Scarlet Unleashed

  SCARLET UNLEASHED

  Krihstin Zink

  Copyright © 2016 by Krihstin Zink

  ASIN: B01AZOWZ8K

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Design: Justin Temporado of Ready, Set, Edit

  Editor: Wendi Temporado of Ready, Set, Edit

  Formatter: Indies InDesign

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  authorkrihstinzink@gmail.com

  Dedication

  To my readers, I hope you enjoy the fire pit you asked for.

  A stranger sleeps next to me. Nothing about her seems familiar. A frost of indifference continuously greets me.

  Our relationship blossomed with haste. During those times, she would ignite my need to have her, to claim her. Scarlet made me feel as if I was the only person that mattered to her. But now? Now, she’s a stranger.

  I lie still next to her as I watch her—I know that soon she’ll wake up in pain. Weeks have passed since Kate robbed Scarlet from me. Nothing is the same; she’s no longer the woman I fell for. The kind, gorgeous woman I became enthralled by died in Key West. It’s as if an inner-darkness within Scarlet has unleashed. She’s not the woman I pictured my future with.

  But, can I leave her?

  Too often, she reminds me of my role in her change: How I lured her to love me. Scarlet’s often adamant in blaming my love for her as the reason behind Kate’s torment.

  Can she ever love me as she did before she left for Key West?

  Scarlet

  Fuck it! That’s how I feel toward everything and anyone.

  Weeks have passed since I suffered—that psycho dead bitch—Kate’s final attack. Some days, I wish she would have killed me.

  Traumatic brain injury syndrome is what she caused.

  That fucking bitch.

  To some extent, she succeeded in killing me.

  I’m not sure what’s worse, the headaches or the mood swings. Some days, I just lie in bed waiting to die. No one understands my pain. My doctor’s say it’s all psychosomatic; that it’s all in my head. Fuck’em.

  Sex is the only thing that makes it any better, but even that isn’t enough. Maybe it’s David? Maybe I need a new dick in my life? I never knew pain until I endured the consequences of TBIS.

  Nothing is the same, and I’ll never be me. Kate unleashed my inner-darkness.

  “Can I get you anything?” David inquires as he lifts himself from our bed before he heads into the bathroom. I decline his offer with a swift shrug. He’s so patient with me. Most days, I adore him for it. But today, I despise him. I despise him for ever fucking wanting me. The fact is, I wouldn’t be as I am if it wasn’t for him exposing me to Kate.

  TBIS (traumatic brain injury syndrome) is what a team of doctors diagnosed me with. Who knew a bat could do so much damage? Honestly, it’s as if each of Kate’s blows changed my personality. My essence.

  Here lately, even sex has become mundane. My speech is often off and my head always aches. Things that normally never bothered me now either make me cry or infuriate me. Consequently, I’ve taken a liking to spanking David. And, of all things, watching porn. I’d never cared for porn. But sometimes, David’s sweet love making isn’t enough. I want—no, I need—more. Thus, I rough David’s ass up until I get horny enough to ride him before my thighs buckle over. It’s about the only thing that motivates me to wake up.

  During my TBIS treatment, I was informed that I miscarried. We experienced a gamut of emotions following our loss. I constantly feel as if I will never get over it. That shit was life changing.

  Many miscarriage sites say it’ll always hurt, but I don’t want it to hurt. I want to get over it, to just get over all of this shit. But my mind constantly shows me glimpses of what our child would have looked like. Sometimes my mind goes weak, and I become helpless to my emotions. I have no choice but to cry it out. After my cathartic ugly crying, I temporarily get over it long enough to ask David for a dick pic. Now, my cell is full of them.

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into you…but I like it,” is a statement David often voices. Ha! At first, anyhow. Now he doesn’t say shit and just does what I tell him. At first, I worried if he would leave, but it’s been months since my inner-bitch was unleashed. Honestly, the worst I’ve done to him is make him watch as I had my first lesbian adventure. After I lost interest in the girl, I kicked her out and took my sexual frustrations out on David. We went at it for so long… Poor guy—he pulled a muscle and had a noticeable limp for days.

  David was once the experienced partner, but porn has fixed that. Designer clothes and accessories were once my obsession, but not anymore. The Internet feeds my depravity and allows me to get any and every bedroom toy, oil, and video I desire. Now that I live with David, I can have him whenever the inclination hits.

  “I’m tired, babe, not now,” he always mumbles when I wake him up before his alarm sounds. But, I always get my way—always.

  My parents and Violet worry that I have become a recluse. Two weeks ago, I hit my head on my GT-86’s door, and now I have become cautious not to relapse again. I was never clumsy, but nowadays, regretfully, I am. Who knew that unloading groceries could lead to a set back? My progress evaporated, which induced my progress to commence from zero once more. My TBIS pain had once subsided from weekly bouts, but has now become daily episodes. For days I had to lie motionless—no TV, no cell phone, not a damn thing could be used. According to Dr. Sanders, my childhood and now adulthood therapist, “Too much stimulation is anti-progressive.”

  Normal people get a head bump and nothing happens to them. No biggie. Oh. You have a minor booboo. Me? No, if I bump my head…I’ll be bed-ridden for days on end. Thus, I stay home and barely move all day until David gets home.

  After my last head bump, my professional medical team encouraged that I give up working, at least until my symptoms were gone. You can imagine my disappointment. Things were finally feeling normal, as if Kate hadn’t attacked me. But now? Now I’m a survivor that is doing whatever I can to outpace the pain.

  I hear David’s footsteps return to our room. He has a bagel and coffee and he notices me ogling at his food. My stomach rumbles, but I roll to my side and ignore my hunger.

  “Are you sure you don’t want anything?” David probes as he leaves the items on the dresser before he returns to the bathroom. I consider taking his bagel and drinking his coffee, but I know that that would be horrible of me to do. So, I get up and only take half.

  Most days, if I’m not angry, I’m horny. Either way, we end up fucking—daily. Poor David, he stays with me because he adores me. I know I wouldn’t stay if I was the one putting up with someone else’s questionable behavior. But, maybe it’s just the TBIS?

  Sometimes I scare myself with the fury that escapes my mind. And, I become frightened when my thoughts drift to the dark side. Violet, my adoptive sister and sometimes mother figure, was a good influence, and so was working. But now, I have too much time to do whatever I want. Unless I’m experiencing TBIS symptoms, then I’m stuck in bed.

  Our room feels cluttered due to the chaotic combination of our household goods. I didn’t have much to bring to David’s, but I brought what I could and sold the rest. And yet, this place never seems to stay clean.

  A house in the newer side of Quail West went on the market as Violet was sel
ling our home. In an effort to remain near our parents, Benjamin and Elizabeth Belka, Violet made the swap for the newer home. Although I cherished our home, especially my room, I’m taking complete advantage of living with David.

  David exits the bathroom and notices that I’ve taken some of his food. He glares at me until I give him a pouty, playful glance over my shoulder.

  “You know I would have made you something,” he teases in-between bites.

  “I know. I wasn’t hungry until I saw your food,” I retort before I stick out my tongue at him.

  He tells me he has a busy day filled with appointments but no births. David’s become quite the OBGYN in Naples. Sometimes he amazes me. All his efforts to maintain his career and take care of me. His actions say it all.

  David questions if I need him to make me anything. I shake my head. He shrugs then leaves the room. I wonder how long his patience with me will last. How long will he love me? How long until my unleashed-inner-bitch drives him away?

  He returns to our room to say goodbye. His brilliant-blue eyes are tilted with sadness. In an attempt to cheer him up, I kiss him. My lips taunt against his as I massage his package. He hardens, so I linger in all the right spots. His lips lift to a smirk. But once again, his phone rings and interrupts us. He sighs in annoyance then answers his phone.

  “Hello? Yes…Yes. All right. See you soon,” he responds in a curt tone before he ends his call and then returns his cell to his pocket. He stares at me apologetically and says, “Wait for me.” I roll my eyes and recline to rest my head against my folded hands. He kisses me before he leaves our room. His footsteps fade as I hear the front door open and then shut with a quick twist of the dead bolt.

  Since Kate passed away, for the most part, I’ve recovered most of my life. I continue to rest, in bed, and evaluate what I should do for the day. There is no one I can hang out with because it’s fucking Monday, and everyone is working. Except for Elizabeth. I’m pretty sure she is hungover or even up drinking.

  My adoptive father, Benjamin, has returned full-time to our family business, Belka Design and Realty, while my adoptive mother, Elizabeth, is a drunk. When I was a child, my birth mother abandoned me in Waterside Shops: A local Naples Florida Mall. I never knew any other biological family but Clara. During my trip to Key West, when I failed to escape Kate’s torment, Clara revealed in my dreams that my father was a good man, but my biological maternal parents were rich, southern snobs that didn’t want jack-shit to do with my mother or me. My father, James Rodrick, was killed while our family traveled from our Orlando duplex to my parents’ Disney World jobs. After years of never understanding why my mother had left me, in a dream…I finally received the closure I needed.

  With all my medications, I barely dream now. Several pills later and I’m comatose. At least, until I’m ready to fuck David.

  My adoptive sister—one-time housemate and realty and design partner—Violet, is gleefully planning her wedding to Milton Pike. Milton is the owner of a statewide hot spot, Fire and Ice Bar and Grill. I’m glad for their engagement, but, while I’m not myself, I don’t give a shit what damn flowers she selects for her table arrangements. My other siblings, Jade and Adrian, are blissfully ignorant to anyone else’s life. Amber has nothing more to talk about other than her kindergarten class or how Grandma Lucy is steadily declining.

  After weeks of searching, my Key West buddy, Kim, leased and opened her boutique in an adorable corner lot in downtown Naples. My once ex-boyfriend and gay best friend, Tim, has pretty much taken my place as lead architect at Belka Design and Realty. Flora, my college best friend, at first, wasn’t thrilled. Considering her history with BDR, she should have been considered first for my job. Eventually, Flora got over it. Vera, my BDR best buddy, is dating this sizzling hot and beyond sexy underwear model.

  Thus, at this moment, anyone I would want to see and spend time with is either at work or traveling to work. I don’t bother them with my bullshit, so they stopped bothering me. So, I’m here, a head-case mess, waiting for my next orgasm.

  Of course, I’m as naked as can be, wrapped up tight in our comforter. I become sticky as I consider rubbing one out, but then remember David requesting I wait for him.

  Honestly, I have a major case of apathy, meaning I have zero shits to give. After an hour of sulking, I finally convince myself to shower and dress. Nothing in my wardrobe feels comfortable—everything is too loose and too fucking designer. So, I slip into a pair of David’s boxer briefs and wear a camisole sans bra or panties.

  The simple act of washing up and dressing myself has induced my temples to throb. As a result, I amble toward the living room with my pillow in one hand and my cell in the other. Several prescription med containers greet me from the coffee table as I collapse onto the sofa.

  Buzz. My cell notifies me of a text from David:

  David-Did you make it out of bed?

  Me- Fuck you. I mean, yeah.

  David-Why so curt? Do you need me to fill you up with some happiness?

  I roll my eyes at his attempt to be frisky as I rub at my temples.

  Me-My brain hurts and the meds aren’t working…

  David-My afternoon appointments were noted incorrectly; I have the afternoon free.

  “Great! Now this fucker is coming home early,” I blurt out in annoyance. I place my phone next to the many containers of bullshit in a bottle and plop myself back onto my pillow. My ringtone disturbs our silent home. David’s face covers my cell screen, so I let it go to voicemail.

  I venture toward the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water. With effort, I return to my spot on the sofa, and take triple the amount of mood stabilizers as well as pain relievers: Valium mixed with Vicodin has become my new favorite cocktail. I slouch back and wait for my relief to kick in.

  David

  Why hasn’t she replied to my text?

  I thought that texting Scarlet that I’d be home early would at least stir some type of excitement on her end. A sigh of defeat huffs from my lips. Scarlet continuously ignores my text and calls while I struggle to ignore the many sexual advances from Ivy, Jensen and Associates’ new receptionist. Months later, and my birthing center has had success. But, with Scarlet’s condition, it all seems pointless. My home life is seeping into my work, and my adoration for Scarlet has initiated a downhill decline.

  Hands-on Ivy seems to always be there when I don’t want to talk—to anyone. I’m not sure what she’s even getting paid for since she’s rarely in her work area.

  Buzz.

  I glance at my cell phone, with hopes that Scarlet has replied to my text, but I quickly deflate as I notice that the notification is just more junk mail.

  Why do I let myself be treated this way?

  Scarlet’s brain injury has unleashed a new personality. Her doctors warned us, and reminded us of how thankful we should be because she survived. But, honestly, she didn’t survive, as the doctors suggest. I am thankful that Scarlet can at least physically care for herself. However, not a day passes that I don’t feel selfish for missing the woman I fell for. Somedays I loathe myself for even considering ending our relationship.

  However, the last three months with Scarlet have been one act of self-hate after the other. I truly believe she blames me and is therefore purposefully punishing me with her actions.

  As I descend into my OBGYN practice, I manage to be polite enough to greet the faces that speak to me. But my mind is elsewhere. I want to go home—to be with Scarlet.

  “Dr. Jensen.” Again, Ivy lures me into an unnecessary conversation. She struts toward me and leaves the reception desk unattended. Apathy induces my shoulders to slump as I turn to face her. The entrance/exit’s automated doors glide shut before I’m able to step outside.

  “Hello, Ivy,” I offer through a forced smile.

  “Are you all right, Dr. Jensen? You seem…off today.” She’s young, as in recently graduated from college. It’s painstakingly obvious that she lacks comprehension of any type of boundar
ies or the work place chain-of-command.

  As I consider a courteous response to her need to converse with me, she prowls toward me like a fox in heat. Her tits are ample, and she’s noticeably much curvier than Scarlet. Ivy places her hand on my arm, then says in a dick-tease tone, “Dr. Jensen, if you ever need someone to talk to, please, Sir, just know that I can be your someone.” She glides her index finger from my arm down to loop it through my pinky. Her skin is soft and her kindness weakens my will to reject her advances.

  “Ivy!” a new, male, nurses’ aide snaps from behind us. I take a step back then wish Ivy a good evening. She grips my hand as I slide away from her.

  Once I’ve pulled up to my home—our home, the home I now share with Scarlet—dread looms and overflows my senses. I imagine her, still in bed, most likely naked. I’m one-hundred-percent sure she’s masturbating to lesbian porn. Again.

  Scarlet’s brain injury required sensitivity—sensitivity that I have made sure to provide her. But, this shit, the rebellious behavior that she continuously portrays? I’m unsure how much patience I have left to give.

  I’ve forgiven her for every time she’s purposely mixed her meds with alcohol; especially the time I found her in my office—my motherfucking office—with another woman. Of course she doesn’t remember how I found her naked while one of my facility’s new nurses licked at Scarlet’s clit.

  Rage overcame me as I stood, unseen, while this nurse had my Scarlet in pure ecstasy. Scarlet’s moans and thrusts that I once caused were now produced by a stranger. I was utterly embarrassed to have to leave my facility’s Halloween party early so that I could save face in front of my employees. Luckily, Greg, Jensen and Associate’s second-in-command, stepped in to oversee that the party would end on time.

  After I carried an unconscious Scarlet to my car because she was that damn drunk or high—honestly, most times, I don’t even know the difference—I spent my Halloween in an observation state, and I continuously checked to make sure that she hadn’t overdosed.