Until.

Content warning:  s/a 

A concrete floor.

Half-finished walls.

Studs like bones—

exposed.

A stack of drywall leans in the corner

like it gave up halfway through becoming a room.

Drying rack—

clothes heavy with yesterday.

Spiderwebs strung like threats in the rafters.

Washing machine groaning, off-kilter—

telling the whole house that it cannot fix the imbalance.

A maroon pleather beanbag—

lumpy, cracked, and peeling.

Falling apart at the seams like it can't hold

one more story.

Metal table legs—

black, gold-accented.

Glass top smudged with fingerprints

and ghosts of wet glasses

that forgot to use a coaster.

Golden oak entertainment center—

Too big, too proud.

Speakers that crackle

like they’re judging you.

Under the stairs:

sports memorabilia.

Life-size Michael Jordan—

cardboard, imprisoned behind hockey sticks and plastic bins, grinning.

Always grinning.

TV screen blazes white lab walls.

Overlit.

Too clean.

And they still can’t catch the fly

before Bryan breaks.

This is

the most boring day

of your life.

Until.

Slick blue athletic shorts—

not yours—

against your skin.

A soft hand finds your hair.

Wet lips—

not love,

just permission wrapped in confusion.

A palm creeps up your thigh.

Your hand—hesitant—on his chest.

The beanbag groans—

sinks—

and now it knows, too.

Greedy fingers

rip your waistband.

Your voice breaks out—

not with want,

but warning.

Your head—

ripped back

again

and again

and again—

Limbs scatter like dropped silverware—

reaching

grasping

finding only concrete

and a body that isn’t listening.

Your lip—bleeding.

Your head—pounding.

His eyes—black.

Not metaphor-black—

Soulless.

Your airway narrows—

his grip

is a planet

and you are in orbit.

Clothes—yours—torn,

waved like flags.

He taunts with fabric

as if he could ever own you.

Your legs thrash.

One finds the table.

It shatters

like your perception of him just did.

But he doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even notice.

Just keeps rhythm—

pump.

pump.

pump.

Glass everywhere.

Your arm—cut.

Your hand—

weaponized.

A shard to the gut

of that black soul.

He recoils.

Still cursing.

Still human

enough to bleed.

Mixed fluids on your clothes.

Shame, rage,

but something reclaimed.

You took back

a sliver of what he thought

was his to take.

You rise—

bleeding.

Dizzy.

But still watching him.

You put on his shorts,

Retrieve yours.

A war prize.

A fuck-you.

You pass Michael on the way out.

He just stood there—

forced to watch—

grinning

through the whole thing.

You wonder

if Bryan ever caught the fly.

It was

the most boring day

of your life—

Until.