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She wasn’t alone. Not really. She had Owlbert, her best friend and most trusted confidante, and Hooty. Hooty was Hooty, but she was happy to have him. The two of them allowed her to maintain her lifestyle, the lifestyle she chose for herself, the freedom she claimed, hassle free. For the most part. She wasn’t alone.
So why did she feel too aware of her skin, a light buzzing all over like the after effects of a shock? Why did she feel like she couldn’t quite breathe and the only solution, the only restoration to her body’s ability to retain oxygen, somehow, implausibly, was for her whole body to be crushed? Crushed until she couldn’t move and the vibrations of her skin ceased?
She didn’t want to be crushed by a building or a tree or even a mighty slitherbeast. The crusher needed to be a person. Anyone would do, as long as they put their full weight on her, with complete body contact, and pressed her into her couch until the cushions were permanently altered.
She could try picking somebody up at Grimgrub’s Pub. She’d done it plenty of times before. But the irrational, familiar as it was, craving wasn’t for sex. Sex helped a little, but it never lasted long enough nor met this particular desire enough for her skin to lose that prickling sensation but for the temporary moments under someone’s touch.
Touch.
She wanted, no needed to be touched. She needed hands to grasp her. Anywhere. On her arms, on her waist. She needed arms to hold her. She didn’t know if she wanted tenderness or unyielding pressure. Maybe she needed to be dragged like a ragdoll and pinned down, or cradled like a child and held gently to someone’s chest.
She wanted the tip of someone’s nose to nuzzle her cheek, someone’s head to rest on her sternum. The way they used to. She wanted someone to impart whatever intangible thing she was missing, to fill the empty within her rib cage.
It was probably just sex that she needed. Apple blood and sex.
She went to Grimgrub’s.
She still felt it, the need to be crushed. But it was duller. She would never admit it, but deep down she knew it was because of him.
She wouldn’t ask for affection, wouldn’t admit to herself that she wanted it. But when he curled up against her ribs or held his little arms up in a wordless plea to be lifted, she felt some change, some fractional relief.
She laughed with him and tickled and teased him. She bought him snacks and toys and books. She taught him what she could and he taught her back, chest puffed out in childish pride. When he started appearing in the wanted posters alongside her, she preened.
When he was in her arms and she was sure he was asleep, she held him closer, she nuzzled him and felt a tiny bit more whole.
She wasn’t alone. Not anymore.