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His room stunk of Arabian incense, puke, and lava lamp juice. He’d knocked it off the side when his legs started kicking. They cut him down about a week ago, but his mom still can’t bring herself to enter his room. I found tissues stuffed beneath the slats in his bed. They were rock hard from the cum that had dried between the layers. His laptop remained open by the open window, quickly overheating. As I stepped through the broken glass, I saw a pair of bloodshot eyes staring back at me.

“What the fuck?!” I whispered loudly.

I had expected the person at the other end to end the call, but they didn’t. Those bizarre staring eyes kept looking directly at me. The sudden sound of heavy breathing disturbed me far more than the fact that I was cleaning up my boyfriend’s bedroom, who killed himself. The breathing turned to loud moaning, which made me realise that this person was masturbating. I could hear the sound of sloppy KY jelly.

Now, I know I should have just shut the laptop, but something was intriguing about those pair of eyes. A sudden urge came over me, and I started to strip. My fingers lingered by the finely weaved cloth of my underwear. Extrapolating moans fell from my mouth like marbles. The wet sound of masturbation carried on, and I started to shove my acrylic nails inside myself. I was about to make myself orgasm to thoughts of my boyfriend while a bloodshot pair of eyes watched.

When I came, I saw stars. Those stars soon turned into the faces of evil. They kept telling me what a bad girlfriend I was and how I was to be condemned for all eternity. Regaining my composure, I clicked on the screen to see that there were now two pairs of eyes. This time, they spoke.

“You’re a bad girl, Alex. What kind of girlfriend makes men jerk off to her in her recently deceased boyfriend’s bedroom?”

Somehow, they knew my name.

“How do you know my name? Who the hell are you?”

For a split second, I saw humanity in their eyes.

“He’s told us all about you, Alex. I know that you have a piercing on your clitoris.”

They weren’t lying.

“He cried out your name as he died. His whole head turned bright red as the rope squeezed the life out of him. Oh, his little feet frantically wiggling around gave me a raging boner.”

Without a second thought, I punched the computer screen. The force was enough to end the call, at least, if not break the damn thing. I carefully placed two fingers back inside and felt around for the piercing. I yanked it out, which made my toes curl. The beautiful emerald was now covered in blood and cum. Turning around, I gazed at the rope that still hung from the ceiling. I wondered if his head burst open from the pressure. Was it like when you wrap rubber bands around a watermelon until it explodes?

There was a soft thud as a book fell from his shelf onto his bed. It was Goethe’s ‘The Sorrows of Young Werther’. He raved about this book, often passionately telling me that only fools do not understand Werther’s plight. I knew that it was a story about a man who killed himself because of unrequited love. So, if he understood it so viscerally, then who was it I was in love with?

I flipped open the first page, and on a sticky note, it read:

“I found this in the library, but don’t tell anyone I stole it. Let me know what you think. I’ll be waiting.


Your Call Girl.”


After that day, I spent my time calling up every escorting service and hiring one girl per night. I’d turn up with; rope, the book, a billy club, and a gun. They all denied being his lover, but then it all became clear when I thought back to those bloodshot eyes.


Courtenay S. Gray is a writer from the North of England. You’ll find her work in an array of journals such as A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Misery Tourism, Expat Press, Red Fez, and many more. She will often post on her blog:

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