She was in light spirit. They were in the other room, it was clean, the bed soft with the rattling of recently washed bedsheets. The window was open and the clear starry sky could be seen, no neighboring buildings from that angle. He smelled of fresh soap and cologne, snoring by her side. His hand touched her arm in his sleep and moved forward to her waist. It became slowly aware of her, bringing him closer to consciousness. He moaned and moved his head to kiss her on the neck.

“Why not?” She thought, not particularly in the mood, wondering that it would mean another bath after. It was hot, anyways.

It was still quite simple, then. She could not foresee how harder it would become as years went by. He was gentle, as usual. He had not become hesitant, then frustrated, then angry and rough. Yet.

But even as she slowly began to fall in that state of abandonment closely followed by the strain of building pleasure, she could fell that something was wrong.

She suddenly realized that she was panting, not out of desire, but out of fear. She wondered in slow motion that he would not notice, he could not tell the lines carved between her eyebrows and her growing moans now from her usual face of lust. Unless she told him. She tried to wash away the escalating sensation of anguish. “Why now?” She thought, now that everything seemed to be all right? Maybe she could just bear it, for the sake of starting over. Because she wanted everything to be well again.

But she just could not. All of a sudden she realized she had stopped breathing. Behind eyes shut there were images floating, lurking and she knew it was not about him, it was not his fault. She did not want to see the images, memories of things she was unaware of having experienced. But she could not open her eyes, she would have to look at him and she could not look at him, not now. But neither could she just bear it, she could not control the urge to push him away. And she did.

But he did not realize it was not the repulsion that comes from unbearable passion, not this time.

“Please, stop!” She did not know if she had said it aloud. She began to struggle and squirm. He groaned startled when she punched and kicked.

“What?!” Still panting, he released her, scared, worry washing away with paleness the flush of pleasure.

She stopped with a halt, eyes wide-open, breathing heavily, tears still rolling by the side of her face into her ears.

Was she screaming? “No-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no!” She remembered she had.

“What happened? Did I hurt you?” He tried to touch her but she cringed away.

“I don’t know.” She just pulled the covers up to her breasts and rolled over, her back to him. She just wished she could explain; say that she was sorry, that it was not about him. But now she could barely stand his voice, his heat, let alone look at him.

He did not understand, but at least let her be, jumping out of the bed and dashing out of the room.

She just wished she could vanish. She swallowed back the bile. She did not dare to close her eyes again, lest the images would come back. Oh, tears. Now she could keep them open and yet not see.

Wow. I think I have an idea of what this is about, but I'm not presumptuous enough to just make that claim. But it definitely sets a mood, no matter to how one may interpret it.

The best aspect of the piece lies in its language. There are a few passages that just roll off the tongue, and the final passage is just golden. I think the beginning could use a little work; the narrator's lack of passion is reflected in the writing, and I'm not so sure if that's how you meant for it to read. If you brought some passion out in the words, through more imagery or metaphor, it could make the experience itself that much more compelling during her change in behavior. I'm not suggesting that you delve further into the actual flashback, because you've done a fine job conveying that feeling already. But perhaps if we're given even a little hint as to what triggered it, more than you've offered, the piece's dynamic and tone could be changed a bit for the better.

Not exactly a feel-good piece, huh? Good work.

thanks, man! it's good to read that i can write well in English, it being my second language.

about the first part, the detachment is not of the narrator, but the character herself. and about what triggered the flashback, well, it's more disturbing because there was no trigger at all.

This piece contains so much more than what can be described in a post. I'll just leave it at saying that it's amazing on a great scale of levels and shades...

This is very very well written, albeit very unsettling.