I was prompted by the wonderful Ms. Rebecca Bond to write some angsty erotica. I don’t know if this is what she had in mind, but I hope she likes it. The prompt was “frame”, which apparently inspires her a lot. Let’s begin.
I can’t fight it anymore.
The pain is too overpowering. I want to go to bed and I want to sleep until this somehow magically goes away.
But mum won’t let me. She is intent on holding my hand and squeezing it until it evaporates from the sweat her hand is giving off.
“It’s going to be alright.” she whispers over and over again. “Gregor wouldn’t want you to cry.”
Gregor wouldn’t want my mother invading the privacy I so desperately need either.
“Mum.” I say, trying to get her out of that trance-like state all parents seem to go in when their child is experiencing heartache. She’s still not listening. “Mum!”
“Ssh, dear. You can cry if you need.”
I know she’s well-meaning and that, but she’s getting on my tits.
“Mum. I’d like to go to bed now, please.”
“Oh sorry, darling. Am I bothering you?”
“I just need to sleep now, okay?”
It still takes a while before she lets go of my hand. This is insane. It’s like she’s grieving him more than I am. And she never even liked him!
We say our goodbyes and she reminds me (yet again) that it’s okay to cry. Like she’s hell-bent on reminding me that Gregor is dead and gone and buried. As if I need any reminder. The entire fucking house reminds me of him.
I breathe him in with every turn I take. I see him in every picture frame. My husband. My everlasting one.
Fuck. I’m a widow.
My legs feel like lead as I make my way up the stairs. Have these always been so… incredibly massive before? I can’t tell. Everything seems twice as hard these days.
I crawl into bed, under the soft and downy sheets and every inch of me wants to drift off, were it not for me catching the eye of the picture on my nightstand.
I take the frame in hand and study it. It’s taken by the seaside… I don’t remember where. Brighton? Blackpool? Either way… we seem happy in it. Gregor looks like… well, like Gregor. Before the cancer. Or was this during? Fuck, I don’t know.
Then it hits me like a brick in the face.
This was Greece.
Our last holiday together. How could I forget? We thought it would be a laugh to go to Mykonos for the summer and get lost in the gay bar scene. He wanted to live before he died, he said.
Oh God. The beach.
I close my eyes and drift off to last summer. If I concentrate, I can feel the Grecian sun warming my skin all over again. The grains of sand between my toes, the lapping of the water against our naked bodies.
That was the last time we made love.
In the afternoon sun, under the jetty… all around us, people were moving. But time stood still, as we greedily devoured each other, taking in every inch. His warm, taut body on mine. Beads of sweat and a chorus of giggles and desperate cries of ecstasy.
His mouth on my breasts.
His cock inside me.
His continued whispers of undying affection in my ear. Even his breath tickling me.
We cried and laughed together, on that patch of beach.
And now I had no Gregor. No evidence of how happy we were, apart from his smile, in that picture, in that frame.
I close my eyes and surrender myself to the night and the memories.