Cato – Foreigner – Imaginary // Smut of Clover

‘why can’t i just find a girl that hates me?’ Cato scrubs the dish rack. ‘then i would just have the victory of having won her over’

sitting in the kitchen googling mint iced cubes – curving the armature of sound

________________________________________________________

‘i swear i’m not from here’

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popping 2 percocet and jabbing her thumbs in her eyes, Petra felt the mucus sliding down her throat.  reaching for an empty glass, ‘water.’
but the gesture spoke for itself.

across the study, Sterne glanced up from his book.  ‘are you ok?  you look very pale.  can i get you a thing?’

‘you know,” Petra smiled and laughed – her words falling like cracked ice cubes, ‘it is in these times of pain that i have to remind myself that i wish you could still touch me.’

she had long accepted the deliriousness of disillusion that came with great distances.  Petra had married him knowing full well the consequences of their ideals.  they both had duties to perform that did not include each other.  She knew it was temporary – a minor set back.

From the days of nightfires to sleepless nights of solitude, they had found it harder to bear.  they were starving – unwilling to waste the time in order to get back on a plane, back to their fields of saltwater, back to the fistfuls of bloodied hair.

The next time Sterne would walk through the door, Petra wouldn’t say anything – only rip his chest open – rob him of his bones and keep his blood in a jar in the fridge.

But she had to wait – there was no amount of time she count on her fingers.  just the constant itching scalp of feigned patience.

Rubbing the blisters on his fingers, 4000 km away, Sterne sat in a chair.  He stared at a screen, not paying attention to the phone that began to ring.
What he did, the people he spoke to and knew and held relationships with, Petra never asked.

‘its yours.  that place is yours.  i’ll never know it, i’ll never have to.  soon enough, we’ll be taking fort tijuana and living off pirate radio.’  she once lied.  ‘it is just so terrible here.’ she moaned.

‘let them have prawns.’

laughter.

Sterne never told her he could read thoughts.  ‘like a vampire!’ she’d say.

whenever they cared enough to be together they never slept, anyway.

‘there’s just no reason to.’

‘why am i always so itchy?!’ tugging at her bangs, Petra felt herself speaking to an empty room.

had she made the whole thing up?

the last thing she could remember was dawn on the hillside.  they had found a field of clover, hovering silently in the pale green light.  running down – the long stems were broken, the violet buds crushed through glass incisors, the violent sweetness in their veins were sucked dry.

and with every blossom in their hands, the lovers braided the stems together like tentacles – each bud placed as suction cups of sex.

every sip filled her with the acidic agony that would last throughout Sterne’s required absence.  trembling in every limb, at least as many as she had had when she was 17, Petra lived on as her own production assistant, milking every emotion from him in order to create.  fully exploiting his frail energy – he lived on, unquestioning of her ability to sway on through the night.  love never lasting more than a lifetime, fueled by self induced torture.

‘you can stop this at any time. ‘ she told herself, on one particularly long evening of stitching. ‘you can go.  this can end tonight.’

formerly the destroyer, Petra caught him in a storm.

the acid was rising in her nose.  the red circles ate her feet were blood – she noticed in was coming from her head.

‘mhmm,’ she shook her head. ‘i don’t think the pills are working.’

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