Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Sleeping Beauty ❯ Chapter 1 ( Chapter 1 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Daniel knew this was no fairy tale. He knew that he was neither dreaming, nor hallucinating, nor revisiting one of the many fantasies, featuring him and Mecca in assorted sexual situations, ranging from the really commonplace come-back-to-my-apartment-and-let's-fuck to the . . . slightly disturbing one where he'd fucked her at the cemetery just after his mother's funeral.

The services were over, and everyone had departed, leaving in their respective vehicles, his father and older brother included. He, alone, remained. He'd come alone, and he'd intended on leaving alone. He'd driven himself, arriving in his own time. Instead of joining the family in the front, he'd taken a seat as close to the rear as possible. He'd secretly hoped that Mecca would be seated somewhere in the crowd, but he was later informed that she couldn't come because she'd had to work. Though not there in body, she was certainly there in spirit, and her card of encouragement that he'd stuffed just inside his suit jacket gave him the little extra push he needed to stand up, make the long journey down the short aisle to the pulpit, where, much to everyone's surprise, he eulogized his mother.

He began slowly, uncertainly, his voice barely above a whisper. It was nothing written, nothing planned. His first memories of her, her smiles, her laughter. The birthday parties she threw for him that made him the envy of all the other kids, the special lunches she made so he wouldn't have to eat the dreaded cafeteria food, and always buying two of every toy--one to play with and one to keep Then there were the stories she read him, the music she introduced him to, the movies she let him see. Buying him his first guitar, his first car, and after totaling it, his second one.

Secretly changing his sheets while his father slept because he'd had an "accident." Staying by his bedside when a movie monster had invaded his dreams. Sitting up with him when he'd caught cold or had simply eaten too much. And then there was his extended stay in the hospital after wrecking his car.

Commanding him to go pick a switch after mouthing off to her. Taking the TV out of his room when his grades weren't up to snuff. Telling the principal off when he'd called "no good" and a "perpetual trouble-maker."

Daniel sighed.

Then there were the changes they all had to make when she got sick. There were doctor visits in Virginia. Specialist consultations in North Carolina. Radiation, chemotherapy, operations. She lost weight . . . then her hair . . . then some of her teeth. She couldn't cook for herself. She couldn't clean up after herself. She couldn't dress herself. He and his brother moved back home to help their father with her care, the women of their family, having lives and families of their own to tend to . . . but it wasn't enough. Defying them, doctor's orders and, what should have been, common sense, she tried to get out of bed while no one was watching. They'd been in the living room, watching TV, thinking she was asleep for the night.

She immediately went crashing to the floor and broke her hip.

Reluctantly, they all agreed the best place for her was a nursing home. He visited her every night after work. Watched over while she slept and kept her company when she couldn't. Sometimes she'd scream, she'd cry, she'd hallucinate. He'd try to calm her, console her, keep her from causing herself any harm.

But, eventually, the nurses in the facility found out how she'd been reacting to her meds and strapped her down to her bed. He felt some part of himself die that day, as if all goodness and light had been systematically removed from his life, leaving him hollow, hardened and sad.

Mecca, for her part, did what she could to try to keep his spirits up. Clowning around, talking trash, bringing him food, buying him this-and-that, saying she saw it and immediately thought of him. She was being . . . ridiculously sweet, and he'd felt kind of heartless for not being more demonstrative towards her, but . . . he was losing the only woman who'd ever really loved him, and he was having a hard time seeing beyond that.

She'd tried to distract him on one particular occasions, asking him to go out with her and teach her how to play pool. She'd never played, she'd said, and had heard he was quite good. But he'd kindly (and with some degree of embarrassment) refused, choosing to sit up with his mother, instead. The doctors kept saying "it wouldn't be long," and if he missed her passing for any reason, he wouldn't be able live with himself.

However, he lived to regret that particular decision after learning that it had been Mecca's birthday, and she'd spent it sitting alone in a bar because she'd been so certain he'd say yes.

His mother had lasted another six months.

Daniel sighed again, digging his dull nails into the palm of his hand, trying to assuage the growing sadness in the center of his chest. He was not going to cry. He was not going to freak out the female currently laying beside him by punching the headboard, cussing at the top of his lungs and banging his head against the wall . . . though he was almost certain that was the only thing that would make this awful ache subside and fade.

In his dream, the one in the cemetery, as in real life, he'd stayed by his mother till she was safely in the ground, tucked in by a heavy blanket of dirt. The gravediggers left, the sun was setting, and he was alone. He kept standing there, staring at the raised patch of earth, trying to reconcile it with all the images he still had of his mother. He felt oddly . . . detached from it and everything around him. It was as if he'd fallen asleep and woken up in some hellish alternate reality where everything was exactly the same as the previous day, except something, no, someone was missing.

He knew how things would go. They'd watch him and whisper, asking his father how he was doing, too afraid to talk to him directly, fearing he'd break down, lash out or some other unsettling but expected reaction. They wouldn't mention her name, they wouldn't ask anything of him, they'd simply sit and stare, waiting for his inevitable collapse.

He'd watched her die, after all, and planned every detail of her services and burial. He didn't sleep, he didn't eat, and only left her side when the morticians had to do their state-mandated duty.

Everyone kept watching and waiting. He was "the baby," after all, and was fully expected to take it worse than everyone else. But, he held it together. He maintained his composure and managed to hold his head high despite the weight of his grief.

But here, alone in the dying light, he had nothing left to prove and no one to prove it to. It was quite warm, here in the night air. Stars were shining. Crickets were chirping. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the gravediggers locking up, laughing as they discussed their plans for the rest of the night.

Then it was quiet. So very quiet. Like the hospital room after his mother finally stopped screaming and seizing, and she just laid there. Still. Quiet. Silent.

His father had immediately bolted from his chair and started screaming about calling a nurse and getting a doctor. His oldest sister tried to calm him down by burying her face in the crook of his neck, telling him it was over, and she was gone. It felt as if the room had dropped 20 degrees in temperature, and Daniel had to wrap his arms around himself to keep from shivering. It was cold now, and that particular moment in time was forever frozen into his memory.

"Get a doctor," his dad kept saying.

Daniel covered his face with his hand and went down on one knee, too tired to stay upright. "Shit," he heard himself say.

"Lose something?"

His head snapped up at the sound, quickly searching out its source as he ran his hand down his cheeks. Thankfully, his face was still dry. "Mecca?" he remained kneeling on the ground.

She stood there, dressed in white, a single white rose in her hand. "I would've been here earlier, but I had to work. Terri told me where . . . uh . . ." she seemed to be fumbling for the right words, not wishing to offend him or further upset him, he supposed. "Where uh," she gestured to the raised earth, the headstone and all the other plots around them.

She cursed under her breath, rolled her eyes (which were blue that day) and just spat it out. "Where they buried your mom!" She quickly covered her mouth and closed her eyes, apparently horrified at how loudly she'd just spoken and how her voice echoed time and time again around the vacant grounds.

Involuntarily, he cracked a smile. It was very rare that she ever misspoke. "Laid to rest," he mildly corrected her.

She lifted the hem of her sundress and knelt beside him. She was wearing those gladiator sandals again that wrapped all the way up to her knees, and she smelled of cocoa butter and coconut oil. One scent emanated from her skin, the other from the tight ringlet curls in her hair. In truth, this was the closest he'd ever been to her, and even though he knew this was a dream, and she was only here because he wanted her to be, he couldn't help feeling slightly claustrophobic, as if she'd moved too close too fast.

"I really suck it this," she said, tossing the rose on the pile of dirt. "Funerals and . . . stuff. I'm always afraid of saying the wrong thing or doing the wrong thing and making the person feel a million times worse than they already do and," she drew in a deep breath, "I wasn't even gonna come. I mean, I went to the wake yes-- Wait. Ya'll call it a viewing, don't you? But, anyway, I'd already offered my condolences and handed out the cards and--"

"I liked it," he cut her off.

She merely stared at him.

"The card," he clarified. "Every other one was 'sorry about this,' 'sorry about that.' In your time of grief, in your time of loss, in your time of sorrow. With our sympathy, with our deepest sympathy. With regret, with sincerest regret. And then there were the religious ones about 'being called home' and 'joining Our Father,' and, frankly, they all made me wanna throw up. I mean, not to be rude or anything, but after you hear so much of that shit, you just want people to shut the fuck up and leave you the hell alone. But . . . yours wasn't like that."

She laughed somewhat uneasily, wiping something unseen out of the corner of her eye. "I looked at all those cards. I mean, all of them, and they just didn't . . . feel right, you know. I figure you're feeling pretty bad already, and the last thing you need or want is pity, so I tried a different approach." She looked at him and smiled. "I looked in the Encouragement section."

Though it felt somewhat odd, he didn't move when she put her hand on his bended knee. Her blue eyes softened then she began reciting the card, word-for-word, not missing a single punctuation mark.

"Whether you realize it or not, you're a pretty sensational person." Color rose into her caramel-colored cheeks, her eyes falling from his face to the pile of dirt before them. "I've been a big fan of yours for quite a while, so I ought to know."

This time it was his face that colored.

"I've watched you face difficulties with determination and confidence. I'm impressed by how hard you work and how well you deal with every new challenge." She paused there a minute, something seeming to catch in her throat. "You're a winner . . ."

He moved both of his hands to cover the one she'd placed on his knee. She was shaking.

". . . not because you never lose, but because you are always willing to give it a try. So keep reaching for your dreams. And please remember," she looked up at him then, "I'll always be cheering for you and wishing you the best."

"E. Cunningham," he said. He didn't know if the author was a man or a woman, old or young, living or dead, but he'd never heard such welcome words in his entire life, and he was grateful for the obvious gift he/she possessed in writing such a thing.

This was a dream, mind you. The card was real. Mecca's appearance at the viewing had been real. But, in real life, he didn't see her again until a week later when he felt he could finally show his face in public. The only mention they made of the card was: did you like it? And, yes.

But in the dream . . .

"I don't want you to be sad," she said. "I know you can't help it, and I know it's . . . natural, but . . . I can't stand this . . . completely helpless feeling in the pit of my stomach. It's somewhere between nausea and hunger, and it's just . . . unbearable. It's sitting there and watching someone suffer, knowing no matter how much you want to help, it's not really gonna change anything. Because, at the end of the day, things are what they are, and that's just the way it is . . . shitty as it may be."

He . . . snapped at that point. That was it. That was everything he'd been feeling over these past 15 years: diagnosis to death. He did everything he could for her, but, in the end, it was nothing. She still died, and he still missed her. He started shaking from head to toe, his chest clenching, his breath seizing, his eyes stinging.

She put her head on his shoulder, looping one arm around his waist. "You can cry if you want to." She spoke lowly into his ear. "I won't make fun of you . . . this time, anyway."

But he didn't cry. He crushed his mouth to hers, forcing her lips to part with the probing tip of his tongue, shoving her to the ground as he drew in ragged breath after ragged breath, seeming to suck the very life from her.

"Daniel," she gasped. "Please . . ."

He knew she couldn't breathe, and he didn't want to hurt her, but he needed her. All of her. He continued to assault her with his mouth, sucking insistently on her sweet flesh till a tiny bruise appeared on the taut column of her throat.

She turned her head from his. He was getting her dirty, rubbing dark soil all over her white dress. "Please," she said again. "Not here . . . not now."

He knew it was obscene, an abomination, to attempt to take her on this mound of earth where his mother slept so soundly below, but . . . "Please," he pleaded, trying but failing to part her thighs with one of his knees. "Mecca . . . please . . ."

She felt so warm, so soft. He'd been feeling so awful for so long, and this was the only thing he'd done in months, no years, that actually felt good.

"I don't wanna hurt you." He reached up, untying one strap of the sundress, pushing the rouched fabric down, exposing her bare breast and dusky nipple. It was much paler than the rest of her flesh and felt heavy in his hand as he squeezed and carefully tested its weight, continuing to grind himself into her still resistant flesh.

"Daniel . . . please . . . It's a cemetery."

"I know. I'm sorry. I just . . ." He wrapped his lips around the quickly hardening peak, teasing it with the tip of his tongue. He sincerely hoped that if he gave her enough of what she needed, she'd give him what he needed. "I need you," he insisted. "Please, Mecca. I'm begging you."

She bucked beneath him, still attempting to dislodge him.

Why? he cursed himself. Why was he doing this to her? Why couldn't he stop? Why did she have to look like this? Why did she have to smell like this? And, more importantly, why did she have to . . . taste so damn good?

Her breathing became heavier, her struggles losing their strength. "Daniel . . . Please . . ."

"I want to please you," he breathed against the side of her neck.

"It isn't right," she nearly whined. "Your mother . . ."

The stinging returned to his eyes, and he immediately distracted himself by burying his face between her breasts, one clothed, the other naked, open, and vulnerable to his hot mouth and teasing tongue. He, again, welcomed her flesh into his body, licking the stiff peak, kneading the firm flesh, suckling her till he felt her arch against him, her hips thrusting against his weeping erection, her hands fisting in his hair, holding his face (and, therefore, his mouth) firmly in place. "Come for me," he quietly commanded.

Her thighs parted, of their own volition, and he felt the wet heat of her clothed core as she insistently pressed it against his upper thigh.

"Yessss," he hissed. "So good."

She released the hold she had on his head, running her hands down his back to cup his rear, wiggling her fingers between his legs, lightly brushing against the back of his balls. "Do you wanna . . . fuck me, Daniel?"

"Please," he nearly cried. "Please, let me."

"And you want me to come for you?"

"Please," he replied again. "Please, please, please, Mecca."

She shifted beneath him, relocating her right leg, so that he was now between them. She then turned her head, peering slightly over her shoulder at the earth he'd forced her onto. He couldn't begin to imagine what she was thinking . . . but he didn't want her to leave. He didn't want to hurt her. He didn't want to force her to do something she didn't want to, but . . . He didn't want to be alone. If she left him, he felt he'd never leave this place and he'd forever be trapped by his mother's side, having lost too much of himself to her. He'd be alone. Always.

She looked down at him. "You feel really bad, don't you. It's eating you up from the inside out."

"I just feel sick," he said. "And cold . . . and . . ." He closed his eyes refusing to let the tears fall.

Mecca laughed quietly. "Kind of reminds me of that scene in Monster's Ball between Billy Bob Thornton and Halle Berry . . . Where she's just in this . . . really bad place and needs someone, some thing to get her out of it. So she starts stripping off her clothes and asking him if he can make her feel good." She laughed again. "Really like this, actually. She just whips out a tit and shoves it in his face and--"

He caught himself mid-sob and forced itself back down.

She cupped his left cheek in her right cheek. "Don't do that," she frowned. "I know I said you could, but I really couldn't stand it if you did."

He began to tremble, his breath coming in gulps and swallows.

"Daniel, please." She craned her neck upwards, pressing her lips to his. "Please, don't," she shook her head.

But he couldn't stop.

She immediately reversed their positions, forcing his shoulders to the ground as she straddled his hips. She then brought her forehead down to his, kissing the tip of his nose. "Stop."

He tried to turn his head away, but she held it firmly in place. "Don't look at me," he closed his eyes, blocking out the sight of her. He could feel the warm water running down his face and into his ears. "Please, dear God, don't look at me."

"Shhhh . . . it's all right."

He was going to be sick. What kind of man acted like this?

He pushed at her thighs, refusing to open his eyes. "Get off, Mecca. Please . . ."

Quiet.

He knew she was still there. He could feel her. But he couldn't hear her. "Mecca?" He wanted her to leave. He didn't want anyone to see him like this, least of all her . . . but, he didn't want to be alone either. "Say something, Mecca."

He heard her sniff, then he felt her descend upon him: her stomach to his stomach, her breasts to his chest, her cheek to his, then her lips to his.

It was wet. Her cheek. It was just as wet as his. He opened his eyes.

When she noticed him staring at her, she stopped. "Fuck me, Daniel."

The sleeping female beside him stirred, moaning most erotically in her sleep, rolling over, mouthing his name, smiling, then falling back asleep.

Daniel rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, that old, familiar feeling rising in the pit of his stomach: nauseas but hungry.