Lying in my bed, I wished I wouldn't have drunk that coffee. I couldn't fall asleep, no matter how hard I tried. I turned over and over, from side to side, trying to find a comfortable position to place my body, but it wasn't any good.

My cat has jumped on the bad.

"Modern life is rubbish, Cali." I told him.

"Meow." He answered. Not much help from him either. He fell asleep almost immediately, snoring softly. Probably dreaming of beautiful female cats and a lot of tuna.

And I was afraid. Afraid because I knew that was only act number one. Number two would be getting very very emotional. Three would be starting to think about things I don't wish to remember, and four would be ending up crying my brains out. And five? Probably planning my suicide. You don't want to go over six.

At act number two I went down to the kitchen and fixed myself a nice hot glass of melted Chocolate. I set near the telly, watching some MTV crap. Backstreet boys, whatever. What in the world happened to music?

At act number three I was lying on the sofa, trying to drive away the thoughts. Bloody hell. They won't go away, and I know that better than anyone else. I gave up.

Graham's lying flat on his back, trying to drink his beer but spilling most of it on the floor. I try to dance to the music, but I'm not sure what music is it, or if there's music out there at all. Art seems ridiculous. So does Graham, his clothes soaked with beer.

I fall on the bed, laughing. I'm not sure what I'm laughing about. Music? Art? Opera! I'm laughing at the big fat lady and her endless screams. Fuck, Opera rules big time.

I'm about to ask Graham to come with me to some opera, when he climbs the bed and lay next to me. He really stinks. I guess that so do I.

"Fuck, Graham, is there music at all?"

"Nope." He's very confident and I believe him.

"So what is it that we do on the band, Graham?"

"We're making birdhouses, for li'l birds. They come and play and eat and screw and shit in our birdhouses. Alex's finding the wood. Dave's carving it. Me and you, we're fucking distracting them."

"Do you love me?"

"Yeah. I love you." And he reaches for me. First I don't notice it. I'm too away. Then I feel his hand on my ass. Not necessarily a bad thing.

"What're ya doin'?"

"What does it looks like I'm doing?" He presses harder, or something. It's too far, I can't reach it.

"It looks like you're patting my ass."

"I am."

"Why?"

"Because I like it. Do you?"

Do I? Do I? Do fuck fuck fucking I? I do.

He shoves me down to the mattress, hard. He bends towards me, and kisses me. His teeth are biting my lips, and I'm bleeding. Oh, fuck, I'm bleeding. He doesn't care as he sucks my blood away. It doesn't hurt. I tremble, but he holds me. He protects me as he hurts me. He's my fucking guardian angel.

He starts biting my neck and I moan. I can't hear myself, but I know I do. The music (What music? There isn't any music, just birdhouses) takes control, and we're both moving at its beat.

Does he tear my clothes away? I think he does. Again I am shoved down, so hard that all I can do is lay pressed to the bed and watch him takes off his jeans, then the underwear. Jesus blinking fucking Christ, he's exposing himself at my face, and then dives to my chest, licking or whatever. I can't focus. I can't believe it's happening. One thing I know. I can't stop him. Not now. We'll go all the way. There's no turning back. My best friend is going to fuck me, and he's not going to be gentle about it. He's going to fuck my brains out. And I'd love it.

He's cursing me softly. Does he hate me? I don't know. When he's done with sucking my nipples, he spreads my legs apart. No talking, no nothing. He doesn't care what I think. Jesus, I don't care.

After my lags, he spreads my ass apart, then enters me with one big thrust, as if I'm not even a human being. I'm a fucking sex doll. Yeah. I am. He's going faster and harder, not that it seems possible right now. I'm on my edge. He's pulling my hair out. I'm torn apart, I'm dying. He groans, like an animal. Oh, fuck. Then harder. Faster. The hardest, the fastest. I'm dead.

And then he dodges away and comes on my body. Me, a rotten corpse, now looks like Merry Christmas. He falls on the bed. None of us are speaking.

At act number four. I started to cry.

He's avoiding my look the next morning. I've cleaned myself up, and I am dressed, but to him I might as well be naked and covered with his cum. He passes me without a word, and going to make some coffee.

My ass is killing me. I don't think I can even sit. My headache only makes it worse. All I can see is his back.

Is that all? I ask myself. Was it fuck and go? I cannot believe it happened, but then again there's this pain in my ass. And he still doesn't talk.

He brings two cups of coffee and hands me one. That shows he is able to see me. He sits down, and so do I, ignoring the pain. He drinks slowly, thoughtful, or just embarrassed.

"Damon," He starts. "About last night…"

"I don't want to talk about it." Why have I said it? I do want to talk about it. I'm such a fool.

"As you wish. I just… I hope it won't change things between us, you know?"

"Won't change things?" That's my mistake. I get pissed off too quickly. "Graham, fuck off. You practically raped me last night. That's how it goes for me. You shoved me down until I got hit by the bed frame, and while I was lying helplessly, you fucked me so hard that I won't be able to walk for days. Should I just forget it?"

"Damon, you got it all wrong…"

"No! I've got nothing wrong. Have you ever considered asking me whether I wanted to get fucked? Have you ever thought about the possibility that I don't find you sexually appealing? No, sure you didn't. You just went ahead, did what you wanted to. Look at me, Graham! I'm beaten up! You did it! And you think that won't change anything?" I don't mean half the things I say. Why do I say it? Maybe it's the pleasure of seeing Graham's hurt face, as he's starting to realize what he did yesterday.

"Look, Damon… I don't know what to say… Please listen…"

But I don't. I interrupt him. "I don't want any of your crap. Just piss off, would you? Get out of here."

He wants to say something, but apparently decides against it. "I'll be gone. Please, Damon, call me when you're calmer." And off he went.

I've never called him again.

At act number five, I decided that strangling myself to death would be an excellent solution.