Written by LumberjackTom
Melissa’s hand closed clumsily around the coins. Without stopping to exchange pleasantries with the pawnbroker, she stumbled hurriedly into the street. Somewhere in her throbbing head she knew that she had been driven to desperate measures, and that only a week ago pawning her mother’s ring would have been so out of the question as to be unspeakable, such was her attachment to it. But now was a different time, and whatever reason was left in her tired brain was drowned out by an overwhelming longing, a physical necessity.
All she knew was that she needed to get back to her apartment. She began to half hobble, half run, as fast as her worn out brain could manage. She stumbled again and again, her misfiring neurones sending spastic waves of pain through her body, her legs jerking uncontrollably. She ran into pedestrians without even noticing, picking herself up and running on. Presently, she came to her building.
Stumbling through the door, she fell against the lift, stabbing at the button, hitting it on the fifth try. The doors opened and she fell inside, gasping, panting irregularly. She reached for the button to select her floor, and ended up hitting three at once.
After a short wait, she was stumbling down the corridor. Hammering her key stupidly at the lock, not caring to look at the scratches around it to which she was adding. With fevered determination, her head caught up with the spinning corridor for just long enough that she managed to get the door open.
Falling against the wall of the darkened apartment, she fumbled for the electricity meter. Finding it, she slammed her handful of coins at it, forgetting to open her fingers, and was vaguely aware of warm blood running across her numbed hand as she tried again, slamming her hand against the box, so hard that the wall shook and the unwashed plates on and around her table rattled. Eventually, she got one of the coins in, the others falling useless to the floor. One or two lights came on in the flat.
Dropping to the floor and fumbling about through weeks of grime for her box, she found it. Taking the jack, she scraped it around on her temple until, finding the proper socket, it slipped in with a delightful crunch.
Fumbling with the one dial on the box, she slammed it to the maximum end of the scale. Suddenly, an explosion of colour enveloped her. She relaxed and was overcome with a beautiful feeling of wellbeing. Collapsing to the floor, her muscular tremors stopped, her breathing slowed, and, seeing the white spots before her eyes, she knew that slowly but surely she was killing herself, that she was destroying the one irreplaceable organ, the one that made her, the organ of thought.
But somehow, that just seemed okay. The spots were getting brighter now. Scenes from her life were flashing before her eyes. She was enveloped with light, and felt an enormous, orgasmic surge of pleasure, one that transcended all knowledge and emotion, one that fulfilled her instantly but momentarily in a way greater than any human would have thought possible.
Waves and surges of pleasure rippled throughout her body. She wriggled and squirmed about on the floor, with the sheer energy of the experience. Clenching and unclenching her fists, the stimulation reached a crescendo, immense surges of orgasmic excitement tearing through her body, and silently destroying her mind. Then it stopped.
For a long time, Melissa lay on the floor, silent and satisfied. The room was bright, the sounds of the city warm and inviting, the smells rich and wonderful. But most of all, she could think. For the first time in days, she could hear her thoughts, clearly and crisply. She was totally aware of the past, of the present, and of the disturbing future.
LumberjackTom’s short fiction is both incredibly thrilling and a little sad. Through Melissa’s addiction to electrical brain stimulation, we see life through her eyes and just how tortuous addiction can become. And the sweetest thing is her eventual release. If you enjoyed LumberjackTom’s work, make sure you check out some of his other pieces published on Inkblots including, “Not Today” and “Tack“.
Featured Image CC // Kevin Faccenda