I, Jack by Daniel Donche
I am in her mouth and she swallows, gags, coughs, pauses briefly to catch her departed breath and I am in again, warm strings of tears tracing down her soft skin, and this is how it always is, because she doesn’t know how to handle it, her judgment methodically/chaotically impaired by his inability to love her the way she wants to be loved, thus in her darkest, most vacant moments it is I she turns to, in whom she confides, whose careless prescription never suffices to heal, only systematically destroys her, slowly erodes her with the despotic treatment she persistently calls upon me to supply, from which she cannot escape, and yet through all the pain she returns to me time after time, imperceptibly transforming into an enervated slave as the pillars of her life crumble to dust all around her, and she uses me and I her—the same scenario played out, repeated, with each interlude, ending only when she collapses in a wretched heap of puke and hair and spit on the icy, pitted tile, wallowing in salty tears with a stomach full of bitter-hot liquid until she finds me, brings me in again, tomorrow and the next days; I’ll be waiting for her at the liquor store as always.
Daniel Donche is an avid liar, most especially of the written variety. In addition to a handful of self-published novels, his shorter work can be found desecrating otherwise upstanding websites throughout the electronic realm. He can be found at home on http://dandonche.co.