Invasion by Mary E. Palmerin, Poppet Page B

the noise of a waterfall, knowing she won’t hear a fucking thing right now.
    Bulleting like ammunition from the chamber I rush downstairs, grab the sleeping pills, then return just as fast to the bottle of red. Shaking three of them out I crush them together between my fingers, rubbing oblivion powder into her bottle and the powder of one more to her glass. Dissolving the granules is easy in the bottle, I cork it with my thumb and give the fucker a vigorous shake, but I can see it collecting in the bottom of her wineglass and need to rectify that asap.
    Time is of the essence so I use my finger, swirling the vintage vino around and around until the pills are no longer detectable. Happy with my subterfuge I head back to my basement, moving her shoe so it doesn’t hit the door again when I reopen to emerge later, and hoof it to my hideout.
    I’m so hyped my heart is thrashing, my breath quickening.
    Sitting quietly I strain to read the information on the sleeping pill bottle, realizing I’ve given her enough to knock out a woman five times her size for the next twelve hours.
    Well that’s awesome because it means I can grab dinner while she sleeps, and heat it up, steal a beer, be myself. She’ll chalk it up to a long flight and jet lag. I love the way folks rationalize the shit that should raise the alarm.
     

     
    After showering and drinking half a bottle of wine, Carly falls asleep in front of the TV, wearing nothing more than a satin kimono.
    Sneaking up on her I find her like that, with medication next to her wine. Anti depressants, muscle relaxants, and sleeping tablets. Shit. She just took all of that on top of what I gave her? She could OD!
    Fuck Carly! A head’s up would’ve been swell. Put that in your diary, ditz.
    Touching her wrist I take her pulse, blowing softly in her face, but she’s comatose. Bending over her I inhale, staring at the pixie princess, wondering why she has so much when I have so little. You live like a queen while I can’t even say I have a bed to call my own.
    It’s second nature to do another quick recon around the pad, going up to her bedroom, seeing the chaos of clothes strewn everywhere, makeup bag emptied onto the dressing table, her wristwatch and jewelry discarded with it.
    I hate to admit it but the mess annoys me. I’m forced to recognize that maybe David Hearse is a clean freak.
    It’s all I know about me, my name, and yet when I say the name, or think it, it conjures up an alternate identity, someone I don’t know, a third person somehow separate from me. I’m not him. I’m not that name. I’m me.
    I just don’t know who me is.
    Snatching her used panties from the bathroom basket I sneak back down to the basement. I don’t know why I’m sneaking. I could play thrash metal at decibels that could crack the windows and she’d still not wake. Not now.
    Returning to her I sit on the floor at her knees, examining the pink toenails, following the lines of her symmetry to her thighs, to the waxed nudity splayed before me. Careful not to touch her I lean in, inhaling nothing more than body wash and shampoo.
    She’s fucking ruined it. No scent, no instantly identifiable smell which is her own unique chemistry. I double check her vitals again, concerned that she could go into a coma or cardiac arrest with all the shit in her system, but her pulse is there, in the limp arm which flops when I return it to her.
    So I do the unspeakable, the outrageous, the abominable. I touch her. I open the kimono and appreciate the female form, the softly swollen breasts with flaccid nipples pinker than a princess bedroom.
    Leaning in I cover her snatch with my hand, cupping the heat, fascinated with it. Slowly I insert a finger, enjoying the natural heat of her body, resting my arms on her thighs when I bury my face, licking the slit, agitating her clit back and forth and round, loving that it’s available to me, presented with a pretty zirconia stud holding the hood up like a