Zekkass' Stories

Strawberries

2008-08-18T00:57:08Z

Jack didn’t often take care of Neddy. No, not like this – never like this – this was special, and that knowledge made Neddy savor it all the more.

Jack was hand-feeding Neddy. He would pluck a strawberry from the bowl Neddy had prepared, and trail fingers across Neddy’s scars, then up against Neddy’s lips.

Neddy couldn’t explain why Jack was doing this. Perhaps he was going to be punished soon.

He didn’t care. No pain would erase this memory.

Neddy closed his eyes, in bliss, and opened his mouth obediently when Jack nudged his lips again.

It felt and tasted delicious.

Life with a sharpened pencil.

2008-06-30T02:29:27Z

I could have made it a violent scene, and I could have injured – or possibly killed the lot of them.

I didn’t want to, however. Not when that could lead to arrest, to personal injury, and to general unpleasant things.

So I handed over my wallet and kept walking. The identity was false, I could get more money, and it just didn’t matter if I lost it.

I would tell him that I had lost it, however, and so my false identity would be traced.

I smiled to myself. It wouldn’t be worth it for those muggers.

Besides, I was meeting him within five minutes. It was our weekly cafe meeting. We did miss meetings frequently, due to his work, but when we met, it was worth it.

I entered the cafe and came over to sit with him. We ordered our drinks, and exchanged jokes and the weekly update.

I laughed freely, and felt better than I had in a long time.

Passing Touch

2008-06-27T04:45:45Z

It was another mission – I sat quietly in the restaurant, waiting for him to make contact.

He was in a disguise, of course, and I didn’t see him until he sat across from me.

“I’m Peter.” He said, dragging from a cigarette. (I knew he hated cigarettes.) (That also wasn’t his name.)

I nodded. “Peter, it’s good to meet you.”

He smiled, and when the waiter came we ordered drinks and desserts. Discreetly – discreetly, mind you, he touched my hand and I felt the paper as well as the heat of his hand at the touch.

We carried on meaningless conversation about art, and when we left he winked at me and went in a different direction.

I held the paper in my hand, and imagined that I could still feel his fingers on my hand.