His head jerked upwards, and his eyes opened to a spinning, white ceiling as he woke up from an untimed nap. His chair shook, but his head was too much in a muck to question it. Soon, the grogginess dissipated, allowing him to turn his head to see whoever kept breathing loudly. That person was his wife, who remained passed out in the seat adjoined to his. A thin sheet covered her head. He wondered how she could breathe beneath the fabric, sleeping as deep as she did.
He peered through the reinforced window, seeing that it was nighttime in whatever country they were flying above. He and his wife were on a commercial flight to the charming state of Colorado. A yawn escaped his breath as he took in the dully-lit LCD monitor built on the back of the headrest in front of him. It displayed "Time to Destination: 10:33," which hovered over shadowy texts; the screen burns from a past flight time.
His knees cracked under his shifting weight as he stood upright. He stretched with a guttural groan, fists hitting the overhead compartments. Without checking to see if he woke anyone up, he brushed past his wife's knees and made a trip to the toilet. He soon returned to his seat, once again leaning back into the ratty, old chair without so much as a grunt at the hardness that dug into his back.
He pondered of what he had in store for the tools tucked away in his luggage; each thought none too insignificant to be unscrambled. He recalled the events earlier this morning of a relaxed and unhurried breakfast. After that, they had entered a waiting uber outside their gate. Then, he had pushed his wife to make haste once they lined up inside airport security. And finally, their rushed actions to and from the TSA checkpoint scanners. Perhaps, he did not want to miss their flight, so as his wife believed.
A faint but quite clear 'Help' picked up in his ears. At once, he ripped the sheet off his wife's head, but she was still asleep. He dropped the damp and cooling fabric onto her lap with a dissatisfied grimace. His gray-blue eyes narrowed as he left his seat, determined to find the source of that noise. He didn't need to convince himself otherwise because he was sure he heard it. He walked down the carpeted aisle, scanning the sleeping figures for whoever had spoken up. Then he saw her, or more specifically, her back. A woman was straddling a man's lap.
His manner remained unchanged, noticing they were having a make out session, if people still used that slang nowadays. The man underneath her was choking, presumably from receiving her working tongue deep within the tresses of his throat. But the seated man didn't stop her. He didn't think the guy could because he wore a sleep mask, which hid his expression, his sight, and most of all, his control in this kinky play. He couldn't see the guy's hands from where he was standing in the aisle, but he fantasized the blindfolded male's hands tied, unable to touch her.
He stared at them without any respect for their non-private in-flight session. Warmth brushed his upper lip with each heavier breath, and his member pressed in attention to his thighs. The couple was in an aisle seat, and anyone could be watching the free show! But as he looked past them to find other possible onlookers, there were only dozed-off passengers to the ends of the plane. Then, who was the one who cried for help?
Suddenly, the woman climbed off of the still-blindfolded man. Her average height loomed over her seated lover as black hair fell from her shoulders in pitiful, thin waves. She spun, looking over the shoulders of the sleeping persons across the aisle.
With one glance, a single eyebrow of his raised in disgust at the sight of her. He thought of the phone in his left pocket and imagined himself taking a still image of the white, sunken face flushed with blue. It seemed like she was wearing a second skin underneath, barely concealing the actual monster inside. Her eyes were devoid of active movement; the pupils firmly set like a corpse's. Her lips were pulled forward an inch, perhaps so that mouth could sink further inward to chosen prey.
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He was sure no one else had a photo of what he was seeing, but whether to take the picture or not was a short-lived dilemma. He would be turned off if he saw that image pop up while scrolling through his curated photo albums. And so his phone stayed tucked away without use.
He was neutral when the woman walked towards the rear of the plane. He did not remember what happened afterward.
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He and his wife returned to their stately home, luggage in tow. They thanked the babysitter for taking care of their baby daughter while they were away. After a brief conversation with the babysitter, they waved her off at their front door.
He took a moment to see how the baby was doing in the mother's arms. He smiled at the sleeping baby girl and left the both of them to get a cup of water. At the kitchen sink, he turned on the tap and filled himself a mug of lukewarm water. He faced the window above the sink and watched the sunset drag away the evening light, allowing the darkness to settle in the rays' place. Still, his mug was aglow from the kitchen's overhead light. He raised the mug to take a sip but stopped before it reached his lips, lowering it to the exact tilt it was when he noticed it. A side of the glossy white mug was painted with the shadow of someone else.
He cocked his head at the obsidian, thick being that silently stood in his kitchen doorway. Its filled-out body was built like the door his kitchen was supposed to have. With boulders for legs, mountains for arms, and sand dunes for pecs, its shape was human enough that it was almost believable. However, its color was darker than black, but what its shade covered did not appear to be skin. Ethereal, solid, sublime; all are adjectives that explain much, yet he could not sort this being in a perfect category of his mind's choosing.
It was gone. What he saw could have been a trick of the light, but no one truly believes that saying. Perhaps, he had a waking fever dream as the more convincible explanation. Or that what he saw was a trace of his desires released into the trails of his sight. He took another sip of the too tepid water, refilling the cup to half-empty.
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The wife startled awake, her arms holding fast to her crying baby. She cooed, "It's okay, you're okay." She remembered she had sat down with the baby, and her husband came over, his body weight leaning against the baby, to kiss her. She blushed at the memory, regretting that she had pushed him away when his hands tugged at her body. "Not in front of the baby, dear," she had whispered. She recalled watching him leave without a word to their bedroom.
The door to the master bedroom opened as she stepped inside. She saw her husband lying in their bed, his face underneath an open book. She crept closer to her husband with hurried steps and sat on her side of the bed. She slinked closer within reach of him, the urge to kiss him too great. She was feeling hungry for a taste of him, sexually. And she recognized a heated longing within her cavernous belly to be filled up like when she was with child.
Her face leaned over his head, watching as the book slipped off her husband's face on gravity's part. But she saw his eyes were wide awake. ...Hus...ban... she tried to speak, words distorting within herself, not coming out. An ax swung, hacking her head into two.