Glitz Kids - Episode 4 E-Book

Alexandria Emilia Rawa

• Herausgeber: Berlinable UG (haftungsbeschränkt)
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Serie: Glitz Kids
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Seitenzahl: 103

Beschreibung

As a result of a terrible tragedy, Rico ends up in a clinic, desperately trying to heal his body and heart before the next training season begins. And Kamila, driven by the overwhelming love she feels in her heart, offers her help without a doubt. Yet, it doesn't take long for her to understand that Rico she once knew is no longer there. With uncontrollable anger and enormous sadness, his love becomes violent making Kamila question her choices. But love is, really, blind. Forgiveness comes easy and, convinced by her own mind that she's the one Rico needs, Kamila takes a deep plunge into the dark and uncertain future. But when all her plans are canceled and her world shrinks to one person, will she still be Kamila Rico once knew? Glitz Kids is a tasteful erotic novel where passion, secrecy, love, and pain are closely intertwined. It reveals shameful but irresistible desires, that even people who have it all cannot resist.

Leseprobe

GLITZ KIDS

4 / 7

Trauma

Alexandria Emilia Rawa

Cover: Giada Armani

Copyright: BERLINABLE UG

Berlinable invites you to leave all your fears behind and dive into a world where sex is a tool for self-empowerment.

Our mission is to change the world - one soul at a time.

When people accept their own sexuality, they build a more tolerant society.

Words to inspire, to encourage, to transform.

Open your mind and free your deepest desires.

All rights reserved. It is not permitted to copy, distribute or otherwise publish the content of this eBook without the express permission of the publisher. Subject to changes, typographical errors and spelling errors. The plot and the characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to dead or living people or public figures is not intended and are purely coincidental.

How we survive is what makes us who we are.

Rise Against - Survive

Thanks for saving my life, guys. This one's for you.

***

Hate.

That's the dominant emotion on this planet.

And love.

Because you can only hate when you've loved too.

Then there's the love-hate thing.

If you've embraced your hatred so much that you're starting to love it. Because at some point it's the only emotion that makes you feel alive.

And I wonder, what about the love hate? If you love, but hate it?

***

Kamila // Blackout

The fact is you can't lick your own elbow. At least if you're trying to keep your elbow here it belongs. That’s assuming you are at least reasonably normal and not a goddamn contortionist or some other freak.

Neither can you hold your nose in a dream. That is to say - to hold on it, but not suffocate. In a dream, you'll still breathe. Always. Or has anyone ever plugged their ears in their dreams? I doubt it.

For my part, I can't dream about walking on high heels either. Never. Never. No more than two steps until my knees surrender. Over and over again I fall on my face or stagger like a drunken pirate on black ice. No matter in which context - when I dream of walking on high heels, my legs become rubbery.

But the worst - and probably most widespread dream is the staircase. The moment your footsteps into space. This mini heart attack. When your body flinches and you're...

I start with an exaggeratedly high heart rate.

It's not a slow, cuddly, self-conscious moment where you can turn from one side to the other three times in fragrant duvets, sighing pleasantly, and risk a megalomaniacal touch of letting a foot slip out from under the blanket while the smell of fresh coffee and Eggs Benedict already rises to your nose from the kitchen.

Nope.

It feels like a light switch, a consciousness light switch, that I must have stepped on in my dream instead of the missing step. Snap-on. But with a proper wooden hammer after.

I'm completely there right now, I'm awake, with all my senses, my eyes wide open. My pulse is racing, and I can still feel my heartbeat echoing in my limbs. I'd love to come down, take a deep breath, but when I catch my breath, I get scared of the rattling in my own chest. Instead, I breathe in and out flat and listen.

It's dead quiet all around me. And way too bright. It smells like vomit and alcohol. I feel sick, but my throat is so dry it feels like it's stuck with something. If something comes up to me now, it won't get through. Soothing.

My tongue is fat, lazy and covered on my palate like a stranded whale. The terrible daylight felt like my retina was corroded. And in my head, thousand construction workers with pneumatic hammers seem to enjoy the beat, which my heart gives.

Oh, fuck. More hangovers than at the shelter.

With narrowed eyes, I roll to my side and pull the blanket over my head at a speed of a goddamn clone of Reiner Calmund. I want to sleep, sleep, die, fuck again, feel nothing and never drink alcohol again. Swear.

But already the first breath under the blanket brings tears to my eyes. Coughing, coughing and choking, I shoot up and jump out of bed. The mattress puked all over. And I was in it.

I want to throw up right now, only my blood pressure doesn't. Everything's starting to spin. A black curtain falls before my eyes, which seem to twist unnaturally because suddenly I only see the white ceiling lamp. I tremble and sink to my knees, then to all fours. My head pulsates and throbs more and more from second to second, I am on the verge of losing my mind or consciousness in pain. The biting stench of stomach acid, alcohol, and badly digested food tickles my nose again... I gotta get out of here.

Like a newborn kitten, I crawl across the carpet into the adjacent bathroom. My embrace of the toilet bowl makes it look like it is my long-lost twin sister, from whom I was separated at birth and with whom one of these pathetic reality broadcasts brought me back together.

I choke and I choke, but I only spit disgusting yellow gall. I see. Chances are the vomit in bed is from me. I just don't know if it makes it better or shittier.

Exhausted and completely off my rocker, I let myself sink to the floor in the bathroom. That feels good. This is where I'm staying for now. The cool tiles give relief to my heated skin and my pain. I spread out like a flounder.

A little shiver wanders over my body. I'm just beginning to realize that I'm completely naked. I don't ask why. Right now, it's perfect because I can cuddle up to the floor with every square inch of my skin available. Naked skin against the marble. Slowly but surely, I can breathe normally again.

***

When I come to consciousness, I'm cold. Jesus fucking Christ, this organism is more capricious than a whole birth preparation course put together. Something’s always on.

Shivering I pull my knees up to my chin and wrap my arms around them as close as I can while I lay on the floor as a heap of bones and my head feels as if it's working part-time as an amplifier at heavy metal concerts. For a minute, I manage to stay lying like this, then I realize that I need something for this miserable headache. A bathtub full of Vicodin would be best. And a blanket. Clothes. And - when in front of my inner eye the picture of the bed appears again - a shower, oh God, a shower...

I stand up first on my knees, then on the toilet, that has the lid still open. If I'm already sitting here, I can piss out the residual alcohol. But my head is so heavy, I have to support it, even sitting down.

When was the last time I had a head like that? The pain does not sit dully in the temples as usual but piercing and pulsating in the forehead and eye area. Especially on the right. With tired, heavy eyes I look at the white grain in our black bathroom marble, and even that hurts. Old Finn. What must have happened yesterday? I don't really remember much. Actually, nothing at all.

Oops. A touch of post-celebratory, youthful omnipotence, and high-proof carelessness makes me smile. These are always the best parties. You don't have anything to tell your children and grandchildren, but you can at least imagine that it was awesome. And sometimes not lie about it - I also think that the next morning the events of a drunk night appear better than they really were. Besides - me and kids... You remember yourself, don't you? Not to mention grandchildren. I'm not even gonna get that old, I'll bet on it.

Oh, whatever.

The memories will come back if they're worth it. Either in their literal form or on the cover of gossip pages.

I flush but have no strength to get up from the toilet, so I just fish for the microfiber hotel robe that snuggles up warm and fluffy to my bony shoulders.

Now brush your teeth. Best two times in a row, because according to the feeling in my mouth I have food sewerage like a cloacal basin.

Sitting down, I feel my way over the sink shelf, searching hectically for toothbrushes and toothpaste that must be somewhere there. Because they always are. With a rosewood logo.

I grab the first thing that feels like a plastic stick. But when I see, perceive, understand what it is, it falls out of my hand again.

A painful thought runs through me and makes my right half of the face throb strongly again. I cling to the tray and get up. A thunderstorm rages in my head, and when I look in the mirror for the first time that day, the blow hits me.

My face has collapsed, ashy, my skin is dull. All color seems to have disappeared from it. Except for my smeared lipstick.

And the giant, blood-red Bordeaux-violet-black bruise on my right eye.

"Fuuuuck..." it goes off in a hoarse whisper. I cannot move, nor can I tear myself away from my mirrored, maltreated image.

"What the hell..." - I break off and fall on my knees again. Where's the fucking thing I just thought was my toothbrush?!

My fingers tremble and suddenly seem to have become even colder and stiffer.

Yes, this is undeniably what it looked like earlier. White plastic with a pink lid. And two pink stripes. And a word.

Pregnant.

Intuitively, I close my nose and take a deep breath. Come on, God, you had your fun, we all laughed, but now I can wake up. Waking up from this nightmare that makes me look like an abused Asian mother from the Bronx on crack.

But nothing happens. A few seconds later I have to gasp for air like a goddamn Titanic passenger because I can't breathe with my nose shut. Because I'm awake.

And from then on, the shreds of memory twitch through me like I'm a lightning rod.

Hamburg, Ria. The party, alcohol, vanity. Coke in the bathroom.

And then...

Soccer player. Nausea, panic.

I want to close my eyes, visually lock myself away from my returning memory. But in the darkness behind my eyelids the power of memories is only increased.

My heart's contracting, it's so painful, I have to reach out. Like that'll help.

The frustration. The pregnancy test. The tears.

Cold, pain. Respiratory distress. Garbage cans. Garbage cans?

I swallow hard.

Die.

Rico.

Love hate. If you love, but you hate it.

Screaming. Rico, he's screaming.

And Rico, raising his fist in front of me.

Hit it.

Hit it.

Rico // Heringsdorf // 29 June 2013

"Rico, you're not only making this difficult for me, but for yourself. Especially yourself."

The voice of Dr. Phil. Yvonne Schulze gets lost in the noise of the crackling raindrops. Honestly, I have nothing against it.

I look at the storm through the glass patio door of her treatment room. We have the coolest and rainiest June since the beginning of meteorological records, the weather shows claim, and there is no improvement in sight. I don't mind that either. Rain is almost the only thing I can remember since May 29th. Exactly a month from today. Since...

"Rico..." the psychologist interrupts my thoughts again.

I'm really excited that she addresses me with my first name in every other sentence. Everyone does this here because it supposedly "neutralizes the level of foreign distance" and "creates the necessary closeness with which patients and therapists can build the greatest possible basis of trust, which in turn is indispensable for the best possible rehabilitation results".

I don't know why I'm so stuck in my head with these fucking sentences. Probably because my subconscious knows what they are supposed to mean: 'We are all one big family here'.

And at the word family, thousands of needles shoot instantly into my heart.