I, in strange, theatrical madness cursed her for her lack of love profession, for loving my face, my hair, my strong, powerful body, but not that crud... disgusting thing lurking in my pants. That silent, grotesque lump of God-given clay yet to be molded, for all hope, to die in the dust with the humming of the cortex, those strange fibers of consciousness wrestling angsty teenage love, my sweet Kimberly… she’d dated someone I’d thought my friend. Society’s law kept me from killing him. I would. I reach for the second book on the bottom shelf not even realizing what I am grabbing. It was one of the “Grey” books. Fuck. I put it back and he starts walking towards me. I bend over and grab the Third book. He is now almost directly behind me. I stand up and start to fake read the book. He leans over to me and says. “My name is Mr. Smith. Your husband was not joking when he said you had nice legs.” He chuckles. “Look to your left. That is the bathroom area. Go in the second door and lock. More

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