“Even when the sky is falling down, don’t let me go,” I smiled while he was singing this song for the 200th time expressing his conditional love. Pictures makes you conjure up all the memories you’d have always wanted to hide under walls. This was the last snap we had together. Him reciting his fake love songs and me giving him fake appreciation. I closed the drawer and walked towards the kitchen holding the photo in my hand. “Here goes the last one,” I uttered while incinerating it. My dustbin was full of ashes of our memories.
Being single is a pain in vulva, not carnal but brutal pain. Who wouldn’t like the quintessential pleasure of vocal orgasm? That thought empowered me to bear his voice. It’s not wrong when people say, “love is blind.” We had sexted each other for months. From “Dreamquest” to “50 Shades”, we had traveled a long way. He had often licked my ears, tapped my ass, or even worse, propose me for marriage in order to convince me to come over at his place. A hungry lion is sexier than a feral tiger. But before his hunger dies, I had to take a step. I still remember our first night. It was neither explosive nor mild. Our frequencies matched more than our thoughts. We didn’t have sex. In fact, I didn’t pamper his body like other moronic girls do. But, he did worship me.
The next time, foreplay was much better. It seems crazy but I’m more inclined towards trailers than climax. He was amazing until he touched his filthy little wang to my sacred vagina. How dare him affront the goddess he’s been worshiping so far? He is supposed to bow down to my thighs, pucker up his juicy tongue and show gratitude towards my clitoris and deeper ends. His devotion should be delineated by the intensity of his kisses, not by his libido. I’ve always been taught that girls are goddess. A symbol of virtue and purity that every boy venerates. I still remember how my mother was killed when dad found out she’s a whore, and that’s where she got money from for my schooling. My dad was a society-driven drunkard. I was carried away by two forces. One, to maintain my sanctity. Two, to extinguish the fire of a teenager inside me. I did both.
Just like my mother was punished for losing her saintliness, he deserved a retribution for intending to affect mine. I picked up the roses on my right, crumbled its thorn, pushed it down his penis and choked his mouth with roses. Tears were dripping off his eyes. I picked up vase from the table, pounded it against his head till its broken into pieces and scratched his navel with the pieces till the the blood reached deep down his testicle balls. I tied his hands and leg around the bed. I took off the live wire from circuit, pressed it against his chest and prick. Lastly, I had cut his eyes, nipples and wrist with a blade.
That was not the end. How could I let his soul be rest in hell when I could do worse? His dead body still lies in the gutter, with all the dicks who tried to smear my virginity.