Eight by Ella Hickson- Astrid

People talk about guilt as if its an instinct. That the second you do something wrong you feel guilty. I don’t; what I’m feeling is power. You always join the story at the part where they’re sorry, where they’re begging for forgiveness; but there’s something before that, there’s now. In the space after the act, but before the consequences, when you’ve gotten away with it;  when you’re walking out of an unknown door, back down unknown streets and it’s still thumping in you-dawns breaking, dews settling and you’re skipping back home flying on the thrill of it, you can taste it. Even back here, the quiet click of the door, the tiptoe in-the alcohol is wearing off too quickly, I want it back our bed and everything that makes up life, our life-and-I don’t feel like a traitor; I can lie here whilst another’s mans saliva dries off my lips, and I can remember another mans face bearing over me and I enjoy it, I enjoy that all this seems new again.

His alarms going off in 10 minutes. He’ll roll over and grunt, curl himself around me like a monkey with its bloody mum. Just like every morning. He won’t notice that anything’s different-he wont see the mascara down my face or that my hair is wet, because I’ve been running in the rain to get back before he wakes up, he won’t notice that I haven’t been here, that I’m drunk, no-for him I became invisible a long time ago.

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