Sydney

I am cooking my shot when the phone rings. I'm no addict but I do have a slightly broken heart. My mother passed this morning and I've been receiving calls of condolences all day. It's 7:35P.M. on a Friday night and I have one thing on my mind – watching her again.
You see, she has not left my thoughts in months. Melody haunts me day and night in that I never had all of her to myself, for eternity. She makes me whole. So whole I cannot grieve my loss.
The funeral is scheduled for Monday afternoon. Melody, pure-hearted Melody, reminds me of a mortician with her stoicism. She no longer goes on that silly blogging website, so I stalk her through her texts. Lately she has been spending serious amounts of time piling on gothic makeup for her dates, the kind that looked slightly drag but complimented her features well. I wonder how much she has changed since the last time I saw her in person.
Enough about her. I answer the phone on the fourth ring.
"Oh my gawd, Cal, I'm so sorry about your mother!" My aunt wails into the phone. "She was the greatest person. Why does God do this to the best people, why?" She goes on for about five minutes in her lamentation, saying all these things I've never heard about my mother. They were mostly stories from when they were younger; things only she would remember. My mother was a severe alcoholic. This day was only coming once she picked up her first drink after having children.
As soon as the call is over, I jog upstairs to my room to go on my computer. My urge to see Melody in public builds as I trace her location through her cell phone. Of course she's getting coffee in the evening.

—

There she is, my angel. Sitting at a table reading young adult fiction, her face blank of expression. She hasn't been laid in months.
There isn't much of a change in this young woman I call my Melody. She looks slightly grown up with a tinge of remaining youth lingering around her face and body; still small-framed, I can easily picture my hands around her slender hips as she rides my cock. Her full lips sucking the tip during a heated foreplay session. I need to stroke myself.
It is dark outside, no one can see me in the parking lot watching her through the coffee shop window in my SUV. She looks so put together for a suicidal lass. Like every teen pessimist transitioning into an adult, she sips her coffee with a stern look plastered to her pretty face. I begin masturbating to her.
Now, she is eighteen at this point in time. It has been a year since I've seen her in person. Her legs… are so long. I imagine myself licking her calves as she reads her book in bed. Her mouth, perfect for giving head in her college dorm to whomever approaches her. Melody is still a broken girl and always will be. She hides it well beneath her little poker face. One I jerk off to often.
I stare at her pale legs as I use both hands on myself. I am three quarters hard as I continue to watch her read her book. She doesn't believe she is sexy. I can tell in how she wears her dress – not revealing in the slightest. I wonder if she got stood up on a date for dressing like such a nun.
Yet, that may be my favourite thing about her.
I continue edging myself to her demeanour. She flips the page of her novel and adjusts her sitting position. Her spine curves as she sits up straight. Is she reading erotica? I wonder as I begin to stroke faster. And faster. Her lips apart at a certain point in her paragraph and I let out a moan. She is too gorgeous. Goddess-like. Gothic. Miserable.
Her stoicism, an obvious turn on, makes me think twice about getting Matt to message her. God, I know she knows. Similar to Arizona. She just hid it well.
I know this because when she spots me staring at her, she is startled. Fuck. I watch her in return, careless if she recognizes me or not. She did promise our little secret would stay between us, no matter what. And she knows where to come whenever she wants free drugs. She can't possibly look at me with any disdain.
My anxiety builds either way. I put my dick away and continue my gazing. She lifts her hand slowly and does a thespian, sexy wave towards me. I flash my lights. She hasn't forgotten after all.

—


I knew I wanted what I couldn't have with the young woman sitting across from me. An unconfined romance with Melody. There was something I saw in her that I saw in no one. I couldn't put into words how much I died for her every night. Fresh into her womanhood, she was ripening before me. I wanted to make her mine.
How I was going to go about it had to take place cautiously. I had no knowledge of how capricious she could be with her dainty little heart. She was no bad girl, however.
I had watched her for months before making my decision to contact Matt. Her harmavoidance was average; she did not seek confrontation nor revenge over petty incidents or painfully deep emotional scars. I kept count of how many times she spoke of suicide on her blog. I kept count of how many scenes of porn she indulged in every week. (And believe me, she was a very horny girl). For months, I ruminated on how far Matt would go to wreck her consciousness into seeking some fucking help.
She had posted twelve photos of her self-harm bruises. She had taken a liking to pinching herself near her elbow – where tracks usually formed in IV heroin users. Her aesthetic outlook became rather gloom, as if she wasn't enough already. The blog, for example, revolved around haunted carousels, animal rights activism, various methods of self harm and suicide threats written by the lady herself.
It didn't take long to get Matt on the phone.
"Yo, I'm trying to sleep." He answered on the fourth ring.
Thinking of only my Melody, I didn't even know it was 3:30A.M.
"I've e-mailed the link to her social media accounts."
A natural prowler, Matt woke immediately. I could hear him opening his sleeping laptop and typing in his password.
"Her name is Melody?"
"Yes."
"She doesn't look easy, man."
I sighed. "I can do this one in my sleep. Just get her in my hospital."

—


I fell asleep that night in a tranquil slumber, my cock in my hand upon a cold breeze coming from the window. If there was one thing I kept in regimen, it was leaving the bedroom window slightly creaked open. Waking up to a cold bedroom was a guilty pleasure.
I will not inform you very much of my past. What became of me was pityscum on the bottom of my ex wife's stiletto heel. Whom I had been over for decades. Her disappearance, however, left a mark. I couldn't help her out of her depression.
I don't need to spell it out. She killed herself, in less words.
Some people blamed the bipolar. I blame the loneliness; another delicate flower weeping amongst her broken dreams of a perfect marriage. Miss Anne Watts could not conceive. She had no hope for a life without children.
I did my best to keep her satisfied. Balancing work between life at home became difficult after I had taken over Dr. Rashid's position at the psych ward. Beforehand, I was the outpatient psychiatrist. As glad as I was to oblige to my new tasks, things took a turn for the obvious worst.
She had stopped talking to me. For weeks. It wasn't that I had specifically done to her in switching to longer hours. Anne had just broken down, at the end of her rope with the odds against her. Every interaction – cold and flippant. Every expression she would make would end in some sort of discomforting silence. Followed by her leaving to the room to sulk in the master bedroom.
She was impossible. Every attempt to make her feel better was a complete and utter failure. A train wreck, if you like. Some days she couldn't talk. I felt her dying of depression right in front of me and all I could do was suggest medication and sex. Which she didn't take well to.
Anne threw a fucking fit over the most harmless suggestion. It was citalopram; 10mg.
"Who do you think I am, one of those psychos you spend all day around?" she raised her voice over dinner.
"It will take the edge off. All I ask of you is to try it for four weeks." I reassured. She didn't listen. Like any ill-educated person would.
The bitterness just worsened from there. She began calling me "Shrink". Separated our bank accounts. She was getting ready for a divorce that I was ready for as well. Her infertility had changed her into a melodramatic depression case that went untreated by her will; a huge fucking mistake I had made by not forming her.
She didn't even make it to court. There I had found her, wrists slit vertically in the guest room closet.
"Why," I said at the sight. The pain in her face, I couldn't handle. "How the fuck could you do this to yourself, love."
I was in shock for three days straight. Hearing of a patient's death forty-one times will desensitize you. Finding your wife dead never leaves you.
The grieving didn't last as long as expected. It was two months, to be exact. The brokenness that existed in the air between us had dented what was left of our bond to where I could only feel terrible, unconditionally ruined, for a short amount of time before I had moved on.
Which is why you might wonder where my affinity to younger women came from. It wasn't overnight. This manifestation had taken place once I had first met Sydney Brooke, a broken borderline with the most promiscuity I had seen in any woman. Even hookers, which she was at a mere eighteen. She courted just about everyone with her looks of lust plastered to her pouty face. Her almond turquoise fuck-me eyes completed her foxy look.
Her dirty blonde hair was like a curtain over her face. In every conversation we had she would flip it like a fan, her following cat-like demeanour serenading her aura. I wasn't in awe of her like half the psych ward was with her skanky Marilyn Monroe impression..
She was confident all right. She had charisma despite being an plethora of everything you saw in cheap prostitutes and kidnap victims. Her vanilla fragrance followed her everywhere she went, similar to people and their slight obsession with her. I wanted to test the waters with her. But something kept me.
Her sleep patterns were normal. She listened to the staff. She took her medication, ate her food. Something told me she had been to jail before.
I viewed the report the psychologist had with her. She didn't have a drug of choice despite having tried just about everything. She admitted to being a street kid growing up but not belonging to a gang. Her affiliations outside of family were of such however. She had never freely mentioned being incarcerated, which I easily imagined her flipping her hair triumphantly as she told Dana Clark, who had completed her admission.
In all my conversations with Sydney, her leopard-like blue eyes wandered horizontally as she spoke. She reminded me of a hunter with her seductive, captivating smirk. How she had mastered her feminine side at such a young age tempted me to ask her to volunteer to run groups with the psychotherapist.
I lead her into a private room one afternoon and had her sit down on the couch. I sat down next to her unprofessionally, her playful facial expression not changing.
"You smile a lot for a woman who I somehow diagnosed with clinical depression."
She laughed out loud. "I love me a psychiatrist with a sense of humour," she purred, then put her hand over her mouth to whisper, "I took ecstasy an hour ago."
I only responded with a chuckle.
"I will prescribe you a higher dose of Lexapro for your comedown." I insisted on saying to her despite it not being information many adults took seriously. They honestly believed the doctor knew best in most cases. "It's only a five milligram difference."
"Those aren't my forte."
"Neither are they mine."
Her facial expression softened. She knew what I meant by that. I didn't have intentions on openly admitting to being a heroin addict; only three staff knew on the floor. Sydney Brooke reminded me of a future nurse with her critical thinking and carefully placed words.

—

I ended up bending her over and licking her pussy as I both lifted her skirt and spread her open with my hand. I traced my fingertip around her butthole, occasionally dipping it in to see how well she took to tender anal penetration. It wasn't long before I shoved myself in and pumped into her tight vagina, an organ she took care of very well being a sex worker.
She stood on the tip of her toes and bounced like a naughty teen who had snuck out that night. She made sure to contract her walls as she only focussed on bouncing on the tip of my length – the most sensitive part – as her ass continued to smack down against my hips occasionally.
I came inside her, my cock throbbing as she swayed her hips to my finishing off.
"Thank you, come again." She said as I slipped her a one hundred dollar bill, something she had requested sometime before I went down on her.
Sydney Brooke. Quite the provocative woman.