Abigail

 

Part of me regrets turning down the girls from work when they asked me out with them this evening. Part of me wishes I could find solace in the drink and chatter of a regular Friday night out with colleagues.

Once upon a time I loved weekend drinks with people from work. With him.

I stare at the words on my laptop screen, my heart pounding with a strange mix of horror and excitement.

I shouldn’t click the OK button. There’s no way I should post this online, and definitely not with one of those arty obscured pictures of myself with the contrast raised up high and my hair covering half of my face.

I’m standing on the edge of a precipice, staring into the unknown, and it’s so stupid to flirt with disaster by inching that bit closer to the darkness, but behind me is just more of the same. More days at my desk, more evenings trying to convince myself life is good here. More fake smiles and self-help books as I try to get through everything that went so horribly wrong back home.

I used to browse profiles on this website when I was younger, plucking up the courage to explore some of my darker fantasies. I never did. I was never brave-slash-reckless enough to risk it, not back then when life felt right.

But now it feels like a different story.

I send a text off to my parents with the usual things are good message I’ve been sending them every week since I arrived here. I reply to the photo message I got from my old friends with their miss you note scrawled underneath.

I miss them too. So much.

But neither of those things pull me back from the ledge.

No.

I need to do this.

I need to feel something. Something other than… this.

My finger hits enter, and I hold my breath as the screen changes to a tick with profile uploaded written underneath.

Fuck.

I’ve really done it.

I click on the link to my new sex hookup profile and take a breath as I see my picture staring back at me. It’s really there. Live. The green circle at the side of the image tells the world I’m online right now.

The words look even worse somehow now they’re out there to be seen.

I’m seeking my monster in the darkness.

I’ll run but you’ll run faster.

We’ll play cat and mouse until you catch me.

I won’t know you, and I’ll pretend I don’t want to.

You’ll pretend you don’t care.

I’ll tell you I don’t want it.

You’ll tell me you’ll take it anyway, and then you will.

And it’ll be rough.

One wild night where anything goes, and then we’ll never see each other again.

I feel like such a crazy as I read it back. My message sounds… off. Too confident maybe? Too callous? Reckless?

I click to edit, and when I feel the lump in my throat I know I really am on the edge. I’m tired. Tired of trying, tired of playing normal. The urge to bare my soul is too strong to ignore this evening, to be authentically vulnerable just once, even if only a handful of strangers use it as masturbation fodder.

My fingers are jittery when I type.

Please… I might sound crazy, but I need this. I’ve always needed this.

Please help me feel alive again.

I’m not seeking a psycho, just someone who can help me feel alive again.

I can’t face looking at my updated profile with its little green online icon, so I close the laptop as soon as I’m done. I sit on my bed in the tiny apartment I hoped would feel like home by now, my knees pulled up to my chest as I stare at the patterns the streetlights make on the wall.

And then my phone pings.

Once, twice, and then again.

My email is on fire. My nerves are burning as I scroll through the early responses. But they’re shit.

Hey babe. Ur hot.

Wot you up to sexy?

Love your pic. Gonna fuck you up good.

No.

No, no and definitely no.

How big are your tits?

You wanna get fucked real good?

Wanna cam?

And on and on they keep coming. A sea of idiots who haven’t even bothered to read my profile.

My outpouring feels pointless, my confession nothing but a potential in for jerks looking to get their dicks wet.

I flop back onto my bed with a sigh, and then I laugh. It’s one of those self-deprecating laughs that almost makes me reach for the how to heal your broken heart books on my nightstand.

What the fuck is happening to me? Really?

My dick is ten inches. Wanna see?

You like girl on girl?

And then I get my first dick pic. It’s blurry and from a crappy angle that make his balls look too big. Show me your pussy.

One day, when life is good again, I’m going to confess this stupid evening to whoever my new best friend here happens to be, and they’ll laugh and I’ll laugh and I’ll show them these messages and all the crappy requests I got. They’ll call me crazy and I’ll smile and say I was, and this will all be a distant memory.

He’ll be a distant memory too.

But not today. Today these messages are all for me.

Maybe these messages are the universe’s way of answering my deepest fantasies. At least the universe has the sense of humour I’ve been lacking lately.

Ur one hot dirty bitch.

Do you take it up the ass?

Maybe a Friday night wasn’t the best time to post a new online advert.

I head through to my tiny kitchenette in my PJs and flick on the kettle to make myself a tea. I should’ve gone out with the girls from work, maybe I’d have found a real friend here. Hell knows I need a real friend here.

I’m about to put my phone on silent to stop the endless pings when it pings again.

I’m figuring it’s another cheap one-liner, maybe even another dick pic, but the message surprises me.

Phoenix Burning the username reads. What happened to you?

My heart skips at the question.

I’ve been waiting for it to come for so long. My tongue is parched, desperate to speak the truth. My soul screams for someone to hear me.

His picture is in darkness. There’s only a hint of his face. He looks stern. Serious. Brooding.

Maybe I’m seeing what I want to see.

I take my tea back through to the bedroom and fire my laptop back up. I read it again on screen, those four little words. I stare at his picture like it could be my salvation, weighing things up. Weighing up how much I really want this.

And then I type…

 

* * *

 

Phoenix

 

I’ve been on this site sporadically for the past three months. I’ve never messaged anyone. Never even found anything that offers a passing interest.

The profiles are a blur to me – pictures all blending into one.

None of them ever make me pause.

Until now.

I guess the weekends are the hardest. The nights when I’ve finally got Cameron settled to sleep after a long week, when I’ve said goodnight and prayed this is the night he’ll say it back. When Serena has gone to bed and I’m still wide awake, alone with my own company.

Lonely.

I haven’t been out socially since Mariana passed away, not between taking care of Cam and getting the business back up from its knees. I’ve not once taken Serena up on her offer of staying up late in case Cameron wakes up while I’m off out somewhere.

I haven’t wanted to meet anyone. Not like that.

I still don’t want to meet anyone like that.

I just want…

Fuck.

I slouch back in my chair, the profile still on my screen.

I just want…

I just want to feel alive again.

I’ve never been one to hide from the truth, and the truth is that a woman like Mariana was never going to be my forever. I’d have given anything to make it so, but even if she hadn’t run off that night it would’ve been some other night down the road.

A woman like Mariana was never meant to settle down in this sleepy town with a man like me. She was never meant to play happy families in sweet suburbia.

The fact that she tried it was a beautiful miracle. Beautiful madness.

That woman, Mariana, with her wildness and the flames in her eyes, and her reckless impulses and the soul she wore on her sleeve – that woman ruined me for all others.

I gave her my heart and she gave me my boy. I gave her everything I could give, but still she wanted to run. Harder. Further. Faster. I could only chase her so far.

Turns out that wasn’t far enough.

The profile on screen isn’t like the others. Raven hair obscures most of the girl’s features. She’s staring at the camera with one beautiful wide eye, her high cheekbone stark against the shadows, her expression so… lost.

Beautiful.

Wild.

I don’t know what it is that feels so familiar about this one random woman’s picture. She looks little like Mariana. Mariana was tanned and strong-featured, with dirty eyes and a dirty laugh to match. The woman in the picture reminds me of a black swan, elegant and etheric. Deep. I can’t stop staring at her.

That’s what’s familiar about her maybe. The fact that I can’t stop staring at her.

The darkness in her eyes. The way it feels like her soul is calling through the screen.

Maybe I’m finally breaking down. Maybe this is the moment the clockwork reality I’ve created to get Cam and I through this horrible nightmare crumbles into chaos.

I can’t crumble into chaos.

I read her words again, just to be sure I’m understanding them.

They seem to fucking good to be true.

I’m seeking my monster in the darkness.

I’ll run but you’ll run faster.

We’ll play cat and mouse until you catch me.

I won’t know you, and I’ll pretend I don’t want to.

You’ll pretend you don’t care.

I’ll tell you I don’t want it.

You’ll tell me you’ll take it anyway, and then you will.

And it’ll be rough.

One wild night where anything goes, and then we’ll never see each other again.

The girl may not look like Mariana, but Mariana could have written that profile. Mariana was the one who begged me to bring her fantasy to life.

She was the one who got me hooked on the chase. Addicted to the darkness. The thrill of the hunt.

I shouldn’t entertain the idea of one wild night where anything goes. There’s me and Cam and a business that needs me on top form to navigate the financial pressure of a pending insurance claim.

Maybe this profile isn’t even serious. Maybe she’s just a girl who gets off on flirting with danger – because that’s what this profile is, just one big beacon of recklessness for the dregs and the crazies and the desperate out there.

The thought concerns me more than it should do. She’s at least twenty-five – plenty old enough to make her own dumb decisions. The string of potential assholes I can only assume are flooding her inbox are none of my business. Not my problem.

I’d force myself to click on next and forget about her if it wasn’t for the extra lines of her profile that appear when the screen refreshes.

Please… I might sound crazy, but I need this. I’ve always needed this.

Please help me feel alive again.

I’m not seeking a psycho, just someone who can help me feel alive again.

The words hit me in the gut. Hard.

Mariana’s ghost laughs in my ear.

I’ve always needed this. That’s what she said to me in the shadows the very first night I caught her.

I stare again at the screen. Please help me feel alive again.

Alive again.

Melancholy grips me by the throat. Alive.

It’s been too long.

I wonder what happened to the black swan that took the life from her. I wonder why she needs this.

I wonder how many assholes will be beating down her door for a cheap shot at getting their rocks off.

Many, I’m sure.

My question is simple. Impulsive.

What happened to you?

I’m almost certain she won’t reply. I’m positive I’ll just be one of the masses of messages she sends to the trash bin when she realises this site is full of douchebags.

I’m a heartbeat away from signing out from adult hookup and talking some sense into myself when the message pings.

And I’m one breath away from crazy myself when I bring up her reply.