“A Filipino student overthinks taking her life back from her borderline-abusive boyfriend.”

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“Put it down, put it DOWN!”
Samuel screamed, and Camilla dropped her corner of the set onto the soft, damp grass. It didn’t even make a sound, immediately sinking more than an inch into the front lawn. The look he gave her was homicidal, “I said PUT it down, not DROP it!”
“I DID put it down, fucker!”
“Look at what you did! You probably damaged it!”
“It was FREE, Sam! Why are you making such a big deal about this?” She wiped her sticky, chest-length black hair with faded pink tips away from the sweaty, exposed skin of her neck & bosom, “I just don’t GET it.”
“You don’t have to GET it. It’s not FOR you.”
“Yes, but it’s in OUR space. THAT’S what you don’t get.” She pulled a crushed, almost-empty pack of cheap cigarettes out of her jacket pocket with a lighter, and sparked up. Between her & her boyfriend, the laminate wood-paneled television sat wedged in the ground like a cheap student sculpture.
“Give me one of those.” She reluctantly handed him the pack & lighter, and he pocketed them himself in the back of his pants after he lit one, “You know I love you, but fuck.”
“At least it’s not raining anymore.”
He rasped at her.
He thought his behavior was completely justifiable. He wanted to point out all the furniture Camilla had been buying lately from strangers off social, and exactly how many of his items graced each: none. Not a single one of his possessions lined the shelves of what she so adamantly insisted were their recent acquisitions. He never expected them to – since the sum total of her things compared to his was astronomically larger – but with all her talk of “them” & “ours'”, he guessed he thought he wouldn’t have to fight so hard to bring anything he wanted into the house anymore. That’s how he thought he was justified, as Camilla understood him. And she understood him well.

She couldn’t hear him now from the front yard, but she was sure the couple who owned the house could hear him from upstairs: whimpering from behind his duct-taped mouth, slamming each corner of the bedframe against the ground over-and-over. What did he think? No, what did he really think of her? The clear, full moon beamed bright as she opened the damaged, brittle cigarette packaging: there were only three smokes left, and two were mangled from being in Samuel’s back pocket. Those could be his later.
While she smoked, she thought. She couldn’t help herself. She thought about Samuel & her. She thought about what was going to happen when she went back inside. Would she torture him a bit more? Probably not: the thrill was gone now. The tingling she felt was just an aftershock – she’d probably just untie him and put up with his hostile stoicism. She thought about class on Monday – but only for a moment. She really didn’t have to put up with Samuel anymore if she didn’t want to, did she? She felt the onus was on her this time. She took a nice, big drag, that filled her bare, goose-pimpled chest with the chemical relief she so desperately believed she needed, to help her take the next step.
She was inhaling filter. She coughed, and flicked the butt to the curb. She was prepared to light one of the broken ones too, when a light came on in the upstairs curtain wall. She was cold anyway. Of that, she could decide on.

You could still feel the leftover humidity from that hot summer permeating through their poorly-ventilated ground-level suite. Samuel’s “hobby” was playing old video games: not recording himself playing them or reviewing them, but the posterity of having played them at all. He had accumulated boxes and boxes of loose cartridges worth who knows how many missed date nights, gathering dust in the storage closet underneath the stairs to the second floor. That summer, he was particularly obsessed with reacquiring an old, clunky video game console from his youth. But he didn’t research enough, as he stubbornly realized after getting one off an online auction site for an amount he never shared with Camilla: the picture was distorted on the couple’s modern LCD television. That’s how Samuel explained it to the technologically-inexperienced Camilla, and again she tolerated his hot temper as one tolerates global warming, as he agonized long nights over the internet for answers.
One Saturday morning in September, Camilla was in the bathroom, still waking up. It was almost noon already, and she was sleeping more and more as the days in her life pressed ever forward. Why was it that acne always seemed worse in the morning? It probably had something to do with some stupid cosmetic science, and she wasn’t a scientist. She flushed the toilet and leaned in close to the medicine cabinet mirror: down the sides of her face, beneath the fine hairs she refused to call sideburns. She would pop a whitehead, and the pressure around the cluster would pop another on its own. It would have been an impressive harvest, were Samuel not yelling for her to come to the living room, “Hey! HEY!”
“WHAT?”
“ARE YOU UP?”
“YES I’M UP, GIVE ME A MINUTE!” She stopped picking, used a facial wipe, and joined him on the couch where he was on her laptop.
“See? THIS is the sort of thing I’m looking for.”
“Another TV?”
“No, I told you. Weren’t you even listening?”
“Well I know you said your games weren’t working properly…”
“They aren’t. They only run on European TVs – they have a different refresh rate. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Look at this…” The picture in the ad looked like something out of time: a big, chunky box with brown trim that wouldn’t seem out-of-place on a Station Wagon. For someone who lived her life in the present & whose feelings of nostalgia didn’t stretch beyond the mid-90’s, Camilla didn’t seem the point. For Samuel, his pupils were like stars, “…it’s region-free. That means it’ll play anything from anywhere in the world! That’s perfect!”
“How much is it?”
“It’s free, actually.”
“Really? What’s wrong with it?”
“What are you doing, Cammy?”
“What? I’m just asking questions.”
“Stupid questions. It’s exactly what I’ve been looking for. I’m going to email them right now.” Camilla hadn’t had her coffee yet, and she suddenly knew what she’d be spending the rest of her day doing.
“Isn’t it supposed to rain today?”
“I don’t think it’ll take very long. Look, I already GPS’d the address. We can take the 25 bus straight there.” Samuel’s bullheadedness made her uneasy. But she didn’t want to press him so as to work him up even more, and it was an all-too-rare chance to spend some quality time together. Quality time these days meant sitting in the same room for longer than a minute without fighting.
By one o’clock, they had walked the two blocks up from their rental suite to the bus stop. They sat together near the front of the half-empty cabin for the 90-minute ride. And Samuel was quiet the whole time, like a dog, staring out the window at the people as they passed – especially the women. Camilla could see where his head tracked every time a pretty girl that met his standards shot by.
She put her hand on his thigh. It startled him. She whispered to him that they should go out to eat somewhere. He smiled at her, but he didn’t respond, and within moments his head was back over his shoulder and out the window at a group of migrating high school girls of various types, who were all probably only about 15-years-old.
Camilla knew what he liked, only because that was something he talked about all the time. When he said he liked braided hair, she braided her hair. She never had before, and her nanay never taught her: she always just wore it down or in a pony-tail. But she learned how from watching videos online, and got really quick at it, too – though it didn’t change anything between her & Samuel. When he said he liked redheads, she bleached & dyed her whole head firetruck-red for New Years Eve as a surprise, but all he did was complain that she wasted the money & that her natural black looked better with her dark skin tone. So she left it to grow out, only cutting it back a few weeks prior. She suddenly wondered why she bothered in the first place. Should have just shaved it fucking bald.
Today, she didn’t make any effort: argyle-patterned pajama bottoms and two layers of different colored tank-tops under a heavy Fall jacket, with her hair in a pony. She was glad she wore what she did as the rain spatter began hitting the outside of the bus window. Samuel didn’t seem too concerned in his shorts & t-shirt. She removed her hand from his thigh.

Samuel threw his arm over her shoulder and told her how much he was enjoying himself. He was smiling. This must have been a long time ago.
Two years before, around the same time of year. The three-month-old couple wandered innocently through the travelling carnival that had set up shop in the rotting parking lot of a dead mall. Samuel’s pot was a little stronger than Camilla was used to, but she obligingly took a hoot from his convenience store pipe, and took the razing from him like a champ when she coughed uncontrollably afterward, “Oh my God, are –cough cough– are those cops looking?”
“Who cares? It’s legal now.”
“It’s probably not legal to get ripped in public.”
“They have other things to worry about. Look,” and as soon as the patrol had seen them did they catch a drunk guy in their peripherals, being held up by a girl trying not to fall over in heels. The guy dry-heaved, and then vomited on the ground & onto his and his date’s shoes, just steps away from an open garbage can. They laughed. Camilla looked in his eyes. Samuel was so different then: so confident. An act.
He convinced her to go on a ride with him. It was a rusty, rickety-looking piece of shit, that went up and around & upside-down, and then – for the climax – the greasy-haired attendant in his mid-50s stopped the ride at its apex, so the counter-balance of the two-person seater flipped & hung you suspended until presumably you wanted to die. Camilla gulped. They got buckled in.
And lo-and-behold, they were thrown six-ways from Sunday, more hectic even from inside their cabin than it appeared from the outside. Samuel felt something fall out of his jacket pocket.
But there was no time to think about it: only the harsh epiphany that neither of them were ready to shave their mortal coils just yet. The ride primed for its big finish, and both lovers were done: “LET US OFF! OH MY GOD, LET US OFF!” Both of them shouted equally, the laughter ringing out from the ride’s other cabins surely directed at them. Even when they dismounted, it was like Samuel wasn’t anxious about whatever he lost and Camilla didn’t believe in second chances. It took all their remaining strength & energy to hobble away on wobbly, unsure steps, toward a lone, clean, and dry grassy patch underneath a raised mobile office in a storage container. They collapsed. All they could see from their vantage were the strangers from the knees-down.
It was sunset. They caught their breath. Camilla thought about her orientation on Monday. Samuel wanted her right there and then. He pulled the pipe out, but there was no lighter, and the bowl had emptied inside his jacket pocket. His fingertips were covered in black ash. He wiped them on the grass.

“Hey, bitch!”
“What’s up, bitch?”
“Just on the bus.”
“Oh yeah? On your way to my place?”
“No, no no, Sam & I are out for the day.” Samuel glanced at her. Camilla mouthed the word, “Marcy.”
“What are you two bright shiny stars doing today?”
“We are picking up a TV.”
“Oo-ooo! Exciting!”
“I’ll tell you about it later.”
“Did your old one break or something?”
“…No. I’ll tell you about it later.”
“Gotcha. Well, the girls and I are headed to the spot. We’ll probably be there just after noon, if you aren’t doing anything later.”
“I will text you in a bit, once I know what’s going on.”
“Okay dear, byeee.”
“Byyeeee.” Camilla hung up her phone.

Samuel went into the mid-century Vernacular by himself first, leaving Camilla waiting outside with her hood up. A few minutes later he peeked his head out the front door & beckoned her to come help him. They walked up to the second floor where the TV was already sitting on the carpet at the top of the stairs, flanked by a very old Asian gentleman in a surgical mask holding himself up with a quad cane, who seemed a little too interested in what little of Camilla’s busty chest was popping through the crest of her jacket. She consciously zipped it up the rest of the way.
“Yes, my wife and I were using it to watch Videodiscs, but she doesn’t get around much anymore and it’s only been gathering dust sitting here upstairs.” The old man felt the need to recount the whole exchange to Camilla, too. She didn’t know what Videodiscs were, nor did she really care. The man started to cough.
“It’s fucking heavy,” said Samuel, “do you want to help me just ride it down the stairs?” She kneeled to help readjust the set so it sat flush with the landing, and Samuel wasn’t lying, it was heavy. Really heavy!
“It’s so heavy!”
“I just said that! Just, you go below it and guide it down, and I’ll follow you and hold it & make sure it doesn’t fall on you.”
“Thanks.”
“Can YOU hold it back from sliding over ME if I lose control? Didn’t think so!” The lower corner of the set hit the hardwood on the ground level with a thud, while the old man finished following them step-by-step, cane-first. Samuel took a deep breath, squatted, and lifted each handle at the sides of the set. He panted, flushed-red in the face, lugging it out the open door. Camilla thanked the old man – who was still in the throes of a coughing fit while waving them out – and followed Samuel outside with the door closing behind them. Camilla wondered whether they should have brought masks themselves.
As soon as the door closed however, like a work whistle Samuel stopped walking and set the TV on the wet cement of the home’s front walk, his forehead already sweaty, “Let’s have a smoke,” Camilla pulled the pack out of her pocket while Samuel lit one & handed it back. Camilla joined, “You’re going to have to help me with this.”
“EXCUSE me?”
The rain was falling steady now, and beads were gathering on the top of the set, “It’s too heavy for me to lift all by myself. You’re going to have to help.”
“You expect me to carry THAT thing?”
“I’m not asking you to carry it by YOURSELF, Camilla. And take your coat off.”
“What?”
“I want to throw it over the set so it doesn’t get damaged. Don’t give me that look! You layered up, it’ll be fine.”
“You’re fucking CRAZY if you think I’m keeping this ancient paperweight dry that whole way back to the bus stop while I’m soaking wet.”
“Then I guess I’m nuts. I thought you were the one who always wanted to show off her muscles.”
“Shut UP! This has NOTHING to do with my muscles! You wanted this SHIT!” She kicked the set, and Samuel gave her the next of his many bloodthirsty glares that day.
“Someone’s on their period.”
“Wow. You are digging a hole for yourself SO big, that you’ll never get out of it! Ever!”
“Actually you know what? It’s fine. It’s fine, it’s fine! And if it doesn’t work when we get it home, it’ll be YOUR fault, and I’m not going to let you forget it ALL weekend!”
“If it’s broken when we get it home, I’ll suck your dick.”
“Really?”
“There’s no way in Hell that something built that long ago, that’s THAT heavy, is going to quit from some bumps and some water. I’ll help you get it home, and if it doesn’t work, I’ll give you a blowjob.”
All Samuel must have heard was “blowjob”. That was all the incentive he needed. He grabbed his end of the set while Camilla grabbed hers’ and they waddled down the sidewalk with it, stopping frequently, with only the occasional complaining.

The bus was packed with the three o’clock pre-rush hour traffic, and Samuel insisted they get on that one instead of waiting a little while under the cover of the shelter, “It’ll be worse later. We’ll be here all night!”
The driver offered to lower the wheelchair ramp for them, if only to speed up the whole ordeal, but it didn’t speed up anything. Samuel & Camilla rolled the TV on its side – corner by corner – until it hit the lip where the ramp folded over itself. Since it was a single-file bus door, Samuel had to swallow his pride & lift the TV up by himself to get it over the hump while Camilla pushed from the front. He huffed & puffed and by the time he was done his pale face looked like a big tomato. The fishtank of people hesitantly parted as he beelined backwards without looking and she apologized after him. The driver raised the ramp, and off they went.
She felt like such an idiot. Offering to suck his dick. She knew all he heard was “blowjob”. Even if the stupid TV worked, he’d be way too forward the rest of the night. She just didn’t like anyone talking about her like she was some kind of tomboy. She put the effort in, okay? She knew tomboys when she grew up in the boonies, on her grandfather’s 19-acre lot where she lived from the day she could remember til the day she graduated. And the tomboys she knew you wouldn’t mistake from the girls who made an effort. Just because a girl grows up on a large acreage & spends most of her free time outside does not a tomboy make.
Ugh, the bus was so cramped & humid, and stinky! All the wet people… she only IMAGINED what she must have smelled like. She looked around to see if anyone was watching, so she could quickly catch a sniff of one of her pits. Nope: they were all as embittered as the couple was, and there was no privacy. Samuel should have been jumping with joy from his new toy. Instead, standing over him as the bus hummed along at half the speed it was doing going in the other direction, he stared off into space. Maybe that was better than the alternative: he could be very cruel when he wasn’t being ice cold. She subtly brushed the patch of acne on her cheek across the back of her hand holding the standing loop, and felt the quiver of the sensitive, raised skin react to her touch.
UGH! She HATED giving blowjobs, ever since her high school boyfriend thought it would be cool to give her an unsolicited facial. Every guy who’s watched porn thinks that every girl likes you shoving it down their throat, but they don’t. Unless you were her friend Marcia: that girl could suck the skin off a root vegetable. What did her dad ever do to HER? Actually, that wasn’t true: Marcia’s was pretty nice, and pretty chubby, and pretty bald – none of which matched Marcia’s type, thankfully.
Camilla’s never touched her, so far as she could recall. But she loved her father and nothing like that ever came up. But she did remember the fights between him and her ina, and those fights always ended with sex that went loudly & vigorously into the night, echoing through the old weather-beaten estate she had once called home. She knew what they were doing back then too, but what she reflected on now – more than the carnal embarrassment one has for catching one’s own parents in the act – was the reason why. Why sex? Why not just dinner out? A nice date? Probably because there was never any money. They would fuck like they still lived in the dark ages.
She looked over at Samuel, sitting down on top of the upside-down TV on the floor of the bus, wedged into a corner taking up two handicapped spots. He didn’t care. It never seemed like her mother did, either. Camilla didn’t remember the times she’d tell her that they’d go for walks & hold hands and smile when she was just a toddler. It was like the sex: just a scapegoat. Like her Mom could tell her now that they were inseparable when she was only just old enough to walk – let alone draw conclusions – did her father & mother come to the consolidation that all they had were one another. And they were, until her father was laid off. And then everything became a skirmish.
There was no way Samuel remembered her query about food. He just looked angry. He always looked angry these days. She wanted to run her free hand through his hair and have him look up at her & smile in that way she could still vaguely recall from their honeymoon phase, but that in-of-itself was a daydream. Truth was, she was just as annoyed with him about taking up her whole day with his bullshit as he thought he was with her.
Wow, how long was this ride? In her head, she screamed: Let me off! LET ME OFF! She needed a cigarette, “I need a cigarette.”
“Hmm?”
“Never mind.”
“No, what? What is it?”
“I WANT A SMOKE.”
“YEAH. ME TOO.”
It was hot in the cabin. She unzipped her jacket lower than it was before the visit with the creepy old man, and Samuel couldn’t help himself to look. His look sparked her own need for self-validation, but she wasn’t ignorant to recognize the compromise it meant. Once you lose your innocence, no one looks at you the same way again. Especially men.

And there they stood, as dusk bloomed in the front yard of the Vancouver Special in which the first-floor suite they called home: hungry; wet; frustrated; huffing their cigarettes with the TV between them, pretending for just a minute they were somewhere else. That’s how she felt. Samuel? Maybe he was thinking about being with someone else instead, too. Getting the TV into the house as quickly as possible meant the first-half of her day of attrition was finally over, and the second-half could begin. By the time they quietly finished their smokes, the rain had cooled, and the sweat on Camilla’s bosom & Samuel’s forehead had dried into dead, salty flakes.
Samuel broke the silence: “Are you ready?”
“Are YOU?”
“I’m always ready.”
“Yeah. OK.” Sarcasm. They rocked the set back-and-forth in the dirt until it jiggled loose, then on the count of three they lifted it up and fast-walked toward the side door of the house. They put the set down again. Samuel unlocked & opened the door. They lifted it again. Over the lip, and down on the laminate floor of the one-piece kitchen & living room.
“No no no, not here, over by the outlet.”
Camilla took one last, deep, exasperated breath – hoping she wouldn’t have to take another – and the two of them shoved the set the rest of the way over the floor to the outlet on the opposite wall, making a horrible, high-pitched scraping sound as it did. Samuel hoped it killed some baby silverfish colonies he’d sworn he’d seen while he was high, but Camilla knew what it would look like – less on their damage-deposit return – if they ever bothered to open the shutters covering the partition of windows that faced the street to let some actual light in. Camilla exhaled and immediately sat on the floor in front of the set, unzipping her jacket the whole way, exposing the giant, wet sweat stain on the top layer of her tank-tops. Samuel, on the other hand, was clearly starting to shiver, with the warm forced-air in the suite inflaming his cold-crept skin. He walked across the room to the open kitchen beside their front door & turned the oven lamp on, and its light flickered against them like a candle.
Under this low luster, she could see why Samuel hounded her about her things – her “stuff”. But to her, it all had a purpose. The mid-sized Rubbermaid bin on top of the fridge, next to the cereal, had their first-aid kit and some other emergency supplies in it. The IKEA shelves flanking the hallway wall all had little trinkets & other things on them to make the place feel more like home, from hand-me-downs to other finds – when she ever got to go to the flea market by herself, without the running commentary about her purchases. Sure, maybe she had one too many dresses she never wore, and one or two extra shoes, but that’s why she bought the dressers for the bedroom! So they didn’t have to feel like they were living out of suitcases anymore! She never discouraged him from using a shelf for his things if he ever found a hobby. She just didn’t want him taking it up with his stupid eye-sore video games.
Samuel hopped on top of Camilla on the floor, disturbing her, straddling her, and kissed her.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m cold.”
“Oh? So?”
“I need body heat.” He kissed her again. She had to admit, sometimes his childishness was still endearing. She actively kissed him back, but he could feel her hands on his shoulders, palms out, pressuring him not to go any further, “What’s up, baby?”
“Mm, just keep kissing me.”
“Hold on, hold on…” He leaned up on his knees to take his shirt off, but she reached out, and stopped him. Her bare knuckles brushed the skin on his chest.
“You’re cold, honey. Leave it on and come here.”
“No. I want to take your clothes off and I want us to fuck here with our warm skin touching one another. Like animals! Animals!” He started singing that obnoxious Maroon 5 song. Camilla leaned up on her elbows. A part of her was ready to get up off the floor now.
“I told you we weren’t doing anything unless your new prize is broken.”
“I’ll try that out later.” He leaned back overtop her, forcing her back down onto her back, with a thud. Camilla wasn’t expecting that, and Samuel didn’t apologize. He just kept going, down her neck to her chest, licking back up to her lips, mopping up the salt crystals with his tongue as he did. She exhaled hot, smoky breath into his face.
“Come on, Samuel. Go plug your thing in.” He held her down by her wrists, her arms over her head, fully passive.
“I don’t want to right now. I’m hungry.”
“Well maybe you wouldn’t need a salt lick like a fucking horse if we stopped somewhere like I asked you to.”
Samuel sat up, his thighs remaining locked around Camilla’s hips, “Why do you always do that?”
“What?”
“What do you mean WHAT? Be a bitch!”
“Get off me.”
“No! I’m not getting off!” She started squirming and he wouldn’t let her up. She went in for a smack, but he avoided it, and smacked her back, “Tell me why you’re such a bitch!”
“Because you’re a fucking bastard sometimes!” Neither of them could tell whether they were play-fighting or not anymore. So they stopped. After a minute of catching their collective breaths, Samuel huffed and got up off her, snatching her laptop off the coffee table and stomping down the hallway to the bedroom. He shut the door, and Camilla lay back flat and stretched out her whole body in the reprieve. A text on her phone. It was Marcia. She hadn’t heard from Camilla. The girls were going to spend the night in at the apartment having a Taylor Lautner Throwback night, if she wanted to come by.
For a little over two hours she left Samuel alone, knowing full-well what he was up to, and if that’s what he preferred doing to plugging-in his new toy that she spent all day helping him get from ACROSS TOWN, phew, then let it be. Fucking LET IT BE. LET HIM waste his time, his energy, his SEED on a fucking video! Loser! She was dating a loser! And with that, it was like the burnt-out light bulb in her brain had finally been restored, and all the cracks & damage that lined the laminate floor of her mind were as clear as day. She had to do something.

Their queen mattress sat on a frame with an elegant headboard, that Camilla bought off her social for a steal. It was iron, and a real nightmare to put together, if you asked Samuel. But she thought it was worth it, and the frame’s four traditional rods on all corners opened up her mind to all sorts of naughty possibilities that she hadn’t explored yet, and especially not with the way her man was acting lately, or treated her in general. She wasn’t going to reward bad etiquette.
She opened the door without knocking to find exactly what she thought she would: Samuel sprawled out on the bed, the laptop on his stomach with the volume turned down low but not off completely, the light from the screen igniting his wide pupils while he watched porn & masturbated. No fucking surprises there, then. He looked up at her, “What are you doing in here?”
“You’re going to ask me that? It’s my house, too.” She wasn’t wearing her jacket or the second tank-top anymore.
“I’m trying to jerk off, Cammy. What do you want?” He stopped stroking and started clicking on the touchpad, flipping through his various tabs. Camilla walked over to the bed and closed the laptop on his chest, “What are you doing?” She picked it up and put it on top of the chest of drawers against the wall.
After a moment, Samuel put his arms behind his back, staring at her, exposing himself in all his self-perceived glory, “What’s that in your hands?”
Camilla was holding something, dragging it behind her. It was a free bedsheet that she’d knotted in different spots to make a rope. She hopped up on the bed, straddling Samuel, and started tying his hands to the headboard. Samuel didn’t say anything. And, after she tied his hands, she went and got another knotted sheet & tied his feet to the footboard. When she was done, she stood up, smiling, looking down at him, admiring her work. He squirmed and pulled at the bonds, but they were astonishingly tight. All four of them. He could not move his appendages more than a few centimeters, and the more he squirmed, the tighter it felt.
“Do you like that?”
“That’s nice and tight, dear. Maybe you want to loosen it up a little?”
“Maybe. I’ll be right back.” She walked away, out of the room and into the bathroom, from which its light could be seen from where Samuel was lying in bed.
Maybe he could get out while she was gone? He tugged, and wiggled & writhed, but he could not get free. He just couldn’t.

Time passed. Samuel’s arm blocked the digital alarm clock sitting on the side-table, and he couldn’t see it, no matter how hard he tried to raise his head. “Hey!” No answer. “HEY! CAMILLA!”
“YEAH?”
“WHATCHA DOIN’?”
“TAKIN’ A SHIT.”
“OH.” Nothing. “WHY IS IT TAKING YOU SO LONG?”
“I’M SHITTING, SAMUEL! LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE! I’LL BE DONE WHEN I’M DONE!”
“ARE YOU BEING SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?” Nothing. “HEY! ARE YOU BEING SERIOUS?”
“OH, JUST YOU WAIT TIL I GET OUT OF HERE.”
“WAIT FOR WHAT?”
“I’M GOING TO FUCKING BEAT YOUR ASS!”
“YOU’RE GOING TO BEAT MY ASS?” Nothing. “CAMMY? YOU’RE GOING TO BEAT MY ASS?”
“SAM, THE MORE YOU KEEP BUGGING ME, THE LONGER I’LL BE, AND THE WORSE YOUR PUNISHMENT WILL BE WHEN I’M DONE! NOW LEAVE ME ALONE OR I’LL LEAVE YOU LIKE THAT ALL NIGHT!”
He didn’t say anything after that. Camilla continued popping her zits.

They both agreed they’d had enough, once they regained their footing. She didn’t feel comfortable having him over at her place: a co-op that she shared with some other girls she graduated with from high school. Not because Samuel was a dog – because he was then as he was always – but because “no strange boys over” was the rule. It didn’t stop Marcia from sampling what the city had to offer every other night. Camilla just wanted to cover her own ass.
Samuel’s uncle lived a ten-minute walk away from the carnival site, so they went there. Just a generic fifty-year-old wood-framed apartment building from the outside, and the uncle’s apartment décor fit in to its surroundings like a puzzle piece: dusty antiques; dishware; silverware; and black & white photos of people Samuel couldn’t even identify in their original frames. He led her by the hand directly down the main hallway, foregoing the living room at the far end – that, from what Camilla could see at the end of the hall, any self-respecting man would consider a boner-killer – and instead opened a shut door into his bedroom. Some movie posters from the 90s he’d saved from his room as a child on the wall. Some plain furniture. Clean. And a single bed pushed up against the far corner. How cute: it even had its own wooden head & footboard. How old was he again?
Then he kissed her. She kissed him back, as he backed her up towards the bed. They hadn’t had sex yet: Camilla didn’t want the same reputation as Marcia. But Samuel hadn’t shown any of his cards yet. When Camilla told him that she wanted to wait, he agreed. But in those three months, they did everything but: teasing themselves to the brink; Camilla sitting bare on top of Samuel – save for her panties – while he was fully naked, riding him, climaxing before him, Samuel ushering her to go on, finishing weakly on his own belly. He shoved her onto the mattress, and she slammed the back of her head against the headboard so hard that it shifted off the bedframe.
“Oh my God, oh my God baby, are you OK?” He hopped up and cradled her as she winced beneath the pain in her skull. She knew he didn’t mean it.
“I’m fine. Really!” She smiled and kissed him back. Ouch, that was uncomfortable! She should probably put some ice on it. Samuel wasn’t thinking about her headache. He slid her down the bed so her head rested on the pillow and he straddled her. She could feel his erection just barely rest between her folds through her yoga pants. He kept kissing her. She let him. Maybe she should get a glass of water…
He took off her pants, and then his shirt. Then he slid his pants halfway down around his thighs & inserted himself between her legs. She wasn’t wet yet.
“Camilla…”
She moaned, “Sam…”
“I love you.”
She wrapped her hand around the back of his head and drew him closer, whispering in his ear, “I love you, too.”
He kissed her passionately while he shoved his fingers below her waist and started rubbing her clit.
She did want this, with him. She really did! She just wasn’t sure if this was the right time… but if not now, then when? Was she putting it off because of Samuel? Or was it because of her? The throbbing in her head was shaken with the sensation of Samuel’s strokes forming the cocktail she was dizzy on. He inserted his half-erect member and wiggled & writhed until he was hard enough to start consistently thrusting. If she wasn’t stopping him, then surely it wasn’t his fault, was it?
He looked down at her. There was something wrong: her expression – Camilla was smiling, but it was reserved; relinquishing; not-at-all erotic. But Samuel didn’t stop – not until he was done, finishing weakly, and on her belly.

He just stared at her, with her unmade, inflamed face, red like oxheart, its pores flushed with air and their centers deeply dried with blood. Camilla took off the rest of her clothes to her naked skin, jumped up on the bed, and straddled him, her full weight landing on his stomach & exasperating him, “Oof!”
“Hi!”
“Hello.”
“What’s up?”
“I don’t know. What’s up with you?”
“Oh, nothing much.”
“Are we going to play now a little bit?”
“I don’t know, Samuel. What do you consider playful? Hm? Putting your dirty wiener in my mouth?”
“If that’s not something you want to do, we don’t have to do it…”
“Oh no, no no no no no! That’s what you wanted, right?” She shuffled down his torso so her hips weren’t directly on-top of his penis, and she grazed the shaft with the tips of her fingers, “You’ve been thinking about it all-day, haven’t you? My lips wrapped around your cock?”
“You know I have.”
“Mm, yes, well, we’re going to see what happens. Cause you KNOW I’m really not that interested.”
“Oh?”
“No, not really. I kind of like what we have going on right now.”
“What, incapacitating me?”
“Yeah. That’s fun, right? Fun for me.” She was still touching him, but he wasn’t getting hard. In fact, it was downright embarrassing, “What’s going on down here, Sam?”
“Maybe if you loosened these binds I could relax a bit more.”
“One has nothing to do with the other. But you did give me a good idea…” She hopped off and went over to one of her clothes drawers & opened it, pulling out a hair-tie. She wrapped it around her five fingers and stretched it as far as it would go: no, not that one. She pulled out another: too tight. Another: this one was loose with little resistance, and easily pried apart in her hand, “Do you trust me?”
“What kind of question is THAT?”
“I’m asking you if you trust me.”
“Well, not right NOW, I don’t!” He did. She knew he did. He didn’t have any other choice. She could feel the tingling inside her, urging her plan forward. She walked back over to Samuel and started tying the hair elastic around his shaft, at the base just before the testicles, “Jesus Christ, woman! What the fuck are you doing?” She tied it once, then again, then again, bending the top-third of his penis uncomfortably to get it in the last loop, “There’s going to be Hell to pay when I finally get out of this!”
“Shut the fuck up, you little bitch!” Camilla had enough. She picked her dirty panties up off the floor and shoved them into Samuel’s mouth, “Isn’t this the sort of thing they do in porn? You don’t like this?” He tried in vain to spit it out. Camilla kept her hand over his mouth as she took some duct tape she’d pulled from their First Aid bucket and shut his mouth for good, “There we go, now how’s that? Do you like the taste of my stained underwear? That I’ve been wearing ALL-DAY? That’s YOUR fucking fault for not letting us stop anywhere for a break, shithead.” Samuel dry-heaved under the taste of the underwear and wanted to throw up. He started breathing heavily through his nose & swallowing plenty, muttering loudly & indecipherably, “You know, Samuel? You’re a little fucking bitch. You talk down to me and you treat me like shit, and then you tell me you love me. If you loved me, you’d be a man. But you can’t even get hard for me. You can’t even get hard at porn anymore. You’re a little, fucking, bitch.”
Camilla was incredibly aroused. Were she more psychotic, she probably would have left him like that all-night, and then let him go after sleeping off the day on the living room couch. Maybe she wouldn’t even let him go at all? That was a crazy idea. Crazy! But for the first time in a long while, she felt in control. That’s what turned her on the most. She stroked his face with her hand and could feel the cold sweat beading on his beat-red forehead. Below, his member stirred.
Then he threw up. He threw up into his sealed mouth, and when it couldn’t escape, it shot out his nose – green; acidic; first a geyser, and then an ooze. It was disgusting. She pitied him.
She spat on his fucking face. Then she took her hand, and she smacked him with it, palm-out. She slowly smeared the spit and vomit & ooze around his face & in his hair. It didn’t matter if it got on the sheets: she just wanted him covered in it. Then she wiped her hand off on his hairy chest until that, too, was coated and her hand was mostly dry.
She climbed off Samuel and threw on a housecoat hanging up behind the bedroom door. In Samuel’s back pocket off the floor was her pack of cigarettes & her lighter. She pocketed them & her phone, and left, closing the door behind her, leaving Samuel in his own mess with a fully-erect cock.

“Hello?”
“Hey!”
“…Hi? Who’s this?”
“It’s Sam.”
“…I’m sorry, who?”
“Samuel? We met at that Art House screening of ‘El Topo’ last week?”
“…Oh, the guy with the beard!”
“Yep, that’s me! What’s up?”
“Nothing, just shopping.”
“Cool.”
“…I’m sorry, I don’t remember giving anyone my number that night.”
“Well you seemed like you were enjoying yourself at the stonehenge outside the theater.”
“Yeah, I guess everybody was pretty high.”
“Yeah.”
“…So, was that YOU texting me non-stop this week?”
“Yeah, I texted a couple of times.”
“Sorry about that. I don’t respond to texts from unknown numbers. I just delete them.”
“Oh.”
“So… what’s up?”
“I just wanted to call and make sure we were still on for the movie tomorrow?”
“I’m sorry, what movie?”
“At the cinema, they were playing Tartovsky’s ‘Solaris’ and you said you wanted to go!”
“I think you mean ‘Tarkovsky’.”
“Yeah, sorry, I do. As long as it isn’t the George Clooney one, right?”
“Yeah… I didn’t think we were going together. I just said I might be there.”
“…Oh?”
“Yeah.”
“So you don’t want to get some food beforehand?”
“No, I’m busy with a friend tomorrow. What time’s the show, again?”
“Seven.”
“Okay, great.”
“…Great.”
“Yeah, maybe I’ll bring my friend to the movie. She likes sci-fi.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, she’s a classmate from college. She’s new to the city and it’s been a little hard for her to meet new people. Maybe she’ll loosen up if we get her high beforehand!”
“…Sure, why not?”
“You’ll really like her! She’s Filipino, so you know they can be a lot of fun. Keep an eye out for us!”
“Okay. What’s your friend’s name?”

“Camilla? Hold on a sec… Hi? Are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“…Sorry, I just had to go downstairs. Is everything OK?”
“…I just needed to hear a friendly voice.”
“It’s nice to hear from you, too. Even if it is late.”
“I’m sorry I woke you.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m always available for you.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“It’s just been a few weeks since you called last. I figured you were busy and I didn’t want to bother you. What’s new?”
“Just… life in the big city!”
“Yeah, it wasn’t easy for me either. Now you know why I said ‘yes’ when your opa gave me the house.”
“Yeah.”
“Mm-hmm, but maybe you can do different. That’s why you moved, right?”
“How’s Mom?”
“She’s fine.”
“…That’s it?”
“That’s it. Nothing’s changed.”
“Oh?”
“But that’s what happens when you get to be my age: we all wish we were young again & going out every evening, but the reality is very different.”
“Yeah?”
“You know, she’d love to talk to you sometime, too.”
“I know.”
“Yeah, I know you know. She’s not upset with you that you got a scholarship.”
“I know she isn’t.”
“Okay, just making sure. She was probably just shocked.”
“Shocked? Why?”
“Well, probably because it took them so long to give it to you! I was shocked by that, too!” She laughed, “I was getting ready to call them and give them a piece of my mind!”
“I know.”
“I hope you’re enjoying yourself too, sometimes. You have to make room for that, too.”
“I do, Dad. I do.”
“Do you still talk to the girls? Marcia and all of them?”
“Every day! If not on the phone then on social.”
“That’s good. It’s hard to keep close friends, just not hard to find them. How is school?”
“Third year so, more than halfway done now.”
“Does it feel like it’s getting any easier?”
“…Not really.”
“Well I know you can do it if you stick with it. You know I’m fine with whatever you decide to do.”
“I know.”
“You could be slinging patties, so long as you’re getting a regular paycheck. …I mean, I know you probably won’t end up as a fry-cook when you have a degree but, I’m not worried, is what I’m saying.”
“I know, Dad. It means a lot.”
“…How’s Samuel?”
She exhaled.
“That good, huh?”
Silence.
“Did you guys have a fight again? Cause your mean old dad can hop in the car & be there by morning if you want me to kick his ass for you.”
“I can kick his ass myself, Dad. Don’t worry.”
“Are you sure that’s not why you called Daddy Dearest? To turn this guy into mush?”
“You don’t need to turn him into mush.”
“Still. You don’t have to tolerate his bad behavior if you don’t want to. I’m sure there are plenty of other nice boys in the city you could be dating.”
“Yeah.”
“Not that your dad needs to know any of that…”
“I know, I know.”
“…Oops, I hear your mother rolling around upstairs. I don’t need to wake the bear on a work night.”
“Okay.”
“I love you, Camilla. You know that, right?”
“I know. I love you too, Dad.”
“And your mother loves you, too.”
“…I know.”
“Be good. Call me in a few days, okay? Preferably when the sun’s up.”
“Okay, I will.”
“Bye.”
She pocketed the phone. She couldn’t hear Samuel from the front yard, but she was sure the couple who owned the house could hear him from upstairs: whimpering from behind his duct-taped mouth, slamming each corner of the bedframe against the ground over-and-over. She opened the damaged, brittle cigarette packaging: there was only a single unbroken one left.
Camilla went back inside, packed an overnight bag, untied the comatose mush, and then called a taxi to pick her up outside. The next day, she broke up with Samuel over the phone – which was easier than she thought, as he was still too swayed by the night before to be of much use to anyone, let alone realize he had just been dumped. Her father drove down the next weekend and picked up her things from the Special. Samuel left a note for him in a plastic bag on the front door handle that he had to go out, and left the key for Dad under the mat.
From that moment on, Samuel left Camilla alone, and she went on living her life, wiser & no worse for wear. She never did find out whether the stupid TV worked or not, and frankly, she could have cared less. Eventually, the only thing she remembered of Samuel was a wish that he had been home when her father picked up her things. Now that would have been a story. Of that, she could decide on.

//jf 2.11.2023

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