As young ones we are bound to make mistakes. When we do, we are forced to live the consequences, sometimes alone. Jane is no different as she lives the consequences of her own action in this short story.
Written by Khojo of@genesisproject and
@steemitashanti
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Time passed by in a blur.
One moment they were stealthing their way down the long hall and into their room, the next moment they were together, the only music been heard was that created by their own moans. She knew this would happen and she'd dreaded it. Fiften minutes ago, she was reluctantly hiding behind a block of fear; fear of how painful it'd feel; fear of losing her V-card to the wrong person.
But with just a kiss, all the anxiety which had bottled up in her, disappeared into nothingness. Now when John touched her, she quivered no more. When he plastered his lips against hers, she didnt shudder with fear-- she embraced it with unparalleled alacrity.
She enjoyed it, she allowed it. Wether it was a mistake or not, the moment had come, and proven her wrong.
John loved her, she thought.
The way he touched her in homes of untold pleasures; the gentleness with which he carassed her as they laid together; the passion which gazumped the way he kissed her, those were signs of love and passionate.
Yes she got it. They were making passionate love.
So she immersed herself in it. If it were a pool and she was, hitherto swimming on the surface, now she was underneath the surface of the water. When he kissed her, she kissed him back. Recollecting the stock of kissing skills she had honed over the years, she snaked her fingers on his bare skin causing a moan to escape from him.
'He likes it,' she thought.
They laid together, their bodies bare to the shimmering chandelier which hang from the ceiling.
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Jane awoke to the sound of nothing but the fan whoozing comfortably overhead. She ran her hands across the bed in the hope of catching John, but he was not there. She couldnt bring herself to wake up as she was very tired nor could she spot whether John was there or not as her eyes stung bitterly from the air which wheezed past her. She settled on the idea that he was in the bathroom. So she laid on the bed, quietly, taking inventory of the room:
For a single room, it seemed very big enough with a small table hosting a samsung LED T.V. Two beds were carefully aligned against each other while a chair sat very close to one of the beds. There was a locker for storage of articles and whatnot, a small refigerator, and art works everywhere. An art of a beautiful girl whose hands were clasped sat on the table which hosted the tv while another of Dr. Kwame Nkrumah was bolted to the wall. The wall was painted white which lent a peaceful and happy ambiance to the room.
Everything seemed alright, or atleast they were until she realized something was out of place. It wasnt the TV remote control which had fallen down or something of hers which had gone missing, it was John.
John was nowhere to be found. John had left.
First it was rage, then it wasn’t. It was replaced with coldness—a slaughtering coldness, then it wasn’t. Maybe they were playing ‘hide and seek.’ But wasn’t it too early for such shenanigans?
“John,” she called out as she left the bathroom. The bathroom was the only hideout in the room so if he wasn’t there, then he wasn’t anywhere. At least not at a place which was close enough to her.
The rage which had dissipated previously came flooding back accompanied by an instant feverishness in her eyes. Then she felt the cold slash through her again. She felt a knot in her stomach untie, a heaviness was released in her stomach. She was light. She was heavy. For a moment or two, both seemed like a duet made in heaven. She felt the walls of her heart tighten, then an instant palpitation which matched Usain Bolt’s movement in the tracks. The pain was unbearable. It was slaughtering her.
She rummaged through the clothes which laid straddled on the floor for her phone. She had to call John. He couldn’t have left without a word, could he? As she searched unsuccessfully, the phone chimed. Tracing the sound of the notification, she took the phone, and double tapped on the screen:
Message from sweet mother: where are you? Your father and I, are worried sick about you. Please call when you see this. We love you.
Tears started to cascade down her eyes before she could stop them.
She sprawled backward and sat searchingly on the bed again. That was the fifth time she'd sought support from the bed. It seemed to be a more faithful companion than John who had left without so much as a message.
Then as if by fate, she saw a piece of paper on the floor, flapping obliviously to the air which blew from the overheard fan.
In a heartbeat she picked it up and then wished she hadnt picked it up, as the words, like red-hot shards pierced her, limb by limb, until her body became sterile to the pain :
I HAD A GREAT TIME WITH YOU. DON'T LOOK FOR ME. ALL THE BEST.
JOHN
Far away from the gregariousness of the city, she sat, alone in a hotel room, used and dumped like a cliched fantasy.
A shiv cut through her, ripped her heart out and smeared it across the floor. Then she died, a long painful emotional death!
IMAGE TAKEN FROM GOOGLE.
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THANKS FOR READING.