That Was Her

This is a very jolted tale containing three perspectives! The bitch, the pig and the narator! The pig and the bitch are described at first and then separately they reveal their side to the story to the narrator in third person (paragraphs in italics)! It seems confusing at the beginning, but once you get into it, everything should come together! thanks for reading xXx





Pretty eyes. He had those pretty eyes. Not necessarily the ocean blue kind that a girl could stare into all day and get lost within their depth and mystery, but the warm kind. The kind of eyes my Dad has, the eyes my mum sees. His smile was significant; it made up much of who he was, much of who I saw, who we saw. He played with his hair too often when it wasn’t tucked under a hat, used his hands too much in expression and jolted around too much in his excitement, but I didn’t mind. She did. She loved to hate his quirky bounce, his cheeky smirk and those pretty eyes.

Black hair; jagged, short. Deep, scattered green eyes, dark coloured shades, lined with black ink. The black beads, the steel-punched tongue, the long nails: that was her.
Stern expression. Emotionless. She strode with immediacy; she spoke with perfect formation of sound, sentence, word… she cackled like a witch, glared like a bitch, queried your every thought until your mind reached the surface of the supermassive.

He’d ask where the nearest McDonald’s was from my house, what my Dad liked to eat for dinner and he’d tell me stories of his many slag-like, cat-like adventures where he used and abused all the tit-twits who never quite tuned in. I liked that, listening to those stories. I liked the way he saw things, the way he described things.

They were round, perky, juicy, bouncy, eatable, squeezable, likable, big, perfect. Perfectly big. They were all his hands wanted to touch, all his tongue wanted to lick, mouth wanted to suck.
She was a shell-like creature. Lived in her shell, ate in it, slept in it, flicked in it, dicked in it. She was quite content with those defined barriers she built for herself. Those who were in it never knew and those who were miles away thought they were scratching the surface. That’s how she liked it.
I knew her though, at least, I think did. I knew her as much as she let me know her.
She liked to sing. She liked to drink good coffee and try foreign foods. She hated many things and loved little. She wanted to sing on stage someday, just her and her guitar; ‘just like the character ‘Jenny’ in ‘Forrest Gump’’ she said. I was the person she chose to talk to.

‘Get ‘em out’ he’d taunt ‘whack ‘em out babe.’ She hated being called ‘babe’ he’d knock on the door “ello beautiful, how are ya?’ she’d scowl and slam it shut. He’d ask me what her favourite kind of chocolate was; he’d wink and deliver a square or two to her door with a glass of ice-cold water. ‘Just some ‘Bourneville’ for ya beautiful.’ He’d say.
‘Thanks’ she’d say, and smile wryly in his direction. I found his attempts funny, she never did. She found them an insult; she was one of them feminist types. I liked that about her. I liked the fact that he never gave up; to him it was just an extra piece of fun in his day, to her; it was always something bigger.

There was a tap at my door, she entered, same expression. ‘Hey, you awake?’
I grunted. ‘Did you hear anything?’
‘No.’ I said, which was a lie, I had heard it all, but I liked the way she told stories ‘what happened?’ I asked.

‘He did the usual ‘hey beautiful, how are ya? Can I get you a drink?’ jibber jabber? But this time, instead of just taking all of his bollocks, I thought I’d have some fun!’ she rolled her head left to right, licked her teeth and grinned through staggered laughter.
I locked the door; she crossed her legs, sat on my bed.

‘Would you like to lie down?’ she said, he did. Eagerly, timelessly. She had a plan, he didn’t care, he was too drowned in the ‘this is too easy’ moment. It was too easy. He lay on his front; the itchy cushions of the sofa bed grated his bare chest as he flung off his shirt. ‘Great’ he must have thought, ‘another mouse in the cat bag.’ She put her hands on his back, pushed forward, dragged back. Rotating her fingers into his thin skin. Pushed forward, dragged back. She ran her fingers through his long, greasy hair, pleasure-filled him until he sighed under her control. Sighed like a little girl. ‘Would you like me to use some product?’ she asked, he said nothing. ‘Can’t speak?’ she whispered into his ear, tickling, licking as she pulled away. He said nothing. She squeezed a dollop onto her hand. I heard this clearly through my room door, it made me laugh: silently laugh. She glided the cream over her palms covering every inch; then placed them onto his back. He gasped at its chill. She pushed forward, dragged back. Her nails crept along his shoulders, down his arms to the tips. He shivered all over. She pushed forward, dragged back. Without her prompt he flipped over on to his back. She added more moisture, continuing with the plan. I silently laughed once more. She pushed forward, dragged back, circling the nipple, holding in the puke, faking the smile. Then he pricked up to attention, she rolled her eyes as she sat there with reduced respect for the will power of the male kind, it poking into her. ‘Excellent’ she sarcastically thought.

She pushed forward, dragged back once again, this time holding his gaze. ‘You’re so good at this Babe.’
‘Thanks, Babe.’ She said, biting her tongue. A minute of silence passed. ‘I know what you’re doing.’ Another minute of silence passed. ‘I know how you see me. I’m not an idiot mate.’ The carefree pleasure-filled expression on his face shot away, his smile flattened, his brows frowned, his mouth dried. ‘These’, she grabbed her breasts. He suppressed a cheeky grin, ‘these; they’re all you want.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I know lads like you. I know what you do and why you do it, Babe. So don’t think that you have the ability to catch me; you can’t.’ she pushed down on his shoulders; his prick lost its flow as she glared into his girlish eyes.
‘I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.’ She smiled knowingly, ‘I’m serious; I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.’ He said.
‘Don’t treat me like an idiot.’ She removed herself, stood up, re-adjusted her attire and headed upstairs. ‘Oh and by the way, Babe’ I knew this was going to be a good part, ‘that product I was using’ I had heard this before lying in bed, but it sounded so much better when she was telling the story, ‘it was fake tan.’

She ran upstairs leaving me in fits of suppressed laughter. He walked into the room, rubbing himself down with his special brand facial wipes. I covered my mouth as he stared at me, displeasingly. ‘That birds a fuckin’ tool.’ He said.
‘Oh, lovey’ I replied with a sympathetic smile.
‘Do you know what happened?’
‘No’ I lied. Of course I knew; I just like the way he told stories. ‘What happened?’ I asked.

The psycho bitch with the screw loose minced into the room with a different look in her eye; she spoke, ‘hey darling’ in a deep and husky tone, not short and snappy like usual. He got her a nice drink, because he’s a nice lad and she accepted it with a nice smile. He thought that maybe she was warming to him, but lost interest in her sudden change after a minute or two and started thinking about what he wanted for breakfast in the morning. Full English. She struck up a conversation, which was strange in it’s self; she only ever spoke to him in short abusive phrases before: Fuck off. Go away. Get over yourself pretty boy and, my personal favourite, I hope you wore a box because if you come any closer this foot is not gonna be shy. She asked him about his favourite food and how they should go out for a Chinese sometime because she knew a cheap ‘all you can eat’ down the road; she asked him who his favourite cricketer was. ‘I like a lot of players really; I’d like to be like Michael Clarke, but Ricky Ponting is a legend, I also admire Dominic Cork.’ She smiled at his perfectly thought-through answer. Then, out of nowhere she says, ‘would you like to lie down big boy?’ I knew she hadn’t said ‘big boy’. Of course he lay down. He was feeling a bit warm so he removed his vintage cardigan and diesel t-shirt, folded them neatly next to his wash bag. She fuckin’ straddled him didn’t she. She started touching him all over, rubbing him up and down with freezing cold moisturizer, at one point she even flipped him over and groped his special area. I queried his chosen phrase for penis aswell. After a long session of rubbing and groping she removed herself from his sticky body. And then, she says, ‘it was fake tan’ and then says, ‘you deserved it’ and he didn’t do a fuckin’ thing to have deserved that. The special brand facial wipes with non-perfumed substances came in handy, he scrubbed down his whole body from head to toe, but it didn’t get rid of the stench.

I kissed his forehead, laughed a little and he got me a drink of blackcurrant. ‘Do you think I should go upstairs and ask her what she was playin’ at?’ I shrugged my shoulders and grunted in an unbothered tone. ‘I’ll take some Bourneville with me’ he said and gave me a wink.

That night he kissed her, she didn’t move away or kick him in his special area; she even let him play with her perfectly big ones for a while. He enjoyed that very much.

The black hair, the steel-punched tongue, the long nails, the air of lonely hypocrisy;

That was her.