Free Impulses by V.L. Brock Page B

exuded. The smile falls from my face just as quickly as it materialized, leaving me to battle with the apprehensiveness and concern as to where our exploits now leave our repute.
    Rocking methodically on my heels, my hands in my pants pockets, I glance up at the black and silver wall clock behind the desk. 6:45 p.m. I turn on my heel and make my way down the corridor to my office to fetch my belongings; I need to get out of here…now.
    Readying myself to leave, I stand alongside the couch in the reception area.
    Inspecting my surroundings once more, my stomach somersaults as the concoction of memories and emotions engulf my mind, rotating around like a carousel, but not merely as much fun. I flick the light switch so darkness governs the spacious room, taking me with it, and I recall the dark places that I have withstood––most of them I still withstand, but the thought of Samantha…I shake my head dubiously.
    With her in my life, by my side, I have that residual bit of hope that I can conquer my demons and the Hell that my head compels me to relive, day-after-day, night-after-night. I need her––I want her…I just wish the feeling was mutual.
    Leaving the office in darkness, I adjust my eyes to the bright lights of the foyer, and punch the ‘call’ button of the elevator. With a calming softness I run my fingers of my right hand across my lips as I wait patiently for it to ascend to the twenty-first floor. Closing my eyes, I recall her touch, her taste. The intensity of the sounds she created in my mouth, our bodies mingling together, wrapping around each other like vines around a dilapidated building, welcoming the stimulation our bodies both gave and received.
    Well, at least that was mutual.
    A part of me pleads and hopes that Samantha still remains in the building, so I can asks her questions that I should have asked before she absconded. Why so distant after being so intimate? I take a deep breath and release it, allowing my exasperation to travel along the warmth of my exhalation. Into the vacant elevator I step, permitting the walls to encase me and my vicious, savage thoughts as I make my lonely descent to the underground parking lot.
    Examining my reflection keenly against the back wall of the elevator, I inspect my face piece by piece, where Samantha’s hands and lips had lingered, my lips, my jawline. I attempt to resolve my unspoken equation.
    I was loved once… that is debatable. Well, I believed I was. I was hurt, in more ways than one. I hit rock bottom––diminished and devalued, losing my sense of self until only a shell was left in my place. I battle every day to move on; to evade reliving the pain, humility, failings, and the deception. However, involuntary thoughts invade my mind, manipulating me and tear me apart as it seizes the foundation that I have tried to rebuild––my stepping stones to lead me to the possible chance of having a future and sharing my life with someone, if I can only get passed…everything.
    Samantha’s company––her presence––it has blown some of the dust away from my deeply embedded sentiments. She is gradually restoring parts that I have lost, that I have forsaken.
    What does this mean? Why her? Why now? Why has she acted this way?
     
     

SIX
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    SAMANTHA
    The darkness of the Fillmore Point parking lot is deluging, mirroring how I feel; reprehensible and alone. Alas, no matter how hard I try to keep myself from being consumed by the grasp of darkness, I always manage to fuck things up, and suffer the bleak aftermath in the lugubrious part of my psyche. Turning off the ignition of my pale blue Honda, I slump back into my seat, and attempt to put things into perspective.
    Unlike any of the others, the element of repression that I have endured as I strived not to act upon my impulses with, Mr. Wentworth has made the encounter more impressive. I feel my lips twitch fractionally. I feel appeased as my frustrations no longer obstruct