#brim writes

You swipe send on your phone and slump against your kitchen island, staring listlessly at your oven. This whole 'not sleeping' thing has been happening more and more lately, and even when you do get to bed, you wake up sweating through the sheets with rotten dreams anyway. Just thinking about lying down makes your stomach sink—makes you feel like you're being watched. 

Your doctor called it a symptom of night terrors, but you've read several papers on parasomnias since then, and not one of them describes what's happening to you, so respectfully, 'Fuck you, Doctor.'

It’s anxiety, you figure, because it’s basically the same sensation that lies on your chest when you're facing down a broken barometer during hurricane season… or taking too long at a checkout with a line forming behind you. Except, this shit hits you when you’re in bed in the dark at two in the morning. It doesn’t even go away after checking every square inch of your apartment, turning on all the lights as you go. Only when the sun comes up does trepidation drift away, but by then… Well, your workday starts at five in the morning, so not sleeping has been a real issue. 

No one’s watching you sleep, and if anything were, it’d be a sleep paralysis demon or some other hallucination caught in the sleep-wake state.

Like an attempt to permanently increase your available cortisol, you think of all the good sleep you've missed out on—all the productivity you could have accomplished—while glaring at your chunky, potion-bottle coffee mug. You lean in, nose over the steam and breathe with a flutter of lashes; chamomile blooms beneath your nose, soft and hay-sweet. Another inhale brings the snap of peppermint as it opens your sinuses, and underneath’s the ginger root. For a second, you linger in the humid little microclimate under your face like it's all that matters in the world ...

... until a whine from the door drags you out of the spell. 

Daffodil, your lovable golden lab, pants up at you, expectantly. He licks his chops, tail thumping the front door, and whines again with big brown eyes lifted to his leash that's been hanging off the coatrack since around six that afternoon. 

"You can't be serious..." You grumble, glancing at the cuckoo clock by the bay window and mull over how stupid it would be to take him out for a piss at a quarter past midnight. 

Another, this time watery, whine ends up deciding it's a spectacular idea. 

So, ten minutes later, you're standing outside, bundled up in a pink, oversized hoodie, a mismatched flannel scarf, and poorly laced combat boots. The mug of tea shaking in your hand is still relatively hot, but won't be for much longer. You take a big gulp, feel it heat your gums and slide deliciously down your throat as Daffy takes his first tiny piss on the lamp post outside your complex: Sandpiper Apartments.

In your pocket, your email notification goes off; phone vibrating twice. You don't assume it's anything important, not at this hour anyway, and both your hands are full of tea and dog respectively, so you ignore it.

"Alright, buddy," you sigh out over the lip of your mug, eying Daffodil as he sniffs at the spot he just marked, "let's get this song and dance over with."

It's November in the Florida Panhandle, which means the temperature hovers anywhere from the low 50s to the mid 70s depending on the mood of whatever front is dragging itself across the Gulf that week. It's fifty-four out here right now, with the dewpoint a little lower, which is cold enough to perk your nipples around their barbells and cold enough to manifest a genuinely impressive plume of steam off your tea. In other words, it's cold as fuck for your subtropically acclimated body.

Daffodil leads your shivering, pink blot past the first two buzzing streetlights until he snuffles and worms his whole head between a couple wax myrtles, becoming nothing but a blonde shimmer of wagging tail visible in the darkness. You blow across the surface of your tea and take another sip. Not as hot anymore, yet still tasty, sweetened with the tupelo honey you got from the farmers market last week; it's one of the few perks of living in the Southern United States.

Everything else about living down here is bullshit as far as you're concerned. You tick off the hazards—hurricanes, wasps, humidity, one single fucking season, tourists, love bugs, and astronomically high electricity bills—while Daffodil finishes his business. 

The people sort of majorly suck too, you think, aware of the hypocrisy as you choose to ignore the load of shit your dog just dumped in the bushes. 

No one's gonna see it though, you tell yourself, taking another sweet sip. 

Your phone's email notification pings again, and this time you juggle the leash handle and your mug in one hand to fish it out. 

There are two emails from your Superintendent. 

This late? Jesus, you balk; Ben's sleep cycle must be garbage...

You promise to read them later, or when enough time has passed to seem like your reply will prove you're not a total insomniac. 

There's a peculiar, metallic clamor somewhere behind you when you pocket your phone, but a glance back in its general direction yields nothing. 

Odd, you consider, only to shift your focus up to the night sky. 

Overhead, the moon is thick as a bowl of cream; a waxing gibbous just shy of full by a night or two. It's high enough in the sky by now that the light coming down flattens nearly everything it lands on, making the world appear two-dimensional. Off in the eastern portion of the sky, Orion is hunting beside Aldebaran in Taurus, seemingly aiming his club at Capella in Auriga, whose stars flicker further north.

You make a mental note to check next month's charts to see how crazy some of your neighbors are about to get. Not that you're fully bought into astrology, but you've also been alive thirty-odd years, and people get weird—do things they wouldn't normally do—around a full moon. Add a couple of planets stacking up just so, and you've got the ingredients for a genuinely stupid month. 

Daffodil tugs the leash, and you follow wordlessly.

Winter gusts feed down the street, hushing the usual Friday night hubbub. You hear only what's inside your personal bubble; a barrier that absorbs Daffodil and whatever nocturnal critter he's off chasing into the muhly grass...

Your stalker's good at hunting too—has perfected the art of keeping out of sight. 

Tonight, he's hidden by the shadowed partition of crape myrtles that runs the property line, weaving in and out of the thrown moonlight. 

His boots creep carefully over wet grass instead of the dewy concrete directly behind you. A ring of Sandpiper Apartment keys dig into his black-nitrile-gloved fist, wrapped tight so they don't make a sound... 

The cut on the back of your knee from shaving just yesterday is healing nicely... and you've perfected the art of the messy bun... but you always look better with it down... loose, tangled, maybe wrapped in his fist—maybe as you peck kisses around the crown of his cock. Y-Yeah. So-so pretty... just like... that... baby...

Out on the sidewalk, you take a sip of tea and wince at the lukewarm way it leaves you extra chilly under your hoodie. You've got a simple cream tank top over your sleep shorts, maybe too little for the cold-for-Florida temperatures, but it's hard to judge what to wear when the warmest thing in your wardrobe is already on your body. 

He marvels at it, observing the way your lips pucker, blowing steam off your mug—watches the wind flap open the folds of your hoodie exposing the outline of weighty, suckable breasts tipped with stiff, pierced nipples. 

It's a wonder you haven't noticed him, especially now as he crouches close by, each breath heavy, greedy, drinking you in like you drink down your tea.

Used to be, he assumed Daffodil would make up for your lack of spatial awareness. But he's a dumb, happy lab, and the man shadowing you with desirous intent has made sure to befriend the lovable pooch. He's sort of come to adore the slobbering thing too. It started with simple dog biscuits when he'd pass you in the hallway, when he'd come to fix something in your apartment, and you seemed so enamored by his generosity...

... but Daffy's treats quickly turned into cuts of back bacon fed one strip at a time after letting himself into your place while you were at work. 

One day, he brought over leftover brisket, cold from the fridge, ribbed with fat, and because Daffodil took it from him with such gentle appreciation, all remaining thought of killing and disposing of him vanished. Not that he'd have done that to you... Never... though it'd have made slipping in at night easier. 

Instead, he brings peanut butter treats rolled around chalky trazodone, leaving Daffy snoring soundly at the foot of your bed while you tossed and turned under the man's hungry gaze. 

Only when he's sure you're both fast asleep does he dare put his nose to your pillow, so close the ends of your hair tickle his lashes and breathe in your nightmare-sweat and tea tree shampoo. Then... then he ventures to your hamper, digging down past the towels and baggy band shirts to the good stuff at the bottom. 

Much like a dog himself, he'll rub his nose in your soft cotton panties, inhale the sweet, stale aroma of your pussy... maybe he runs his tongue down the gusset too, or sucks your flavor off until he takes them into your bathroom, fabric still between his teeth, and paints the inside of your toilet bowl with hot, sticky jizz...

A car with one busted headlight rolls slowly past you, muffling a broken groan from the myrtles. Someone leans out the passenger side and says something with a laugh; you don't catch the words and don't try to, because as a woman you've perfected the art of not sparing a single fuck for strangers. 

You do, however, give the taillights a lazy middle finger once they're past. Free of charge, too.  

It isn't until the big oaf is hauling on his leash, trying to drag you off the sidewalk entirely, that you actually startle. 

"Hey!" You hiss, jerking on the retractable handle. "Yo! Doofus! Calm down." 

Daffodil doesn't listen. He races for the shadowed hedges behind several seven-foot crape myrtals with pink buds that look salmon-silver in the moonlight. Big, loud woof-woof-woofs, louder than his usual outdoor woofs, make you look around feverishly. The last thing you wanna do is wake up the whole street because his royal highness caught sight of a raccoon or... something. 

Whatever it is, it's in the hedges, or in the parking lot behind them, but you don't hear people, or an idling car... or anything skittering that would explain the sudden shift in his behavior.

Except, after a second, you hear a hiss, like a tsk-tsk-tsk-tsk, and stand there with a little worm of anxiety in your throat as Daffy fights against the leash, yanking your arm like a swinging powerline in a storm.

It's just... a water rat, you think. Or a snake—snakes hiss all the time. That's like their thing. Or it's a possum. Something equally chewable that he wants... 

"C'mon," you say, almost conversationally, then louder. "C'MON! Let's go!" 

You tighten your bicep and shoulder, ready to pull him back with all your might, but in that same moment Daffodil launches himself over a low run of indian hawthorn, and the leash wrenches you forward. The cold tea, victim of physics, slaps up over the ceramic rim and all over your chest. 

"Fuck!" You shriek as it goes straight through your top to braless tits. The fabric glues itself to each slope of fat, puckering your nipples until they twinge in the sudden cold. 

"... motherfucking, damnit." Your curse is partly grumbled as you yank the leash hard enough to snatch a few inches of slack back into the handle, hard enough that the plastic housing burns the web of your hand just a bit. 

Your stalker sits perfectly still in the gap between two hedges, panting heavily at the jiggle, bounce, and bob of your breasts while you rein Daffy in with all your furious might.

Daffodil... that dog has one hell of a nose on him. He watches him throw his whole furry body against the collar to get to him, tail wagging so strong it drums the low-level branches. 

As his Mommy gets him under control, the whining begins as if to say, 'hi, hi, hi, I know you! Scratch time?! Treat time?!' Soon, he promises, unmoving against the hedges as the smell of you—somehow—gets past his filters and right... up... his... nose...

It makes blood fill his cock, but you don't know that—that just the aroma of your body gets him rock hard. How-how would you know that? 

"Daffodil," you snap. "Daffodil. Daffodil!" You basically end up barking yourself for how many damn times it takes to get his attention, but finally, that big, silly, beautiful face whips back around. It gives you the two seconds you need to wrangle him onto the sidewalk.

Your fist is halfway up in celebration when a very unfortunate gust comes barreling down the street. 

It goes straight through you, giving your soaked skin freezer burn; it bends the thin myrtle branches and drags a hiss out of the pines, combs flat the tightly manicured pittosporum and seaside goldenrod, and spreads distant salt around you and away until you're trembling there under the street lamp. If you end up with a cold because you care about your dog's bladder, you'll be—well, it'll suck, but he's worth it...

Lips downturned, you pour out the last dregs of your tea as Daffodil's hot breath pants against your kneecap, eager to figure out what the big deal was with all your shouting: treats, cuddles, or both?! 

Hesitantly, your gaze flicks back to the hedges where the wind wags their tops like loose toupes. Behind them, the parking lot lights glimmer light-dark-light-dark between them as they sway.

Standing there with your dog scraping his tongue over the puddle of tea on the pavement, you don't feel as safe as you normally would. A solid silhouette-shaped thing blots out the light between two of the hedges. 

It's a trick of light, obviously...

Could be a dumpster, or a parked car... maybe... but it could also be a man standing there, and the longer you look at it, the more your brain refuses any other possibility.

But really, seriously, it’s nothing, you tell yourself, and you make the case the way you always do when something spooks you; if it were something to fear, you'd probably be dead by now. Stalkers or serial killers or escaped prisoners don't stand still when a woman’s all alone at night (mostly alone), and besides, Daffodil wouldn't be licking wet concrete with his tail sweeping if there were danger afoot. He’d at least lick them to death…

So you wag out the material of your top until it stops clinging to your tits, and decide, quite sanely, that it's time to head the fuck home, lock your door, and put on a game show or two to shake off this slimy itch in your chest. 

Oh, and wipe down your sticky self, because... gross…

You tug on Daffodil's leash and whisper an unsteady, "Serious this time... c'mon." 

Between the hedges, the blot remains unmoving. 

Daffodil follows after a few more insistent tugs, eager now to piss on every spot he saved for the trip back. You don't rush him, but your weight bounces nervously from one boot to the other. Every time he stops to hit a bush or a patch of sun-dried grass, you glance over your shoulder to check the streets still empty, studying whatever the moon and streetlights illuminate. The rest is all suspicious shadows and silent alarm bells.

This is one of those situations where a can of mace would have assuaged some of your anxiety, whether it was needed or not. Much like condoms, pepper spray was just a smart addition to a woman's arsenal. You chide yourself now and promise to order some when you get home.

You keep Daffodil close all the way back, thumb gone half-white on the leash brake. Eventually the bright double glass doors and banked lamplights coat you in safety, and with a rush up the stairs to the lobby doors, your fingers tremble on the access panel. 

Frantically, you check over your shoulder for your would-be murderer, find no one, and hit enter. The keypad buzzes wrong; you take a breath and hold it, then try again. 

Another buzz. 

Your lungs burn as you tap your code a third time. When the lock thunks over with a happy chirp, you practically drag Daffy inside the warm lobby, and only then do you exhale. Garish fluorescence and humming vending machines have never felt so calming. 

Finally safe, you take a deep four-count breath and let it out until you reach six. 

That, you decide, was NOT fun.

Daffodil's nails click across the tile as you head straight for the elevators, an empty mug cradled under one arm, thinking about fixing another cup to attempt a reset of the night. Maybe it'll chase away the lingering chill on your chest and lump in your throat. You give the dark glass doors a fleeting look before turning to come face to face with a handwritten note taped to the elevator doors. 

Huh? What's this shit now... This wasn't there when you rode it down no less than twenty minutes ago. Was it? No, it couldn't have been, duh.

You lean in, vision a little blurry from lack of sleep, silently mouthing the words as you read the note.

'ELEVATOR OUT OF ORDER, use stairs :) signed Ben the Superintendent'  

It's scrawled in the same blocky letters you've become familiar with over the past year in this building; when service interruptions were posted on the lobby bulletin board, when a vending machine was eating cash, tacked on your door a few times to say he'd try you again if you were out when he planned on coming by for interior repairs. This one looks a little messier than his usual notes; even the letters look pressed into the paper. Hell, you think you could make out the words blindfolded by touch alone.

Up close, a whiff of fresh Sharpie bleeds off it. So this probably happened minutes before you got back, you figure. 

Well, isn't that just your luck?

You glare at it and wonder, what night owl dickhead used the elevator after you? 

Someone else might have blamed their Super when shit breaks down, but not you. If anything, you're one of the few people in this building who actually appreciates Ben for how quickly he gets on top of things. This elevator bullshit is a great example. It's like twelve-thirty or something. Anyone would be lucky to have that kind of response time from their maintenance crew, and Ben's just one dude. 

In the last year, you've never had to wait the usual days or weeks for repairs like every other place you've lived, but Ben is on it within hours most of the time; your bathroom light fixture that started buzzing on a Sunday? Fixed. Someone—you—dropped a bottle cap down the disposal? No problem. Hell, even the AC rattling in August was fixed within a day, and that month, in Florida, is arguably worse than July. 

"Guess we're taking the stairs, Daffy," you tell your blissfully inconvenienced doggo and shoulder open the stair access.

Ben must keep the weirdest hours, being a superintendent, you imagine, taking the first flight of stairs with a yawn.

For a second, you're thankful for your boring 9-to-5 at WECX despite your moderate to severe insomnia making the early mornings a nightmare. 

Eight hours a day of ensemble runs and radar loops only for Doug to read your forecast off a teleprompter like he's got a third-grader's reading comprehension (he still manages to say humidity when the word on the page is dewpoint) feels like a fucking blessing in comparison to whatever overseeing a whole apartment complex must entail.  

If you had to be at everyone's beck and call 24/7, you're pretty sure you'd go totally bonkers. 

Daffodil hops up the final flight of stairs in about four bounds and then stops on the landing, panting, looking down at you like it's weird you don't have the same energy levels as a four-year-old labrador. 

It's only three floors, but it feels like six. But it's also late, and you're tired, and probably more dehydrated than you're willing to admit, because it takes you an embarrassingly long time to catch your breath and exit the stairwell.

A ding startles you, your eyes snapping to the elevators between the stairs and your apartment at 312. The wide droplight it casts across the grey carpet becomes a monolith and then nothing as the doors close. That's... not peculiar at all.  

As you pass the elevator, you tell yourself, it's just acting weird. That's all. That's why Ben attached an out-of-order sign to it. Maybe the electronics that tell it which floor to go to are busted, and it's just cycling through the floors like some sentient deathtrap?

Either way, the elevator isn't your problem.

You unlock your door without ceremony and slip inside your apartment with a deep breath, eager to be soothed by the familiar smells of incense, cotton yarn, and the dregs of a thousand soy candles burnt and tossed over the past 14 months. But, underneath all that... there's...

... there's a smell that doesn't belong. It's like sweat in a pine forest, definitely not like the soft musk of yourself. This is sharp, with the thick bite of gasoline and... orange cleaning chemicals? No, something sickly sweet and synthesized. You take it in for maybe a second and a half. It could be backdraft from a neighbor's vents, or the boiler. Ben has explained, more than once, how that thing has some sort of safety pressure valve that releases steam—that steam had a habit of getting picked up by the ventilation system from time to time. You'd have thought each floor had its own HVAC system, but your Superintendent seemed adamant that whatever you were smelling was the boiler and nothing more. 

So, it could be that... It is winter after all.

The concept appeases your concern until you're bending down to undo one boot and pause, noticing the folded corner of your area rug...

Did you do that? Did Daffodil do that?

Carefully, you unlatch Daffodil's leash, watching him trot carefree and nonchalant toward the water bowl where he takes big, noisy laps, refueling his bladder for tomorrow morning. You keep your eye on how your dog behaves, waiting for an ear to perk at some noise he doesn't recognize or... or anything that might indicate you're not alone. 

Everything aside from the folded rug corner looks very normal. 

There are no weird noises. None that you can hear. No sixth sense tickles the hairs on the back of your neck, warning you that someone's hiding in your apartment, though you question, standing there with a sticky, wet tank top stuck to your ribs, whether that's an accurate way to determine if you're safe or not. 

You've never once had a sixth sense about anything. You've had anxiety, which is a different animal altogether and not one to be trusted most of the time... but intuition? Ya hardly knew her.

Slowly, you stand back up, thinking about the statistical likelihood you're one of those women with a stalker hanging around in their walls. 

No point in taking chances, you reason, leaning over by the coat rack to pull the aluminum softball bat out of the umbrella basket. You never hit a single ball with it when you were on the WECX rec team during the Spring Season, but you wield it in both fists like Narsil, the sword that defeated Sauron. 

Daffodil shuffles over to the sofa, jowls dripping with spitty water. He hops up on his favorite crochet blanket, does his usual four circles, then plunks down and watches you with utter befuddlement. 

You lift your finger to your lips, telling him to stay quiet. His doggy brows wave from side to side before he closes his eyes with a snorting exhale. 

The coat closet is first. 

One-handed, bat cocked back like the coats are going to come at you, you find nothing but spare towels and throw pillows with too much dog hair on them. 

Then comes the guest bathroom, where you flick the light on before you go in and yank the shower curtain hard enough that a ring pops off the rod. Your whole spine crawls as the plastic liner settles. That was way too much noise you just made if your goal was subtlety.

The bat exits the bathroom before you do, just in case someone was alerted to the racket and is waiting against the wall hugging the bathroom, ready to disappear into your blind spot before choking you the fuck out. 

So far, so good, though.

Daffodil cracks an eye open as you pass him by, heading to your hobby room.

In here it's only the single amber desk lamp, casting herds of shadow against the walls; baskets of yarn, a roller cart of fabric, pens and hooks, a broken spinning wheel you bought during a late-night shopping binge. Everything is where you left it. 

God, you need to declutter this shithole, you decide, catch the closet in the corner of your eye, and determine it's too small and cluttered to hide anyone worth being worried about. 

You close the door with a click, promising to spend a weekend going through everything, and tiptoe toward your bedroom. 

For some reason, this is where your heart begins to thud in your chest, throat tight against the fluttering pulse. It picks up because this is the last area to look—to be sure you're all alone and safe, but also... maybe you're not? 

With damp hands on the bat's grip-taped neck, you take a few gulps of air, and nudge the door open with the toe of one boot.

Immediately, you dart back a step as the door swings wide into your well-lit bedroom, which looks exactly the same as when you left it. Even still, your heart rate skyrockets. Adrenaline surges, giving you the courage to wring your palms around the bat and take a step forward... then another... and another... until you're standing on the threshold of your bedroom

All the light in the fucking world couldn't dispel the odd presence you feel in here. 

Could it be a rat? It's cold enough that you'd buy the idea of something getting into the walls, because you really don't see anything else that warrants the feeling of being watched. Hunted, you correct yourself; it feels like you're being hunted... 

There’s the accordion closet to your left still hanging open from when you pulled your hoodie on before leaving. From this angle it's clear no masked murderer is lurking inside; just your clothes, and an array of shelved shoes. Your bed is still in disarray from trying and failing to sleep earlier this evening, but upon closer inspection you notice something jutting from underneath your body pillow…

It’s probably your vibrator. 

You’d tried using an orgasm to help you get some sleep, but clearly that didn’t happen. This whole being spooked over—what? A stupid hedge shadow, some odor, and a rumpled carpet? It’s ridiculous, and it’s not gonna do a damn thing but crunch up the output on your nervous system, leading to another sleepless night. 

“Really gotta lay off all the true crime,” you grumble to yourself, resting the bat on your shoulder and letting loose a sigh. 

All is well, and you are safe.

However, you take about three steps towards your bed, and every single hair on the back of your neck stands on end…

Two things happen in the span of about a second: your bedroom door slams shut behind you, and all your internal organs feel like they immediately drop into the black hole of your colon. Three things actually, because three hundred thousand years of being this particular animal, and a couple million before that of being something else means your amygdala dumps you full of adrenaline before the thought 'someone is in here ready to do you harm’ ever registers.

You turn just in time to thrust the bat out and blunt-stab it into a figure a full foot taller than you. The man—and it is a man—backsteps, releasing a clogged wheeze from the double-barrel respirator covering half his face. 

Your eyes rake over a charcoal boiler suit, cinched utility belt, shit-kicker boots, and... and a black-nitrile glove holding a dripping rag at level with your face. You catch the barest whiff of it: synthesized fruit mold. Fuck.

Alarms go off in each cell of your body, from the most important synapses in your brain to the lesser, dying skin cells on your tea-sticky chest. They scream, and you scream, or try to, but a raspy exhale comes out instead, and by the time you suck in a breath to try again, your softball bat is yanked from your grip by a gloved fist.

"No–no, no! Not very nice!" He wheezes, throwing your aluminium bat off the dresser where it bounces off with a clang and swing-bangs across the floorboards. 

Before you realize the sequence of events that spelled your downfall, your back is flat against the bed with a strong forearm locked against your sternum. You feel legs slotting on either side of your hips—mattress squealing—and snap your gaze up to see a high-sweaty forehead above furious brows and spectacled eyes. This close, it's obvious which eye he's joked about being fake. 'Oh. Oh, you know. Workplace–uh–accident got it.'

The respirator hisses with effort, and more weight sinks into you, as that wet, rancid cloth zooms forward for your face. 

At the very last second, you turn your head and the rag, and the palm holding it, slams into the mattress beside your ear. 

You're like Neo from the Matrix; the thought speeds through your mind before your hands are beating against the chest of your assailant. He takes each whack with a grunt, but never backs off. 

"Shit," you curse. "Shit. Shit–get off! Fuck-" you choke out, louder and louder. 

Your lower body thrashes underneath him, desperate to get the flare of your hips from between his inner thighs. The man above you grunts, shuddering out laced, "Fuck-fuuuck... b-baby..." that switches your inner alarm to a full-on siren's wail.

His hips pin your ass down into the bed despite your renewed urge to get him off; the box spring whines beneath you, and the forearm on your chest bends up so nitrile-gloved fingers can crawl around your neck, your chin, your jaw... holy shit! Holy fucking shit! 

Adrenaline, norepinephrine, and dozens of other flight-or-fight hormones flood your system, dulling the pain you'd probably feel when he grips your face, teeth buzzing against the pressure, and steers it around into the side of the mattress where the rag has shifted to face you. Nostrils flare, panic-pulling in the sweet, chemical stink... brain numbing... a bit... a lot...

"D-don't. Don't be difficult," the filtered voice above you begs, strained and desperate; his stutter chokes with physical strain as he forces your right cheek into the bedding, in line enough that he can shift, hum, and smother the soiled rag across your mouth and nose. 

"There you go. Just-just take a deep—that's it—deep breath."

You can't help the first inhale, but you hold it and don't exhale. 

Hold it, don't breathe any more in. It sounds logical to the whirling carousel in your head. So, you hold it and hold it, lungs ablaze... until your heart is pounding, and your blood is starving for oxygen, and the ceiling goes soft... goes soft and syrupy...

... and your hands—your hands on his wrist. Rubber-latex-nitrile-hot-shaking. Yours or his? Where's your dog... Where...?

"... doonn-n't," you exhale, vision crawling at the edges. 

Eyes roll back. Ceiling fan—fans. Overexposure. One and one and two and two and the bedroom is sliding off your forehead, but you wheeze an airless, "... gehh'ahff," and take a fat intake of air as reflex hits your diaphragm.

"THE FUCK!" The man above you shrieks from inside a coffin—a box—a mask. 

After a lopsided blind, you look up at your attacker. He's not really fending your dog off, more like... shaking his leg like he's got dog shit under his sole. His elbows are up in a defensive position, black-gloved hands passive and open, and is he... is he talking... to Daffodil??

"Whoa. No, no, no. It's me. It's-it's me, boy. It's Ben." He pats the thigh attached to the leg not being dragged back out into the hallway, and Daffy's snarling becomes a throaty growl. "It's just Ben, huh? R-Remember?" 

You blink. 

"Wait-" you croak, but the rest of your verbal realization is smothered by phlegm and leftover sugar-burns. Did he say his name was B-Ben? The Super? Your favorite superintendent, Mr. Benjamin?? 

It can't be, although...

You wince, as if that will help you hear, and listen as Daffodil's growls soften under the unending reassurance of the man who just recently tried to drug and potentially kidnap and/or murder you. And/or other things, you think with no small amount of weird, disgusting fascination. 

"There we go," Ben's familiar voice rebreathes. "There he is, that's a good boy, you know me, y-you know me."

The fuck he does, your mind reels.

There are a few broken attempts to sound soothing on his part before he grumbles, pulling a sealed sandwich bag out of his pocket. "Hey. Hey, I got somethin' for you. I got somethin' for you, Daffy. Huh? You hungry? Are you hungry?"

Daffodil lets go of his pants immediately at the sight of the baggie, drenched in white fat. "I got it right here, buddy, it's right-right here..." 

With a shake, Ben empties several slabs of thick-cut bacon right on your bedroom floor. It can't really be him though, not your sweet, on-top-of-shit Benjamin...

"Is it... is that," you begin to say. "Ben... is it r-really you?" 

The tall, firmly built figure stiffens while watching your dog eat his offering like a good boy. The ventilator mask and fogged spectacles jerk towards you fast enough you jump, fingers digging into the rumpled duvet. The half-mask gives him a full-faced look of insidiousness that's nothing like what you know of him, or knew of him, or thought you knew of him. 

"No," you say to yourself. No, it can't be. No... no, no, no.

Your head pounds with the realization—with the betrayal and the fear and the confusion. The drugs are still at the back of your head, draining out down your neck and into the shiver of your shoulders while Ben cocks his head to one side, eying you quietly. 

"Heey, sweetie," he says. "You weren't responding to my emails. So, I thought–just thought I'd stop by." There's a taste of menace under it, like someone trying on the pretense of being caught off guard, of being friendly, of having not just tried to drug you and then do whatever he had planned with you afterward. 

You're not versed on medical shit, but you've watched enough true crime to know what chloroform is supposed to smell like, and that... that was fucking chloroform. It's still there every time you swallow, coating the back of your throat; rotten apples and cleaner...

"Man, I really thought that stuff worked faster," he remarks, almost to himself. "I mean—heh—see something enough times on TV and-and you think you know how it works, huh?"

Ben glances back down at Daffodil, then at you before releasing a hiss of mild frustration. You watch him take two long strides sideways to the head of your bed and slide a hand under your pillow. The color drains out of your face, wondering if you can handle the embarrassment and implication of having your vibrator revealed by this version of-

Oh-Oh'holy... fuck! 

Instead of pulling out your sex toy, Ben grips the handle of a very long, very serrated-looking hunting knife. 

Why had that been under your pillow? You'd like to know, but Ben raises the knife like he's about to make a very important point and your lips roll back over your teeth. 

"So I, uh... I thought about just killin' him, you know." He says it with a chuckle, as if he said something much less horrifying. 

"I'm not a huge pet lover. But there's just somethin' about him that's-" he inhales with a nasal-like fizzle, as if physically preparing himself for the following admission, "-sweet. Sweet and lovable, y'know? Well, 'course you know. You raised him from a puppy..." 

"... w-what?" Is seemingly all you're able to get out. The horrific absurdity of everything's left you frozen, panic-gripping the sheets; speechless.

"Yeahhh," he buzzes, stepping around the foot of the bed, tip of the knife wobbling at you. He's like an oncoming storm, and you're clinging helplessly to a buoy in the Gulf just hoping he'll downshift and you'll be okay... 

"Y-you went to the, uh... the place out on the highway, the-the county place, Gulf Regional," he narrates, each of his steps heavy on the wooden floorboards; closer and closer, "and you adopted his mom and her four puppies 'cause they were gonna get gassed the next day. And your friend from work told you about them, the-the old guy, the guy with the bowties."

Ben stops within arm's reach of you. He could grapple you, stab you, kill you, if he wanted. The door is basically behind him, and Daffodil is still peeling bacon grease off the floor with his tongue. 

Your muscles lock up as Ben crouches down between you and any sliver of escape. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. De-escalation, maybe? Fuck...

That knife presses into your duvet as he bends his forearm on the corner of the bed. You're so close to it now, you can see a slice of your reflection off the flat side.

"You found homes for the other three, but couldn't part with the runt," he goes on, voice soft, but breaths venting raggedly, "and then you lost Mama Bear right after you moved in." 

He tips his head. "Haa... you were so sad. You were so sad and so beautiful."

Did he...? No, Mama Bear was sick before... long before. It wasn't a shock when she passed, despite the heartbreak.

"But you had me," Ben says, as if the unshed tears were already slipping down your cheeks. "You had me and Daffy here to help keep you happy. A good thing because you're too... goddamn irresistible when you're miserable. I don't think I'd have made it much longer."

M-Made it? Like... your eyes shift to the rag crumbled in the middle of your bed. 

He calls you beautiful and pretty while crouching between you and freedom, clutching a knife, with the gloves, the mask, in your bedroom of all places... was he going to... The pieces come together with embarrassing slowness; the puzzle is red and creamy, and it makes your heart flutter, and your pelvic floor tighten. 

He was going to-to use you... fuck you... rape you... then-then what? Kill you?!

All the color must drain out of your face, because Ben takes a knee. The mattress dips against his arm. You flinch as the movement forces you inward, stomach muscles firm to keep your distance, thighs trembling. He hushes you; he coos, actually coos, like you're some kid about to bawl her eyes out, and you might, you really, really might because it's making you feel warm–hot all over—and it shouldn't... it shouldn't!

"Don't-don't cry," he warns in an obscene whisper. "Don't cry, don't do that, you're so... you're so good when you cry."

His brows lift with exaggerated sympathy, flattening the tired bags beneath. The lenses of his glasses, along with the glassy left eye, catch the red spectrum of your grow light behind you; a bloody slice cutting his wide, wild pupils in half. 

"Haaah," his breath travels through filters and clenched teeth, "... and that's-that's on you, then. That's gonna be on you if I go and do something I'll regret." 

Like throw you on the mattress again, cut your shorts off... and push your thighs apart and-and... 

All the air in your lungs feels like powdered glass. It's impossible to catch your breath. It hurts to think. Your body is too overstimulated by the concept–the thought—of Ben doing something so violating. Yet, when you look toward the bedroom door, the one Daffodil apparently pawed the handle enough times to shove open, your gut whispers, 'stay right where you are...' 

Ben sighs like you've just disappointed him. "You're not-you're not thinking about standing me up, are you? Huh?"

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You've fallen victim to some abnormal buildup; low-pressure rises and rotates, leaving you dizzy and unable to form a coherent thought. 

It's the side effects of the chloroform–the adrenaline, you tell yourself, but that doesn't hold as much weight as you'd like...

He answers for you. "No. Noo. No, no, no, look at you. You're not even trying to. You're such a sweet... you're such a sweet, uh... succulent little thing. You'd never be that cruel." 

"...I-I could," you manage. "I-I-I could b-be..." 

"No, you couldn't." He says it almost tenderly, the way you've corrected know-it-all kids during field trips to the station. "You hold the door for people who don't even say thank you. Every time. Every time, and I've watched you do it..." 

He stops to pull air through the industrial filters. It's a long sound, and there's a mechanical composure to it. "But... but I've been fooled. I've been fooled before."

Ben leans in with a squeal of pressure on your box springs until you can feel the hot, unscented exhale of his breath through the slotted exhalation ports. Your upper lip sweats against it, beads gathering sympathetically along your forehead and down the small of your back. 

Ben's eyes flick behind his spectacles to every place on you that's gone damp as if it excites him... and you'd be a liar if you denied the part of you that was a little excited too... 

His chest rises heavier underneath the charcoal suit as your own quickens under your moist tanktop. You're not used to seeing him with the top buttoned up... It's always been undone to his waist, the loose arms tied around his hips, making him more approachable and less... psychotic than he looks now. Though, it does make him appear stockier than his lean build always suggested... 

Of course, now you have proof he's as strong as he looked, laid out under your sink or fitting a new shower head with one of those big, weighty socket wrenches. The memory of him on top of you, coupled with how wild he looks–lightly peppered hair askew around his ears and nape, sweat stains around his collar—should do more than terrify you, but it only just barely does that.

Drug, you tell yourself again, wondering why you can't smell the musk coming off him anymore, especially when you clocked it the second you walked in from outside.

All you can smell is the burn of old chloroform. Not even the rancid bacon he dropped on your floor, which Daffodil has seemingly finished.

His nails tap the floor as he pads around Ben, plopping his ass down between the both of you like a battlement betwixt you and whatever fresh hell Ben has planned. Although you notice Daffy has sat himself just a bit closer to the psychopath than you...  

Traitor, you think, glaring at your dog as Ben rests a nitrile-gloved hand on his blonde, fuzzy head. Though hoodwinked, your concern for your best friend must be plain enough on your face that Ben answers it.

"He just–he didn't know it was me at first. That's all that was." Ben says, voice a flat hum behind the half-mask. "We're good friends, though, aren't we, Daffy. Huh, boy?"

He strokes down Daffodil's ears, big browns glazing over beneath the attention, leaning up into each pet. There's a familiarity there as Daffodil's tail sweeps the floorboards... 

Oh god, you think. He's betrayed you. Not Ben, you mean, but... well... yes.

Yes. Okay. Ben has betrayed you, but you can't be surprised when humans act like backstabbing assholes. That's the deal with people. Yet, for your furbaby to be so completely won over by this unhinged maniac: Is there a bigger betrayal than that?! 

"You'd never hurt your Daddy, would you? No. No, you wouldn't." 

You startle, eyes snapping wide, too rattled by what the fuck Ben just said to jump at Daffy's confirming whoof-whoof! resuming his happy panting as the pets keep coming. 

D-Daddy?! Ben called himself Daddy, which would make you... 

Nope! Fuck this times a thousand and a half!

Without looking at Ben, Daffodil, the knife, or thinking about any of the repercussions involving the heat in your belly or the way your heart is racing, you stand on wobbly knees and stumble your way around the two of them towards your bedroom door. Thanks to your brain cells not working correctly, you don't have any of the normal, pesky concerns like 'is he going to kill you horrendously.' You just... sway and brace yourself on the doorframe, dizzy but determined.

"Where do you think you're going?" Ben questions menacingly. 

You ignore him, pushing the door wide open, and step out into the short, dim hallway toward the living room. Ben's voice grows more demanding. He repeats your name several times, threatens you, then apologizes; he says it all the same way you'd shout at Daffodil to stop putting his paws on the counter, only to turn around and call him a good boy and how he's never done a damn thing wrong in his whole life! 

You take another step, confused panic moving you forward. Your name comes louder—bordering on feral—from behind. Hot, filtered breath rushes through the sweaty hair against your nape, then closer against the shell of your ear, then closer inside your skull and... then it's gone, and you pause in your living room, peering back over a shoulder. 

Why did he stop? More importantly, though, why didn't you take the opportunity and rush right out the front fucking door?!

Ben's menacing silhouette—the same one that stood between the hedges outside, you realize—stands backlit by your bedroom doorway. You wet your lips, and he flashes the blade, its edge catching the lamplight, and with a quick breath, you book it for your front door. 

Heavy boots clobber the floorboards behind you. One of them hits the loose board he's supposed to fix Monday while you're at work; the one he confirmed was on the books just that morning, or yesterday morning... Today is the next day now. Fuck, what time is it? What's the date? Why are you even thinking this shit when you should be focused on yanking loose your deadbolt, fingers slipping off the slider with panic-sweat... of how to wiggle out of Ben's sudden grip on your arm and the vice-like grip he has around your middle, crushing your spine to his chest, your ass to the hollow of his hips where something's rising between your cotton-covered cheeks.

Ben must have expected you to put up a better fight, not go limp the second you come in contact with his semi, because he overcompensates for the strength he needs to yank you away, and ends up taking the both of you down. 

The floor comes up so hard your yelp barely overtakes his valve-busted roar, both of you a tangle of knees and elbows for a second before you slam the back of your head into his respirator, an accident— but a beautiful accident.

"Hngh!" The grunt vibrates through the back of your skull, down your neck where it kisses one of the ventilator domes. Somewhere, steel clatters; the dagger lost in the battle.

There's a confused woof from your bedroom, but it's nowhere near upset enough for your liking. And that's when you remember, with the clarity of somebody remembering their own name, 'Hey, you can scream ya know, did you ever think about that, you dumbass?' 

You croak out a "Help-" that doesn't get anywhere near loud enough before Ben claps a gloved hand over your mouth, rolling you onto your stomach, that semi's now a full-on erection, jammed up between ass and upper thigh. It feels like you can't breathe because of it, but that's just his weight crushing you into the ground... you buck up, jerking your body beneath him. 

"Fuck," he groans.

Your hips lift again, abdomen clenching, heart racing, ass working overtime to throw him off.

"S-Stop. Stop, or I'm gonna—fuck-damnitt!" 

The hand on your face rips away, leaving you kissing the floor. Air fills your lungs as his body weight rises, allowing you enough space to scramble out from underneath him towards the coffee table. He's huffing moans through filtered teeth, but the scuff of a boot heel and creak of a belt says he's not done—not yet—so you kick a heel back blindly. 

You meet air and a weird 'oomph' of breath leaves your lungs, but you do it again and hit something stiff and alive. 

"G'hk-" Ben chokes. 

He curses you in a low, ugly string of 'bitch' and 'fucking bitch,' followed by countless, stuttering apologies. "Fuck. Fuh–shhhit. Shit. I'm sorry. I-I'm sorry, I didn't–I didn't mean it, baby."

"F-Fuck you!" You scream, half-galloping to your feet to dash around the coffee table. You need something between you and him, and right fucking now! 

"Sweetheart... C'mere. C'mere, come back here." 

You expect him to still be on the floor, but he's standing with a slight lean, one hand cupping himself between his legs. A warm squelch of pride fills your chest before it deflates, heart stuttering, because he's taking wide-legged steps closer... the knife back in his fist and he looks incensed. You would be too, you figure, if someone kicked you in the dick and balls while you had one hell of a boner. 

"You didn't mean to. You wouldn't–" Ben says as much to you as himself it seems, "–you'd never intentionally kick me in the fucking balls, huh?" 

He takes a step forward, and you take two back. 

"Otherwise you wouldn't get your reward. And you deserve one, 'cause you're–you really are something special." Ben straights with a grunt, releasing his groin to form a quivering fist at his side. "You know that? You're so perfect."

"But-but... I'm not, I swear." You whine it out, not knowing why denying him this belief would help, but tonight has shown you that you're not exactly great in situations like this...

"Shh-shh-shh, don't–don't do that. Don't be modest."

He gestures the knife around your apartment, cutting from the front door to your bedroom, then back at you. "I mean, heh. Just look at this! Look at us! Even-even this, this-this little hard-to-get thing you're doing, that's... boy, it's fun. Real fun. No one else could make this so... hot."

His eyes crinkle behind his glasses with a hidden smile as you shake your head, tongue-tied into silence. No, no, he's so wrong. None of this is fun–none of the things your body is torn towards is fun or cool or... or hot... because what the fuck and why the fuck and maybe if he'd just put the knife down...

"My heart's beatin' so hard right now," he seethes gleefully, "I just wanna rip your heart out with my fuckin' teeth. He'he." 

"Ben," you swallow, lick your lips again and beg him, "you-you don't have to do this. I can just... You can leave, and I'll just go to bed and tomorrow can be so normal. I swear."

He tilts his head at you, almost shy with it. "But don't you wanna just... do somethin' about it? Huh? This-this tension between us." The knife further emphasises his meaning, pointing from him to you. It stays aimed at you as Ben steps forward until you find yourself backed behind your sofa as he circles closer. 

Soon, you're both side-stepping around the couch like some fucked up cyclone. 

After the second roundabout, you tip your chin back and scream for help, "HELP! SOMEBODY! HELP-HELP-HELP ME!!" over and over until your throat rasps raw.  

Ben just laughs the longer you scream. The filtered sound comes out grating and hollow. 

Why has nobody banged on the ceiling, or hammered your door down yet? No one's called the cops complaining, like at all?! No one?! 

Even before your screaming, there was Daffy snarling, there was the running, the falling, the scuffle on the floor. Hell, Mrs. Halloran downstairs complains when you drop out of a yoga pose too hard during her Gilmore Girl reruns, but she's been quiet as a mouse... quieter than usual the past week actually... 

"S-Stop laughing, you-you crazy fucking dickhead!" You shout at Ben, who's bent over, hands on his thighs with the knife handle pinned under his left hand. 

"Hah. You don't–" his shoulders shake, ventilator drawing in a whistling hiss of pleasure, "Oh, honey, you don't-don't have to do that. I soundproofed the whole place." 

... excuse you? What?

It'd be funny, how fast the anger drops off your face—how quick the bottom just drops out of you—but contrary to Ben's amusement, none of this is funny. 

Suddenly, the pleasant surprise you felt when Ben said the Sandpiper Management Company was weatherstripping to keep electricity costs down, and he was gonna do your place first, now makes you feel utterly foolish. The two days he spent checking in to see if you were still at work—if he could come in to seal the windows, to re-insulate the ducts, to spray foam inside your exterior wall... all in the name of preferential treatment. 

Oh, it's so nice not waking up to cars honking their horns at 2am!  You're the best, Ben. Whatever you did was amazing! Thank you, Ben. What can I do to repay you, Ben? Ben. Ben. Ben... Ben...

"Nobody's gonna hear us tonight. Nobody." Ben exhales, like a furnace giving off too much heat. He takes a slow, wide step towards you and continues, "We can be as loud as you want, and I planned on makin' you scream anyway. Maybe–maybe not like you're doing now. Other ways. But... we got time."

A whimper of self-pity leaves you as that hot weight returns. It cups your pelvic floor before fisting it, and yanks forth a dollop of moisture from inside you...

"We got all night. And like I said..." he says while encroaching—while you keep retreating, thighs gliding shamefully together, "... you deserve a reward for being perfect, pretty you." 

Ben ends up behind the sofa, and you end up with the door to your back again, except now you're ready to risk it. If you don't—if you ignore the opportunity—he's going to disembowel you, either literally or metaphorically. Both concepts make you sweat. 

You gauge how much time you'd need to flip the bolt, turn the handle, and outrun him down the hallway. Fuck, you wouldn't even need to do that, just... scream through the crack in the door. Let loose a bottomless scream for help like some final girl in a slasher flick, and let your neighbors handle the rest... hopefully before Ben slits your throat in retaliation... 

You could do that, right? Would you really risk it though? And would he actually kill you? Fuck, you don't know. 

Ben's brows pinch inward, the fine lines deepening across his forehead. You hope he's mulling over the same questions you are, but drawing the short straw. Can he get you before you yank open the door? No, you're way too fast. Yeah... yeah, you can do this. But then his eyes crinkle in a menacing, masked grin and you reconsider the risk.

Instead of making for the door, you swipe an empty bottle of ginger beer off your coffee table, look up at his steamy glasses and confused crease, then slam the end of it against the edge of the table! It boinks off the wood, rebounding up into your shoulder. Not shattering. Definitely not becoming the perfect stabbing implement you had hoped for...

"Aw," Ben says. "Aw, honey..." 

You grit your teeth and smack the bottle down again; it rings off the table and jumps halfway out of your fingers before you catch it against your stomach, heart lurching similarly against your voicebox.

"Sweetheart, you gotta–you gotta hold it up by the..." he lifts his free hand to his throat, where he wraps long, gloved fingers over his adam's apple, "you gotta choke up on the neck, there. You're swinging it like a hammer."

"L-Like this?" You try again, actually taking his stupid fucking advice, but it still doesn't break.

"That's–" Ben hisses a sigh, "Here, lemme, lemme just-" 

"Oh, my God! Just let me–" you break into a shout full of frustration, and panic that just... drops off your shoulders as you gape over at him. "How are you actually giving me pointers after you... you literally tried to drug me with fucking chloroform!"

"Well, yeah." He says it as if you've just asked him why water's wet and air's dry. "How else was I gonna get you down to the basement, huh?" 

"Th-the basement?!" You shout incredulously, not sure you want the answer or not, but knowing for certain you want to pull every single follicle of your hair right the fuck out!

"Hah! C'mon–" he's laughing now, an awful percolated puff, "–you're the one with the Bachelor's in Atmospheric Science, and I'm the guy who–I'm the guy tellin' you how to break a bottle. He'he. You know why the basement's ideal." 

"Then why soundproof my–" No. You stop yourself and reset your grip on the bottle, spacing your feet out hips-width apart. "Just shut up and let me do this."

"There's a little more of an angle to it," Ben offers. 

"I got it!" Your tongue pinches between your teeth. "I've got it..." 

"Yeah, you do." Ben nods along in your peripheral vision, and there's nothing in it but warmth, but it's the last thing he says, the "I believe in you, honey," that sends you over the edge.

You direct all your pent-up emotions and exhaustion into the next swing. It hits where you must have made a teeny fracture earlier, because the bottom shears right off, sounding like a light bulb being thrown against a tree. Thick green glass glitters all over the coffee table, cascading into the rug beneath your feet. 

You did it. Holy shit... and now your laughable bottle is a stabby stabby weapon capable of gutting Ben like a fish. Well. Maybe not that. But capable of cutting him—capable of doing some sort of damage, for sure. 

An unhelpful woof comes from the hallway. Both your heads turn to see Daffodil near the guest bathroom door, overlooking the scene with a tongue flapping between his teeth. 

Some help you've been, you think, then realize Ben's attention is still turned away enough that...

... that you lunge on pure instinct, going for Ben's exposed neck; it's the closest section of uncovered skin; that tendon-stripped band above his sweaty collar, below the mask straps, where a pulse flutters just like yours. 

Before you can slash his throat open, however, Daffy barks and Ben's good eye darts to your oncoming figure. You would have never made it to your door, you realize, gasping at how fast he bats your arm away with his knife hand, grabs your wrist in his empty one, and thrusts it up over your head until you're stretched up on your tippy toes.  

Your breasts bash against his chest as you swing into him, wide eyes at level with a welling pinprick of blood just above his collarbone. You gape at it, dumbfounded and dizzy. The universe couldn't have given you a few more centimeters of room?? 

"That-that wasn't very nice. Not nice at all." Ben snarls, panting in bellows that blow clean hot air over your damp face. 

He yanks you closer by your raised wrist, and your barbells catch on the stiff folds of his boiler suit. Tender nipples stiffen, aching hotly. You bite your lower lip to hold down an embarrassing sound as the friction sends a throng down your belly, between your thighs. You twirl in his grip like some violent one-woman tornado, desperate to separate your body from his. But his knife arm winds around your waist, pinning you in close, his reasoning to keep you from popping your shoulder socket... and yeah, it's screaming, but other parts of you are wanting, and that's far worse.

"Baby, baby... stop this–stop it. You're gonna-gonna hurt yourself if you-"

You spit in his face. 

The glob sticks to his left lens, unhelpfully obscuring his glass eye, but behind the respirator, Ben roars a furious, "GUH-grrrr-" 

Daffodil barks in alarm. Ben's grip on your raised wrist lessens. More howling muffles yours and Ben's joined grunting and hissing and gasping as you wrestle against him for control of the broken bottle. 

Your dog hops up on the coffee table—bark-bark-bark—as glass shards skitter around his paws. He's confused, because these are his favorite people and this is too rough! Play fighting is one thing. Daffy knows roughhousing, but this is something else, and it's too rough–too rough–far too ruff!

Thanks to the unending, bruising yanks you force upon your wrist, mixed with perspiration and Ben's slick, nitrile-grip, you manage to rip out of his hold before he can shake the bottle free. Something catches on the cuff of your hoodie, forcing it up your forearm, but you're too focused on swinging your elbow backward. As you stab forward, Ben fists your throat, thumb on the front of your windpipe. The sudden strangulation foils your aim, green glass skittering off his buttons and harmlessly over his shoulder.

You lose your footing as Ben locks your elbow over his stiff trapezius, banging your temple into the front of his gasmask. Both of you trip back, and he takes you with him to the sofa, where your chests mash together and both of you moan.

Hard dick, you think, frozen for a second as it jabs against your upper thigh. Then, because that thing should not be something you register without horror, you snarl, turning into a whirlwind of tits, teeth, knees and elbows. One of his boots pushes off the coffee table, shoving your lower body up onto his stomach. A palm grabs your ass, and another folds over your bruised wrist before you can jab your makeshift weapon into his head. Somewhere in the scuffle, Ben gets your lower back shoved into the headrest of the couch, arching you over it, his erection jammed right up where your hot and moist and without missing a beat, you pull up your knees, pin them into his sides and use the only leverage you've got to get... the... fuck... away! 

The whole sofa tips... leaning, precariously close to- 

Everything goes topsy-turvy as you fly backward. Fabric rips. The wooden frame slams the ground. Ben rolls off you and thumps into the wall, barely avoiding putting his head through your bay window, and...

... you're groaning beneath the sound of Daffodil barking up a hurricane worthy of a CAT5, being spun by a horrible wave of nausea and vertigo coming from above and below. You slide one hand forward through warmth and wet and shake off something stuck to your arm. A shard of glass pings wetly against the floor. A hot drop hits you just under the eye, and you wince as itchy dribbles run down your arm. 

Did you get him? Did you stab him? You didn't wanna do that but... but what choice did you have? Oh, Ben... I liked you—you idiot...

"Hey. Hey, hey, hey, stop–you're making it worse!" 

A wet nose nudges at your face as you crawl on hands and knees away from Ben, swiping your ginger bottle shiv out of the way where it twirls in a flashing gleam of ruby streaked jade. Why does he sound so worried about you when it's himself he should be worried about?  

He's saying a lot of somethings, like, "Look at me, look at–oh... fuck, sweetheart..." and they're all soft, and every one of them arrives half a second late as if you've been huffing that chloroform again, "Oh, no. Oh no no no no, honey, what did you... what did you do?!" 

It's like the words are getting to you underwater. 

Daffodil bumps his nose into your cheek again, and a drop of sweat drips off your chin. You reach out to steady yourself against the bay window, which in hindsight isn't the best place to put your weight, but also proves you weren't actually getting as far away from him as you'd thought. Your hand skids across the glass in a red streak as you drop down on your ass, turning your arm over in your lap.

A long, bloody gash runs from your wrist to your inner arm, where it curves in a disgusting flap of skin, almost indistinguishable from the pink—now red-soaked—wrinkle of your torn hoodie sleeve. 

Oh, you think. That's... that's not good, is it?

Blood gushes like scarlet syrup from a scored maple tree. Hands pull on your wrists. It doesn't hurt, you wanna say, it's just warm, and there's a lot of it, but your tongue feels fat in your mouth.

You pull away when Ben tugs you into his chest, but he cradles you anyway, hefts you up onto your feet, and then... then he throws you over a deceptively strong shoulder.  

"No, no, no, no, no," Ben repeats, walking you toward the kitchen. His stomping changes from wooden creaks to sticky fly-trap steps once he hits the tile. 

You blink dazedly at the utility belt strapped around his waist, fading in and out of some weird limbo state, watching the empty loops and tool-pockets dig into his narrow hips. The glint of a sheathed knife—the same one you've been avoiding since he slammed your bedroom door—winks at you, and you narrow your eyes...

"Don't worry. You-You're my girl. I've got you–I'll fix you."

A wet tongue licks your cheek, laps up your nose, and you draw away from the gross film of slobber mixed with your trickling tears, snot, and sweat. A sharp whine has you reaching out for his scruffy neck. 

Poor Daffodil, you think weakly. Don't you worry about little ol' me...