Chapter eighteen:

 

 

I look through Carrie’s kitchen cupboards because I’m really hungry. I missed dinner, just like I missed work. She has soup, and that’s good, but she doesn’t have the soup I like, and that’s bad. She has tomato soup, and I really don’t like tomato soup.

Tomato soup stains everything it touches.

“You shouldn’t be eating this stuff, Carrie,” I say. “God knows what it’s doing to your insides.”

I cook some baked beans instead, and I eat them from the pan because she doesn’t have any clean plates or bowls. They’re good beans too, so at least I know she’s not completely lost.

I want a coffee, but her milk is sour. I drop the carton after I sniff the contents. It’s not just sour, but super sour. It spills on the floor. It’s lumpy and creamy and vile.

“You shouldn’t have this in your refrigerator,” I say. “Because the sour milk will turn everything that’s near it bad.”

And I wonder, for a moment, with the door to the refrigerator chilling my slowly drying rain-soaked body, if that’s what happened to Carrie. If she was turned bad by sour milk. Because she’s not acting like herself at all.

She used to be kind, caring, and compassionate. She was always gentle. She was never violent. She was never angry. She was sad a lot though. But I don’t see her sadness now; I only see anger and fear. But I don’t know why she would be angry with me or why she would fear me.

I make myself a black coffee, and I have to put three sugars into it to take the bitter edge off. I need something to calm my nerves, and coffee normally calms me. Today it just leaves a bad taste in my mouth. And that’s not good. It reminds me of the vomit in the back of my throat.

I go in and check on her, and this time I’m careful in case she’s tricking me again. But she’s still knocked out. I drink my coffee and I walk around her home, touching her things. I like to touch things; it grounds me. It keeps me present. I like smooth things, not rough things, and she has a lot of smooth things. But everything is dusty or dirty, and that’s not good. I wipe my hands down my drying jeans to get rid of the dirt that makes my skin crawl.

I find her cell phone still on the floor. I dropped it when she ran. I open it right up because there’s no password on it, and I tut because that’s just stupid and dangerous. I look through her text messages and I see she was texting Adam earlier. And then I see the pictures she was sending him and I feel both sick and eager to see more.

She’s naked in her pictures to him, and she has her fingers tucked inside her soft pink folds. Sometimes I can see her face, other times I can’t. I prefer the ones where I can see her face though. Adam never sends any pictures back, but he tells her how to pose in the next one she sends him.

‘Touch yourself.’ ‘Lick your lips.’ ‘Grab your nipple.’

I want to text him and tell him never to contact her again. I could pretend to be Carrie, and I could say he had a small dick and my orgasms were fake, and I was never satisfied with him because I was always waiting for someone else. And I’ll mean me; she was waiting for me.

I’m itching to do it but I don’t, because I know that he might turn up here then, wanting to know what the hell was going on and why she was being so rude to him.

That thought makes me panic, because he has a key, and he could turn up at any time.

“Fuck!”

So I do text him then, but I just ask when I will see him next.

He replies almost instantly, like he was waiting for me to text, that he can’t come now until Tuesday because SJ would notice and he’s supposed to be having family time with them all this weekend.

I smile.

He texts back to send him another picture to get him through the lonely days.

I say no, that he has enough, and I put an X on the end so I don’t seem rude.

He texts back immediately. I can see him texting because the three little dots appear, and he messages to send him a picture now, because it’s his phone and he ‘pays the fucking bills, bitch,’ and he wants to see my pussy now. Not my pussy, obviously, because I’m a guy and I don’t have one, but he thinks I’m Carrie. And I’m like, shit, what do I do now?

So I send back, ‘one minute’ and he says ‘hurry, I want to get one out before the wife comes back upstairs.’ And I feel sick, and I kinda feel sorry for his wife too. And I’m wondering what the hell Carrie ever saw in him, because he’s a douchebag.

I go into the living room, and Carrie is still out cold. I tap her cheek with the palm of my hand but she doesn’t even groan. And God I hope she’s okay and wakes up soon, but not yet because I have to take a picture of her pussy and send it to Adam, and I want to kill Adam for making me do this. And as I unbutton Carrie’s jeans, I’m grateful that she’s a slut and didn’t put underwear on.

I pull her jeans around her ankles and I spread her legs and I take the phone and snap a picture of her beautiful pink pussy, and then I stare at it for a moment in awe.

Not the photo but her actual pussy.

I feel hot and sick and excited all at once.

I want to touch it, her. And I’m tempted to, of course I am. And I know she won’t mind, that she’ll just laugh and tell me she likes to be touched by me. But it feels wrong to do it when she’s sleeping so peacefully. So I don’t.

I send the picture to Adam, and I don’t touch Carrie’s pussy even though I really really want to. I want to know if she’s as warm as she used to be. If she’s as wet as she used to be. I want to be inside of her again, right now, like I used to be.

I pull her jeans back up, and button them, and I know I’m not a bad guy, no matter how fucked up that was. And I know that she’ll understand why I did it. And I know that she’s sent him much worse pictures because I fucking saw them. And I’m scrolling through them, growing harder and harder in my pants.

Adam texts back ‘that did the trick. See you Tues.’ and then he’s gone out of our lives, and I breathe a sigh of relief and close the phone so I can’t look at the pictures anymore and I finish my nasty, black, over-sugared coffee, and I think what a prick he is and how he is using her and cheating on his wife and his family. And I know I’ll never be that sort of man. And Carrie will never be that sort of wife.

We’ll be happy, and we’ll love and respect one another, and I didn’t touch her pussy even though I wanted to, and that shows how much respect I have for her.

I go up to her bathroom because I want to wash my hands. I feel dirty. I pick her clothes up from the floor and I put them in the hamper, and I think, why don’t you put your dirty clothes in the hamper, Carrie? And I shake my head and smile because I know it’s going to be one of those things that we’re going to argue about until we’re old and gray.

I look in her bathroom mirror and I straighten my hair some more. It’s dried stupidly, so I have to wet it and I restyle it using some of her hair products, and I feel better after that.

Then I go and sit on her bed, and I pull my jeans down and I touch myself and I look at the photos on her phone again. And I know I’m disgusting for doing this, and it’s not very respectful of my wife-to-be, but I can’t help it that she makes me so hot and bothered. And I kinda like that I’m doing this where they fucked, because it’s like I’m blotting him away.

I stand up as I groan and come, and I make sure I come all over the bed.

And I make sure my semen mixes with his because again, I’m getting rid of every trace of him.

I can sleep in this bed now, I think as I zip my jeans back up.