Living Stockholm

-Scars will heal... soon -he said while leaving the empty glass and the bloody cloth on the table.
She already knew what she had drunk. But she didn't care. She drank until the last droplet. He left.

It was undeniable. She loved his hands, so confident when he held the gun before her eyes. His half-smile, his intense dark green eyes. His smell, strong and masculine, was something she discovered only in him, it was the odor of his own, of his race, of his whole story. Indescribable, irresistible. His tall and wiry demeanor. His stubble, his hair, jet black, rough-looking but, as she could check that time in bed, soft. His voice, deep, sometimes whispering, that hid so much grief. His brown skin, tattoos, marks and scars, which in turn hid so many secrets. Everything about him attracted and repulsed her at the same time. He was her captor, how could she love him? 'Have I lost my fucking mind?', she thought. 

It was a steady struggle between desire and reason. She was relieved that he went out of the room, so she could rest from his penetrating gaze that burned into her skin every time he looked.

Suddenly, she heard loud noises coming from upstairs. She tried to pay attention, but her senses were blurring slowly. 'This drug in me... spins the earth... down.' She was not able to see, hear or feel anything.