Page 6 of Love Sick
A small pang of sadness swells inside my heart because I feel sorry for Alanna. She is sick and needs help, which is ironic, considering she was the one I once looked to for answers. But this proves that she is unstable and very dangerous.
I need to tread with caution because she is far worse than I thought.
She suddenly lifts her hips and just when I think the horror show is over, she turns around to face me and slowly sits back down onto Jonathan’s dick. She begins riding him reverse cowgirl, eyes locked with mine.
I don’t know where to look. I want to look away, but that would show weakness. So, I watch Alanna fuck her corpse fiancé, wondering where we go from here.
She lifts her hips, exposing her pussy to me, before slamming back down onto Jonathan’s dick. Her movements become faster and frantic, and I wonder if she’s turned on by me watching. She cups her breasts through her shirt and arches backward.
Is she trying to prove a point? That she’s stellar in the sack? The fact that she’s a necrophiliac is not sexy…in any way, shape, or form.
She continues riding Jonathan until she shudders and comes with a sated moan. The entire time, her eyes never leave mine.
When she’s done, she slowly climbs off Jonathan and rearranges her clothes like nothing just happened. She places the sheet over him while I wish I could wash my eyeballs out with bleach.
“You will never do that again,” she warns me. “I love Jonathan.”
Her saying this is more for herself than it is for me.
I know what I have to do.
My competition is stiff, and I mean that in every literal sense there is.
It won’t take long to break Alanna down, and when I do, she’ll regret ever saving me because doesn’t she know…I’m beyond saving.
Since being here, I’ve slept with one eye open, so to speak, which makes me tired as fuck, but I can’t let my guard down. So I feel Alanna before I hear her.
Gathering my wits, I open my eyes slowly, unsure what to expect because after yesterday, nothing shocks me anymore.
“Good morning,” Alanna says, changing my IV bag.
She’s in her doctor’s coat, so I wonder what’s going on.
“Have you heard his voice since being here?” she asks, purposely refusing to use Misha’s name.
“Whose?”
She pauses from attaching the tube to the bag, lips pursed. “Don’t act coy. You know who.”
It takes all my willpower not to reply with a smart-ass response because that isn’t going to do me any favors. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I need to know everything before the surgery. I need to know what Misha says to you.” She reaches into her pocket and when she produces a vial and syringe, I know this can’t be good.
“What’s that?” I crane my neck to watch her load the syringe with the clear fluid before injecting it into my IV.
I try to struggle, but I’m helpless, and the drugs…they’re quick.
“I need to know what’s ahead for Jonathan,” she explains calmly while my heart begins to slow down and race at the same time. “If he’s going to experience what you do, then I want to make sure I understand it so I can help him through it.”
“Alanna!” I say, but it’s slurred. “This is…fuck.”
The world begins to spin, and I surrender to the madness because it’s peaceful. And then…it’s not.
“Run!”
I’m no longer in bed but rather on a football field. Peering down at the football in my hands, I see that they’re not my hands. They’re Misha’s.
This skin isn’t mine. But the memories are, so I do what I was born to do—I run.