it fell, when he entered.

Marc, her memory corrected. The image of her on the bed astride him, back arched, mouth open, his name spilling free , that indelible image assaulted her. With it came visions bright and utterances clear of what he did to her, with her, how she reacted, body and soul.

The room seemed to waver around the stone that suddenly formed in her belly. She staggered free from the field of vase-shards, collapsed onto television stand. It creaked a protest, but held. The stone collapsed upon itself, seemingly pulling her gut into itself, hollowing her.

She found her hands at her face, the right one dragging furrows through her wavy golden mane, but feeling his curly auburn tresses instead. Her left was a fist trapped between her teeth, being gnawed upon slowly, yet firmly, just like Marc's mouth on ...

With a sob, Sian bent over, hands over eyes. Her feet guided her down to the carpet, dank and rough, then laid her on her side. Her arms wrapped around her bent legs and she rocked slowly, slightly, clenched eyes streaming tears.

Some were tears of hurt, of betrayal. Not from his touch. After winning her over, his hands were the lightest of just about everyone she could remember. Nor did he betray her. He offered no vows, extended no trusts. No, not that, not him.

Some tears were tears of absence. She longed for Marc, for his touch, his guiding hand, his filling presence. That was the betrayal, thus the tears. The betrayal was her body over her mind. The betrayal was Marc touching her core deeper than anyone else ...

No, she corrected herself. No, she shouted into the musty carpet. No, she railed at her hindbrain. Not everyone else. Marc reached deep, but not to the depth Cal did.

Right?

The doubt shocked her. How could she even ask the question? Her eyes flashed open. Just before her face was a fallen rose, courtesy of Marc. Beyond it, if her eyes reduced the rose to a deep red cloud, laid her purse, clasp opened. Inside, she could see the contours of her phone and its battery.

Forebrain battled hind as she unwrapped one hand from her clammy legs and reached out. Her arm ached, and more, it was drawn toward the throned bloom. The deep red, the delicate petals, the promise that its aroma would overcome the miasma from the carpet, from her living here, from her life to date.