Free Shhh... Gianna's Side by M. Robinson

thrust deep within my core and my pussy milked his cock of every drop.
    He lay on top of me, both of us trying to catch our breaths.
    “You’re a good girl,” he praised.
    I turned my head and shifted my gaze to his eyes.
    I saw Mr. Nichols and smiled.
    Even though I kne w it wasn’t possible to have spent the last few hours with Mr. Nichols, in my head that’s who fucked me.
    I woke the next morning in my own bed. I had no recollection of how I had even gotten home. But I didn’t really care. I just lay there, thinking about Mr. Nichols. I didn’t think about Nick. It was Mr. Nichols that ran through my head as I touched my tender neck, and felt the delightful soreness between my legs.
    He’d been in prison for seven years. It has been seven years since I sat in the courtroom and heard gavel slam down on the podium before hearing the word, “Guilty.” I could still hear the crowd outside the courtroom making an uproar, news cameras everywhere, microphones in my face, and being shoved all over the place. McKenzie and I just held each other as tightly as we could while our parents shielded us from the mayhem of the press. It was a nightmare; the whole thing was a horrific experience that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. We could barely see a foot in front of us from the sea of people.
    Mack and I cried the entire way home as we sat in the limo. Her sobs torment ed my dreams for seven years. I could visualize everything that transpired in the course of three months. Our days consisted of the courtroom, debriefings, mediations, taking the stand, and mindless hours of interrogation from both sides. My wardrobe consisted of nothing but black, so did Mack’s. We didn’t plan it, it just happened. We burned all the clothes once the trial was over. It didn’t make any of the turmoil go away; that only intensified as time went on.
    It had been seven years since my heart stopped beating. I stopped living. The irony of it all was that I didn’t start living until I met him. I lived my “true” life for seven months.
    It was beautif ul, it was chaotic, it was crazy…it was us.
    It was love.
    He was up for parole and I didn’t know how I felt about it. I hadn’t felt anything for years, so I didn’t think I was capable of emotion anymore. I had turned cold, a shield, a stone…I was nothing. There was no depth to me, just a hollow existence. I was a shell of a person who walked, talked, and moved about like a zombie. I didn’t care about anything or anyone, especially not myself.
    I had to get out of bed. I needed a drink. I needed to stop thinking about that day.
    It rang five times before it ever went to voicemail; I know because I counted. I hadn’t spoken to Mack in seven years. In my autopilot state of mind, I didn’t realize I was calling her until I heard her voice.
    “Hello, you’ve reached McKenzie Perry with York Fancy. Sorry I missed your call. Please leave your name and number and I will get back to you as soon as I can. Thank you , and may your day be painted with images of York Fancy.”
    She sounded the same but different, if that made any sense at all. It’s amazing how life could change overnight. You go to bed one person–an image of yourself that you have had your entire life–and then in a split second, you wake up somebody you don’t know. Somebody you don’t want to know. Someone you don’t recognize. You can’t even look in the mirror because you have no idea who’s looking back at you. The reflection is someone with cold eyes and no soul.
    I gave that away a long time ago—voluntarily.
    After the trial, Mack and I started slipping apart. The connection that held us together slowly became altered and transformed into something different. We were no longer best friends–sisters–we were on two opposite ends of the spectrum. We didn’t laugh, we didn’t smile, and we didn’t share things any longer. Our friendship took a drastic turn, like everything else did. It was a