Immortal Chapter One Snippet

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Immortal

Junior Adrian Green

12/4/2013



Chapter one

Monroe

Guy St Cloud’s lust can be a drug for a tarnished heart.

Eager lips ruin candlewax flesh. Hungry fingertips snag through a tangled mess of blond

curls.

I close my eyes and surrender my body to this simple delight in my bedroom, two half-naked

frames woven against the black of lotus flower feature wallpaper. A warm breath ignites the

pulse of my neck, then glides down my throat, starving for affection. The early morning sun

throws shimmering waves as the sun cuts through the arch windows and bounces its buttery

yellow rays off Swarovski crystal ornaments on the windowsill below.

The sound of his breath is heavy while mine is silent, swallowed, and kept captive in inflated

lung, masked beneath unfeeling eyes that blossom in their corners. I bury my boyfriend’s

rogued handsomeness of a face close to my chest; all angular movie-star-villain charisma and

brown hair combed back and black diamond eyes. My hands claw his back in ribbons. My

teeth bite my own lips to swallow my sighs. I listen to the crash of my jeans falling down to

my ankles over the sound of my vest top ripping from my body. I step out of my clothes.

His brawny frame is my brand-new shadow, stitched to the lines and curves of my own as we

fall onto the four poster bed with a thuk. I sigh, dying inside, a bright spark in this cold, dead

world dwindling with each carnal touch.

I pause.

I see the first sign of irritation revoltingly crumple his placid expression, so I go slowly. I

take a long time to wrap my bare legs over his body. I am not thinking about anything other

than the mechanical action of sex. His torso is smooth and tanned and all muscle beneath my

fingers. I feel him growing in private places I have never seen, an active, predatory thirst for

my innocence; it catches my attention and holds it. My heart is depleted and needs a fix.

Guy asks me to kiss his neck, and I do, tiptoeing closer to the invisible line that will seal my

fate. But this is what I need, isn’t it? unemotional and carnal stress relief. Every second that

his eyes watch my navel instead of my face, a bit more of my conscience dies.

I am so quiet.

I look up at the oval light bulbs sat in a crystal chandelier from the French renaissance era; its

teardrop crystals interconnected to gold-leaf links titter, mocking chimes though there is no

wind.

Then he takes charge, and without my voice, he snatches my bare arms and tugs me off him

so he can kick off his chinos; my heart is beating for the first time with an unfamiliar urgency

in between the kicks. The positioning of a bad lad climbing into my cotton sheets, and pulling



me in with him, a risk, shed but still lingering. And then I turn the lights out in my real life to

lose myself in a broken fantasy that brushes the curve of my breasts with a firm touch.

It is something that should be so attractive and tenderly loving that I can’t name it, getting to

know every inch of my wounded body; these wounds are invisible to the naked eye, but are

still there, only to the people who look beyond the meaningless smile and the petty chit-chat

while taking drugs on a ledge on London bridge sometime in midday. It makes its way to my

pink lips, gnawing me again and again. The venom burns and grinds the corridors of my

mind, struggling to name it.

There is no string quartet; there is no music. I am about to give up my saintly virtue.

Something that feels like doubt seems to flutter in my chest.

For frig sake, no, not now I think. It is an anchor weighing me down inside. A soiled virgin

lost in the cold, dead world, offering her body to a king in Britain, hands tugging him onto

me, whimpering. Where his hands go, that something I don’t understand hangs like the tip ofa sword knotted to a rope in a magic show when there is no magic show. Beyond it, scattered

in his kisses, are riddles wrapped in mysteries inside a stranger. I am trying to outrun this

self-destruction, hands snagged in his brown waves of hair, lips kissing his bare chest, and

there, suddenly, is my conscience.

Only it is painting a scenario for me.

It is a girl just like me, stark white in the black day. She is face to face with her prince

charming. Butterflies thump her stomach. My senses are on high alert with it. But it is just a

portrait in a fairy-tale fiction novel if she is willing to climb one thousand obstacles to get her prize. Here, in reality, there is nothing fairy-tale worthy; every tear is a refreshed memory of

the sacrifices we all make to live a lavish life. We all sell our souls for jewels and riches

every day and no one cares because it is the extinction tradition. The lower-class will die

tonight and nobody will bat an eyelid.

I am far away in my private thoughts.

My empty, hollow body doesn’t see Guy coming.

A twinge forces my eyes open to his clammy forehead pressed to mine, he is right on top of

me, his hands pressing me down into the mattress. He is panting quick, heated breaths on my

face, and when I wince, the air bubbles in my lungs.

My fingers curl into a ball on his chest. When he thrusts forward, I recoil and create distance.

Every touch, every stare, every wicked inkling forces a hot rush of tears to roll down my

cheeks. And there it is, he’s sold his soul for womanly riches just like the rest of us.

I am a crushed visage beneath Guy’s body, indecisive now that I am stripped of all armour,

but we kiss again. If he can feel my tears marking his face, he doesn’t say. Stopping is not an

option. Frigid is not an option. I just lay there and turn my face away, watching warheads pull



stretches of L-shaped cinderblock high-rises to pieces in the distance beyond my floor to

ceiling window.

I hold on to those bursts of thunderous explosions for as long as the glass in my bedroom

window judders. Red. And through blotched eyes, flecked brilliantly with every shade of

yellow and orange. Suddenly I remember my tirade and moral latching in my love. I feel

every need to wallow in this – this myth that sex can cure a self-esteem complex, that a two

minute fumble in the sack is my induction to womanhood. I feel my heart diluting.

We cue highly in amped ecstasy, stony, unloved, bitter, sobbing and moaning, fighting Guy’s

bulky body and his functioning testosterone that overpowers Chanel perfume, eagerly sliding

over lumps and lines and curves and dominating his prey on the solid oak bed. His eyes are

on me, corrosive, delighted twinkles, challenging me, holding me, I am his prisoner and I

cannot escape.

There’s another burst of explosions, booming and extraordinary, imbued eruptions with ahostile, faraway cries.

When the glass window shatters, he jumps, as if it is him the bombs has ruined, and rolls off

the bed, where he lays on the floor, curled up across the dark floorboards.

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Immortal Chapter One Snippet