But You Are The Wall Crumbling
The sun is blinding. Her wrist aches. She can't move her arms.
She blinks. Twice. She can't move her arms and the room is too bright and the skin on her wrist feels like it's on fire. It hurts to breathe, and she looks down at the weight on her diaphragm. The head resting on her stomach. The hair just brushing the underside of her breasts.
She licks her lips. Smiles.
(It started with a bottle of wine. A perfectly chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio sliding into a nice Merlot slipping into a cheap white zin. It started with Janet's hands on the stem of the wine glass, so perfect and soft. It started when Janet passed Sam the bottle of Sutter Home, their fingers meeting over the label. They froze, silent and still. Janet's lips were soft and wet and bitter when they kissed.)
. . . . . . Wine is made of fermented grapes, crushed by Lucy in her bare feet. Alcohol is C2H-something.
Lucy has red hair. Janet used to have red hair, once, before the blonde stripes. Sam can't find the words.
She is the smartest person in any (in every) room, but she can't seem to differentiate between up and down. Between hydrogen and oxygen, pain and pleasure. Red and brown. Janet's teeth are sharp, but her tongue is liquid and soothing.
She can't see; the room is white.
. . . . . . White light is made up of infinite colours. ROY G BIV is a rainbow after the rain.
She is the smartest person in the world, Jack says, but she can't even find the words to say "more, harder, to the left." Can't find the angle, the numbers, the equation. Can't understand. Janet whispers nonsense into her navel, kisses the mole on her hip.
(They were celebrating, all of them, not being dead. Being alive. And they were drunk long before they stumbled into Janet's living room, bottle in hand. They were spinning and happy and flirting and everything was sparkly and bright in a not-so- blinding way. And the wine was cold and warm and cold again, and Janet's lips were wet against her throat.)
. . . . . . One plus one equals something more than one. A number. She can't think. Can't add.
Her brain is fuzzy. Her arms don't work.
Janet's lips move up her body, slowly. Too slowly. Sam growls. Janet bites. Breaks the skin on her stomach, drawing blood. The Blood Countess lived in Hungary in Romania in Transylvania and Vlad the Impaler is Dracula is Janet swallowing her whole. The room explodes, white and red and black, and she bangs her hands against the headboard. The chains rattle. Her wrists burn. Janet's tongue is circling her breast, just tracing the outer circumference. Her nipples ache. She tries to twist herself into Janet's mouth. Tries. She can't move.
Janet's fingers are inside her; her thumb furious and insistent against her clit. Her mouth still circling.
. . . . . . Circumference. Pi times radius squared. The sun is a star is white is heat. She can't see.