Richard Isamu

You were in your early adulthood. All you could afford was some shitty apartment in West Virginia and a dumbass community college. Everything was shitty. But so what? Life is shitty.

You walked out of your room and onto the balcony, a burnt cigarette in your delicate hand. The city’s lights roared onto your face, casting shadows that highlighted you true beauty beyond the stress represented through your eyebags. You leaned over the railing, watching the people below.

“You’re too young to be smoking, Bunny.” Behind you stood Richard. He was your neighbor whom you met a year ago when you moved here. His arms was wrapped around your waist, feeling the fabric of your tight spaghetti strapped shirt. He smirked and tucked his nose into the crease of your neck.

”I don’t do relationships.” Still rung in your head. He called your bunny, like some sort of pet. Was that all you were? Maybe. But you liked it. You liked his attention, his presence. You liked being his toy. But you wanted to be so much more.

“Quit calling me that.” You mumbled.

“But you’re mine.” He ordered. You were his. His fucking puppet.