Maybe I'm the same kind of psycho sicko myself, like all those ones I see in my visions. One day I'll snap, go on a little spree of my own ... naw, that thought's just too morbid.By the time I'm paying attention again, someone's pushing me to the ground. Large, firm hands. A man's hands. Familiar hands. Not to me, obviously, but to her. I know this routine. Usually its the umpteenth asshole boyfriend, but no - these aren't some dumbass teenager's hands, not even those of some shithead college jock. This guy's way older, so that means the truth is far more sour still - he's a relative, I bet. Some fucker she's trusted, once. That's painful. The cacophony of emotions begins to make a little more sense to me. There's that quivering strand of confusion running through it all - betrayal. The absolute, fundamental, world-inverting betrayal you only get when you are deceived by that which you relied upon most. Its a gut-wrenching, sickening feeling that makes me nauseous. Not nauseous. I heard the door close behind her. He continued to get dressed. Probably the most uncomfortable moment for me was now. I mean technically, here I am only feet away from a guy who just fucked the girl I love. Seconds ago, he was completely naked with his cock in my girlfriend, and right now he thinks he’s alone, as I watched him adjust his balls then smell his fingers. My guess is they were still pretty sticky too. He put his shirt back on, and tucked it in his pants, then tightened his belt, and sat down to put his shoes on. He stopped for a second and looked around the room. He looked straight at her closet. I just about freaked, but he turned back and looked at the items on her coffee table. He picked up the glass bowl and lighter, and took a hit. As he did he looked again at my location in the closet. I remained perfectly still, even stopped breathing I think. He exhaled and blew the smoke right at me in the closet. Again, I smelled the weed. I heard the bathroom door swing open,.
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