She is nice and sweet, she is made of tasty things, and soft, very soft. She makes me happy, she makes me fat. Shes got short, brown hair, all curls and bounces, which dances with her all the time; when she moves, when she talks, when she sings, when she strains and stretches. Today, she wears her knee-high socks, and her new sport shoes, they are both white: socks and shoes. She plays volley-ball, and shes very good at it. She knows I'm watching todays game, and she waves at me, now, smiling bright and blinding. I wave back, shielding my eyes from the sun with my other hand.
Her name is Charlotte. I call her Chocolatta, Coco for short. It amuses her, and it suits her, though I dont think she knows why. Shes my new girlfriend, and shes full with goodness. Coco is bending her knees very gracefully now, her upper body leaning backwards ever so slightly, one arm pulled back at the shoulder level, poised to serve and the other throwing the dull, yellow ball upwards. I can watch her doing this over and over again. A slapping sound and the ball is sent forward with a spinning force, and shes already bouncing lightly on her white shoes, yelling at a team-mate who was not paying attention to the game, hair dancing about in her wake.
The ball is returned, awkwardly, and one of the girls (the tall, mannish one,) receives it deftly, lobbing it back upwards in a narrow curve. Coco sprints forward, her lovely, lean calves a blur of white and sunlight, and she leaps, pushing against ground and gravity. She is suspended in air for a split second, her green eyes fixed on the ball, her hand transfixed in a straight palm, ready and immortal. I forget to breathe as I watch her serving out a punishing smash. The ball makes a sharp smacking sound as it hits the court on the opponents side. Coco is grinning, and her friends put their hands up for high-fives. The other team stands no chance.
Lunch time and we sit together, she is having her healthy, sensible, protein-high meal. I chew on my cheap, off-the-shelf sausage roll, listening to her talking about pursuing her sports seriously (the coach was at it again, no doubt), but then she frowns, Will you go to the same uni with me? Hows your grades?
I have no plans to go to university. I smile, Ill try. My grades arent too bad, though might not be good enough for some places.
Then, why dont you come over tonight, we can study together. Exams just around the corner, and I want to be together.
I make a naughty face at her, wagging my eyebrows suggestively, So aggressive, Coco.
She laughs, poking me, pulling her lips in a little (trying to look mean), and says, I mean together at college, you tease.
I grin, Ill come over, tonight.
Her room is littered with magazines and books. Shes an over-achiever, and shes never going to be good enough for her parents. Shes not only good at sports, she is also well-read and popular. She invites me in to her room, a little overtly, covering up her embarrassment and awkwardness. I may be the first boy that she had ever allowed within these private walls of her safest of places.
We put our heads down into our homework; she is impatient with me when I get stuck at a question that she had breezed through. Coco makes a lot of little noises, the kind that speaks volumes with the most basic sounds, her tsk is always pregnant with dissatisfaction and lordliness, her ahh full of approval and warmth, her mmm holds many desires, many dreams. I stop studying. I have come over not to improve my head, but to hold her, to touch her, to kiss her. She pushes me, giggling, we fall into the routine of her initial reluctance, small hands on my chest, pressing me away half-heartedly, turning into curls of little fingers that grasp my shoulders, pulling me close. Her lips are moist and taste like fizzy drinks, her tongue inexperienced, clumsy. Shes wet and warm, young and alive, things that I am not. Things that I want to be. I pull back, smiling at her. She smiles back, happy that I did not turn to be one of those creeps who wanted the whole way too soon too eager. I am patient, and way creepier than those creeps.
Enough studying for one night, Coco, I say, rising up to my feet.
We come down from her room, her mother has prepared dinner, and she looks at me approvingly. I am polite and well-spoken. We sit down together, and her mother starts her questions. I proceed to entertain her, and lie, a lot. I make up stories about my parents, what they do, and who they are. I am on auto-pilot, I have prepared these lies; this is not my first time I am playing human. Meanwhile, my eyes are constantly on my lovely Coco, she bends forward slightly whenever she spoons a mouthful, and every time she does so, a little cleavage graces me with its beauty. Her breasts are small, shapely and rosy on their peaks.
I leave after dinner, she promises to come over and help me study at my place next time.
She falls for me hard. I never push her against her wishes, I do not demand things shes not ready to give, but she comes now, crawling on to my bed with headiness in her beautiful, large, innocent eyes. I pull her to me, kissing and embracing her passionately, making sure she is getting all those little affectionate gestures that are so easily mistaken for intimacy. Her skin was cherry-blossom turned flesh, virginal smoothness of milk and ambrosia, life itself oozes out of her very being, she is my chocolate and honey. I have been holding back, feigning reluctance, lying through my teeth about worrying if she will regret it later. She frowns, delicate eyebrows knotted together, her face serious, I want it to happen. With you.
I undo my pants. She gets a little nervous at the sight, but I kiss her tenderly, and she melts in my arms again. I whisper her name into her ear, where her hair was teasing my nose with the smell of modern shampoo and her mothers perfume. It is a coarse kind of smell. Her mothers lower-middleclass upbringing will never wash away.
She slips out of her things, dress and under-wears, and we sit facing each other, breathless and naked. She is sweating a little, her face radiant and glowing with anticipation. I take her hands into mine, kissing her knuckles gently, and when I look up to her eyes, I weave those magic words, Coco, I love you.
I have her, then. I have her.
Coco falls very sick. Everyone seems to be taken aback by her sudden illness. Shes supposed to be one of tomorrows brightest stars. Her parents keep her at home, telling me that she is too weak to have guests. I leave flowers and chocolate with her mother, making sure that I look confused and sad. She hugs me, telling me that I am a very nice boy. I hug back, placing my hand carefully on her lumps of fat that sit underneath her too-tight bra, around her side.
The truth is: Cocos dying. She is growing old rapidly, and right now, she is crying her wrinkled face out. The doctors will be baffled by her condition, and the specialists will call it an extraordinary medical case. It is so difficult these days, to get away from these nosy people. But I cannot help myself with Coco. Her life force is too delicious, and I want it badly. I need it.
And now, only one thing left to do.
The moons high when I scale the tree outside her bedroom. Shes slumped by the side of her bed, exhausted and abandoned. I push the window in and step inside. She wakes up and tries to shield herself away from me. She starts to cry, I dont want you to see me. I hug her bony frame from behind and say, Coco. Nothing can make me stop loving you.
She turns around, and the full force of her advanced-aging face hits me. I pretend to be shocked, and she cries anew. I keep my hands placed lightly on her sobbing shoulders, acting unsure what to do. Finally, I say, carefully, I cant bear to see you suffering like this. This has to be said at the right moment, with the right tone.
She bawls her eyes out, then, a grandmother of six-teen years of age, and she wishes for the nightmare to end. I rub her hair down, soothingly, They will try to help you. Doctors, and smart people, Im sure.
The thought of having to face the world and reality, the mere idea of having to sit and be prodded with questions is the final push that I dropped on her doom. She was not ready for it, and she clutches at my arm, I dont want to live anymore, I dont want to be a freak. Please, help me. I seem appalled, You are not a freak, Coco.
She shrieks at me, Dont patronize me! Help me, or go away! I pretend to be hurt, and she pulls back, crying again. I let a few minutes pass. Then I kneel, If thats what you want, Coco. I will help you.
She smiles, her eyes still shining behind the disgustingly drooping skin, Thank you. I love you.
I love you, too.
Coco dies two days after that. Her parents say that she died peacefully. They are poor liars; the shock and horror in their faces belie their little story. I know the truth. She died with her face carved off. There's no signs of forced entry to her room, and no screaming. Her parents are too fraught to pursue the macabre mystery, though.
A thought hangs on their mind: She must have wanted it.
I place a white rose on her closed coffin, and looking up, I see her one last time as she gazes down on everyone from her blown-up photograph, a vision of a promise.
I turn and walk away from that silly little place of death. My mind is busy already; this stolen life will probably be good for a few years. I intend to enjoy it to the fullest.
Oh, and I probably need to organise an application to a new high-school. I cant possibly make college with my grades.
Good-bye, Chocolatta.
