after a time had passed, he lay there breathing.
the stillness around him echoed, the night air cool on his skin.
the touches still lingered, tingling vibrations – whispers on hips, on thighs, on wrists.
it ached.
he ached, everywhere.
the violence was immense – torrid air in ragged lungs. the echoes of screams. the echoes of whispers.
finally, he lifted his aching arms, pushed the hair from his sticking face – drying sweat and sorrow.
from the next room, a gun shot from the tv, sirens, “Freeze! Get on the ground!” Lenny Brisco shouts. he wonders, “are there sirens coming for me?”
after a time had passed, he felt the bruises, the truth came flooding in. the cuts drove deeper. and he couldn’t breathe.
it ate at him, raw.
his skin caught fire in a rage and ran out the door into the falling snow.
his body remained caught in the rotation of the humming ceiling fan. in the silk of the cotton cocoon. in the dark of the deserted room.
the scraped bruises on his knees no longer bled.
the voice no longer made cruel demands of him.
but here he lay, trapped. his own skin a prison of pain. his whole body ablaze.
in the stink of drying sweat and sorrow.
About the Author: Æverett 
Æverett lives in the northern hemisphere and enjoys Rammstein and Star Trek. He writes both poetry and fiction and dabbles in gardening and soap making. She has two wonderfully old cats, and a dearly beloved dog. He also plays in linguistics, studying German, Norwegian, Russian, Arabic, a bit of Elvish, and developing Cardassian. Language is fascinating, enlightening, and inspirational. She’s happily married to her work with which she shares delusions of demon hunters, detectives, starships, androids, and a home on the outskirts of a small northern town. He’s enjoyed writing since childhood and the process can be downright therapeutic when it’s not making him pull his hair out. It’s really about the work and words and seeing without preconceptions.