I can’t live without her. That I know for sure. I tried once, and I failed. Back then she’d left of her own accord, just for a while, but this time she was taken from me. Too soon, too quickly for me to do anything more than scream impotently at God for his cruelty.
But I didn’t remain impotent for long. As has long been my motto I thought, fuck God, and snatched her right back.
Now, forty-eight hours later, she’s sitting in front of me, blinking in confusion whenever the ruddy brown stain on the threadbare rug catches her eye. Every now and again she reaches up to touch her face with uncertain fingers.
Ah, that face! It’s the only thing I remember from before the lab accident I had in my teens, the one we don’t talk about now. I didn’t remember my parents’ names, or my own for a while, but I never forgot Annie’s face.
Her fingers smooth over her jaw, down her neck to her throat. I wish she’d stop touching the threads there. Do they itch? Are they making her remember? Or is she just instinctively checking out this new part of her?
When her hand moves to the line of threads over her collarbone she notices the stitching around her wrist. Oh, my darling! Her eyebrows knit together, her teeth press into her bottom lip and air whistles through the gaps. She’s trying to make her mouth release the name that sits on the tip of her tongue.
“Ffff.” She shakes her head and tries again. “Vfff. Victor.”
I’m on my knees before her, dry-crying into her lap, kissing her from the hand that is hers, up the forearm that is not, moving up until, finally, I find one of the other parts that is her. Her face. Her beautiful, cherubic face with its soft lips, bright…no, dull green eyes and sweeping lashes.
Oh, I wish her caress wasn’t so weak! Is she pulling me closer? Pushing me away? If only I could be sure. I’m a little more certain when she deepens the kiss. I try not to notice how different her tongue tastes, how suddenly, terribly, strong she is when she pushes me to the floor.
This is my Annie!
The hands releasing me are hers, the ring I gave her still rests at the base of her finger.
The sound she makes isn’t my Annie. The thighs that appear when she raises her skirts aren’t hers either. And the cunt that sheathes my cock…not Annie’s.
Not my Annie.
She rides me like a wild thing, clawing at my chest, raking clumps of hair from her head and throwing them at me. I bleed for her. Scream for her. Cry when her cunt squeezes so hard I empty myself inside of her and she croaks out a laugh.
I should have let her go. But, now I understand the horrors a man will commit for the sake of a pretty face.
