GREED

A'sN:

This story is part of a series of 7 tales based on the Seven Deadly Sins. I'm an amateur writer, none-native English speaker, amateur HTML user who's looking for writing an anthology of horror stories - or at least uncomfortable stories, since it is one of my favorite genres in literature. So, please enjoy, I'm open to critique as long as it is respectful.

TW:

A pair of deep black eyes stare at her smooth face in the mirror, each pore thoroughly examined. She then raises her chin and caresses her neck with certain nervousness; imperceptible hair that lays above her lips and around her jawline makes her deeply uncomfortable. She wonders if other people notice, if he notices. Is her face enough? Is her beauty enough to deserve forgivenes?

These days, her mind has been a mess to say the least. Her thoughts are in disarray and she can barely pay attention at work, she can't even remember to eat and she can't perform anything too demanding of her attention. She's only been thinking about a single thing. Some people may call it obsession, however, she doesn't think of it as such - in fact, she has started to name it love. Stating this is love might simply be a way to trick her mind into believing of others and herself as kinder than they are, because how can this possibly be love?

She sighs deeply. Her sight whips away from the odd reflexion in the silvery crystal as her hands land violently in her face. Breath is lacking little by little, she dwells on whether she should call it love and her surroundings turn into a water prison. When did it started? It is possible that once answered this question, she might find peace at once. The taste of salt assaults her lips upon tears falling off her eyes, unwillingly.

skip breakfast, dress up, go to work, come back, have dinner, repeat. Since she married and her work-life started, she's been doing the same every day. From time to time she adds some extras: either eat outside or Pilates, and out of routine little tasks. All amounts to nothing at the end of the year, every year. Sex, which used to be once rewarding, now has become repulsive to her, especially if her source of sex is limited to a single being, who doesn't show much excitement whenever they are entangled, anyways. But that only answers why it started.

When did it start? She is a liar. She can't deceive herself nor anyone else. She knows exactly when it started. The memory is as clear as water. It is just that she is too ashame to admit how vividly she recalls that day and every day on after that.

It was a Monday afternoon. She had been asked to organize the hospital's archive. Technically, as an assistant, that was part of her work, and yet, it would have been easier if doctors and nurses followed guidelines of order instead of throwing their patients' report notes on her desk. She had to match medical records with recent reports, trying not to confound the names, carefully looking after dates and departments, as well as their statuses and debts. Once over, it was time to get into that stuffy room reeking of moldy paper, where she had to place every folder by date and last name.

In her own reflection, it was completely unnecessary to keep those many physical copies of medical reports. She had been forced to learn how to use the new hospital's software precisely because they were now storing digital data and records about their patients, why keep the moldy sheets there, then? Although, she was grateful for this useless method that day, when she met him.

She was wearing a white pencil skirt as usual, those never fitted her flat figure, but she always thought of them as rather professional and chick. A blue shirt buttoned up to her neck and a pair of black plumps that once belonged to her mother. Her hand was trying to reach the upper shelf when an escent unlike the common stench flooded her nostrils. It wasn't much better, but surely it wasn't the same. It was a fresh aroma mingled with traces of sweat and cigarette. Soon, something else invaded her, too: a soft yet strong arm snatched her from the waist. Then, an alien hand got on hungrily groping around her breasts and collarbone, sensing up and down until it grabbed her by the neck, where its fingers slowly traced her dried lips. She was frozen in place, either because she was too scared to move or because the griping was too strong.

She wanted to scream but she didn't. Her heartbeat akin to a horse's in a race. She felt a humid kiss on her nape, her breathing pace intensified. The pair of lips traced down a saliva path and the hand initially holding her waist, started to violently unbutton her shirt. The hand was frantic, clumsily pulling each button free; soon, the hand caressing her lips joined to strip her off the shirt by the lapels and both hands barged in her bra to knead her breast. A sudden pain invaded her nipples as fingers pinched them viciously, every passing second she could feel them crushing further. She unconsciously let out a groan and closed her eyes. Her skin was searing hot and her muscles tense - her thoughts in disarray, her brains were cotton soft.

In the blink of an eye, she found herself layed on the cold tiled floor. The freezing tiles were comforting against her hot, naked back. Her vision was blurry, her breathing lacking, she struggled to find out who her offender was, but once she recognized him, her heart skipped a bit. The perpetrator was a well known surgeon, arround ten years older than her (meaning he was in his fourties): a man of respectable reputation; he was one of the few men who didn't prey on pretty interns and young nurses. Besides, he had a wife, one he loved so passionately to boot. Why was this man, then, pinning her down after ripping off her shirt? With all the heat driving off her body, she inadvertently frowned

As if he had read her mind, the man didn't move a muscle to look her directly in the eye. She studied his visage with renewed curiosity. In her own perception of the world, he seemed far more scared than her, with his blue eyes wide open and his mouth stumbling in silent words.

"You look exactly like my dead wife," he sputtered.

"Dead?"

Her question was out of touch, but so was his comment, he was silent for a spell of time, until a soft warmth assaulted her inner thighs, his broken voice came in, "nobody knows yet, I didn't want to worry people." The warmth shaped into a velvet hand exploring her inner crevices as he spoke, "it's been a week; since it happened I have questioned myself whether waking up is worthwhile anymore." He leaned down closer to burrow his face into her bare chest. She couldn't guess back when, whether he was actually sad or feigning. Although, it is true that she instantly welcomed his faint sobbing like a mother would welcome her child's. It evoked within her an unfamiliar feeling of tenderness, her heart went soft, out of her will, it melted. Afterwards, she became pliable to his touch.

Coming back to reality, she stops her own train of thought. Here is where the memory gets foggier and foggier. There are a lot of black holes of what happened next, the set of events are as odd as to make her believe she has created most of them, out of love, most probably. Everything is too much uncomfortable for her to remember, what's worse, from that very first day, her memory deceives her to believe it was a passionate fling, however, they didn't do much beyond making out and caressing. Besides...

There inside the stuffy room reeking of mold, he started kissing her, more likely, he pried open her mouth and stuffed in his tongue. At first, she didn't know what to do, but soon she learned to fight back and even forced him slower the pace. Embraced by him, she had forgotten where she was, squirming and moaning under his attentive stroking. However, what never came was the cherry on top, meaning penetration.

Once both were satisfied, they conspicuously exited the archive room, tidying their clothes and clumsily combing their hair with fingers. The whole day she felt observed,