So You Watched Obsession And Want To Mainline Curry Barker's Short Horror:
wonderful news!! curry barker is one of my favorite (if not my favorite, hands down) short horror directors. as someone who has watched hundreds and hundreds of short horror films on youtube.
here are five of his films with the runtime and a quick summary of each. (sorry if i miss any, these are what i remember off the top of my head!) i've avoided spoilers beyond the basic premise, but every single one of these deals with Absolutely Haunting Thematic Shit:
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THE CHAIR - 25 minutes
when horror connoisseurs hear "curry barker," they usually think of the chair first. barker was approached to make this into a full-length film & pitched obsession instead... GREAT choice, as i don't think the chair would Work with extra runtime.
a man finds an old chair on the side of the road and brings it home to his girlfriend. strange events begin to unfold -- his girlfriend's behavior becomes increasingly erratic, he's losing time, he's unraveling at the seams....
if you enjoyed the fucked-up relationship dynamics in obsession then you will probably have a good time.
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MILK & SERIAL - 62 minutes
barker's other best-known horror film. a twisty found footage thriller about youtube pranksters whose pranks Go Wrong (TM).
i can't say much more than that.... if you watched obsession and thought "pretty good, but pretty predictable. i wonder how curry barker would handle a psychological thriller with more plot twists??"
boy, does this film have an answer!!
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ENIGMA - 20 minutes
this is a psychological thriller about a man dealing with the impending end of the world. explores how other people are also dealing with the end of the world.
i fear i'll give a skewed impression if i say this one is sort of a feel-good film..... but OF the films on this list, it's Certainly the most optimistic. my partner rafi (who really hates depressing horror) watched it with me and concluded, "oh, that was kind of sweet, actually!!"
this one's great if you want a palate cleanser after The Unrelenting Gutwrenching Horror of obsession.
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WARNINGS - 20 minutes
my personal favorite!! criminally underrated!! upsetting in a way that stuck to my skin for days!!
a man starts receiving strange written warnings on halloween. things around him begin to unravel.
similar to the chair in its unsettling surreality, but with a bit more supernatural influence imo. you'll recognize a lot of parallel imagery to obsession, especially with Strange Movement and Nightmare Experiences.
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HEAVY EYES - 5 minutes
the shortest one on this list if you just want to dip your toes in real quick... a pretty easy time investment if you've never watched short horror and aren't sure if you'll like it!
a boy's mom comes home unexpectedly at night.
the only problem?? she's still texting him from the hospital where she works.
this one is both scary and ended up Way More Haunting than i thought a 5-minute short could. even thinking about it makes my stomach kind of hurt.
⠀ ݁⠀ * ⠀ ݁ ⠀⠀AUTHOR’S NOTE.⠀⠀HII OMG. i love you, thanks for requesting this. is what i needed !!!! i read that and my thong fell out so, thanks.. <3
⠀ ݁⠀ * ⠀ ݁ ⠀⠀content warning.⠀⠀religious trauma & internalized homophobia, nat thinks she knows everything, usage of nicotine, angst, implied child abuse ( 5,786 words ).
Silence adheres to your residence like rust.
The parsonage sits just behind the church, white siding peeling slow as sunburn, a swing on the porch that creaks like it’s confessing something. You learn early that the walls are thin. You learn earlier that your father’s voice carries.
Preacher’s daughter.
It’s what they call you in the grocery store, in the hallway at school, in the parking lot after service while the cicadas thrum like a second sermon. Not your name. Never your name. Just the title.
But, your story follows you. Everyone already knows it: abandoned by a wicked woman, raised by a man of god. Your mother left when you were six. Your father tells it plain, the way he tells everything. she was a sinner, he says. she had a hunger that wasn’t holy. she went away to sin, and the world swallowed her whole.
Some people give you a sad look when you pass, as if they see your mother when they look at you, missing her like they used to. Smetimes you stand in your bedroom at night and open the window just a crack. The air smells like honeysuckle and river mud and gasoline drifting from the highway. You press your ear to the dark and try to hear something — footsteps, maybe. A car slowing down. Your mother’s voice calling your real name instead of preacher’s daughter.
You don’t remember her face clearly. Just the blur of it. Dark hair brushing your cheek. Hands that moved soft and slow. Your father says she was no good. Says goodness is obedience. Goodness is staying.
Church is held in a two story house, a converted home with a steeple tacked on the front. Stained glass windows. A wooden sign carved with the words House Of God.
You go there when it’s empty and midnight — perfect for you. Everytime life feels too heavy on your shoulders you go there, when the bed starts to rot under your weight since it’s been three days since you stayed there.
A quiet church feels heavier.
You slip through the wide front door as silent as you can. You don’t flick on the lights. Moonlight spills in through the windows. You make your way down the center aisle and slump into the front pew.
“Forgive me father for I have sinned,” you whisper, closing your eyes. The faces of girls haunt the corridors of your mind, offering no respite from persistent contemplation.
No one answers.
The old grandfather clock ticks, counting off the seconds, but it is otherwise silent. The air smells like wood polish and dust. You let your head fall against the pew. The weight of your own guilt and loneliness settling hard in your chest.
“Please,” you plead. Hair covers your teary eyes, even if there’s no one to watch there. You don’t know if you’re pleading with God, or your father, or the old memories that follow you like ghosts.
All you know is the deep, aching isolation of being an outcast. Of not fitting in. Of being alone.
Of being broken.
You shut your eyes tighter. This loneliness has become familiar. It isn’t the kind you can ever explain to anyone who has not carried it themselves. This loneliness is a stain that won’t ever come out. The kind that changes you in the most fundamental of ways.
You don’t need to speak the words aloud. You’ve asked for forgiveness so many times that it feels as natural as breathing. You have not, however, been granted any.
Maybe you’re not worth it. Maybe this has been your fate all along because you started to wonder if sin is just another word for wanting more than this. Started to think of your mother standing alone somewhere under a different sky, carrying a hunger she never learned how to quiet.
Crying, your father says, doesn’t bring anyone back. Crying doesn’t help you grow closer to God.
But you are close to weeping now, your throat tightening with the urge to sob. You’ve tried so hard your whole life to be good, but the older you get, the more you think you don’t know what that word means at all.
It begins to rain outside. Fat drops pelt the church roof and splash on the stained glass windows. The sound echoes in the large space, as if the sky is crying too. You know you should go home. If your father finds you gone, you’ll get an ear full, maybe more.
But your father has always seen something weak within you, a hunger that will never be satisfied. He is convinced he has been left to guide you back to the path of righteousness. Back to a life without sin.
You have started to doubt that such a life exists.
The rain drums on the roof like a drumbeat meant to drive you out. You pull your legs to your chest, burying your face in your knees. The loneliness in you turns to fear. What happens to sinners? The Bible says they go to the darkest fire, to a place of weeping and gnashing of teeth. You don’t think you deserve it. You think you’re just a girl who didn’t ask for the cards she was dealt.
The rain turns violent. The thunder rumbles loudly, the lightning bright enough to light up the stained glass windows in flashes of white and grey. You jump at every roll of thunder, your stomach in knots, every cell in your body on high alert. You are terrified of storms. You wish someone was here with you — to hold you and keep you safe.
But there is only you and the quiet, dark church.
No one is there.
Heat sits heavy over town, thick as syrup, pressing everyone small and slow. the church parking lot blisters under the sun, tar soft enough to take the shape of your shoes. You’re supposed to be inside, helping your father fold bulletins for sunday, but the house feels close, full of scripture.
So you slip out the back door.
You tell yourself you’re just going to the gas station on route 12 for a coke. You don’t tell yourself you’re hoping to see something different than the same white houses and trimmed hedges and watchful windows.
The bell over the door jingles when you step inside. Cold air kisses your bare arms. You stand in front of the refrigerator case longer than you need to, staring at the rows of glass bottles sweating under fluorescent light.
That’s when you feel it.
Not God. Not exactly.
Just the sense of being watched in a way that isn’t unkind.
She’s leaning against the ice freezer by the door, boots scuffed, cigarette tucked behind one ear like it’s waiting its turn. Hair the color of old wheat, chopped uneven like she did it herself in a bathroom mirror.
Natalie Scatorccio.
You know her name the way you know a storm’s coming — through whispers, through the way adults tighten their mouths when they say it. Wrong crowd. Bad influence. Trouble.
You know they don’t get Natalie. How she drinks and drives and smokes cigarettes and wears her leather jacket in church and shows up late to school in the same clothes she was wearing yesterday.
How it looks like she doesn’t have time for the things you’re supposed to make time for — studying, being kind, saying grace.
When people look at Natalie, all they see is an outcast. All they see is the sin on her.
But you think you see something else. Like you’re watching her through a veil of mist.
Not quite sure what’s under it.
But she has caught your eye more than once. When you walk the hallway at school, her gaze drags on you, leaving a strange heat in its wake. Your eyes meet in a quiet moment during class or as she hangs behind school after practice.
Whatever she tries to tell your with her blue eyes, you ignore it. Leave the store without buying anything.
Outside, birds sing from the trees. Your father doesn’t like you lingering. Doesn’t like you near girls with reputations that stick like oil stains.
As you sit on the curb the gas station door swings open, sending the bell into a frenzy. You stop walking, your hand still raised, shielding yourself from the sun. The concrete burns through your skirt.
Your father says you’re soft. Easily overwhelmed, with a tendency to shut down in the moment.
But you don’t feel soft when Natalie sits down next to you on the curb, legs sprawled out, too close. She smells like smoke and whiskey and something earthy, warm and soft as worn leather.
She fishes a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her leather jacket, tapping it against a rough palm. She lights up and takes a slow pull. The way she does it looks natural, like breathing, her long fingers curled in a way you don’t think you could ever learn. She glances at you. Blows smoke into the blue sky.
“Hi,” you greet.
That draws an eyebrow raise from Nat, as if that isn’t how she expected this to go. You fold your hands tightly in your lap, suddenly keenly aware of how innocent a girl you are. Soft skin and curves. Eyes you can rely on. You’ve been taught there is value in this kind of innocence. The kind people think your mother destroyed. “Hey. I’m Nat.”
You nod. “I know.”
There is a long beat of silence. You think about making up an excuse to go home — that your father is expecting you, or the sun is too hot, or you think it might rain. But you don’t say anything. Instead, you pick at the hem of your skirt.
Silently, she cracks her soda open and hands it to you without asking. You hesitate only a second before taking it. The metal rim is cold against your lip. “You always look like that?” she asks.
You wonder how you look to her. Pale skin and a soft face. Eyes big and dark as ink. Your father says you have your mother’ eyes. A curse he has had to bear for sixteen years. “Like what?” you ask, after a swallow of sweet coke.
“Like you’re a scared little sheep. Always on the lookout for a wolf.” Nat watches you with her sharp eyes, and you can feel yourself getting flustered, your fingers pulling tight on your skirt.
The words settle into you slow. Not cruel. Not gentle either. Just true in a way that makes your chest ache. How you must look next to her. So plain. Like a girl who’s never tasted anything but holy water.
Father says wolves exist. That they hide in plain sight with their pretty smiles and sharp teeth, their hungry eyes that see all of your weaknesses. Says you have a naive heart. That it is the most powerful of weapons for wolves to use, because naive is what happens when you’ve never truly seen evil with your own eyes.
Maybe he thinks Nat is one of those wolves. After all, if he saw how close she is sitting, hear the rough edge to her voice. He would tell you to move away, to run, to go back to the safe, familiar world of God and church.
The soda tastes sweet and acidic on your tongue. You try to sit the way she does — slouching, loose, with confidence. Instead, you feel silly like you’re not doing it right. Like she can tell you have no idea what you’re doing.
Once you glance at her — really look — you realize there’s a bruise blooming faint-yellow along her jawline, almost faded. There’s a steadiness in her eyes that feels older than summer, older than both of you.
You’re thinking about this bruise when she says, “You’re the preacher’s kid or somethin’ like that, right?”
The question tenses you, your body automatically shifting to sit up straighter. Preacher’s daughter. That’s what they call you. Your father is the one people bow their heads to on Sundays, the one who stands in front of them with an open Bible and a message written in the light.
“Yeah.” Your voice is so soft you aren’t even sure she hears you. You are painfully aware that the town might pass by the two of you and see his daughter sitting with the neighborhood’s black sheep. He wouldn’t much like that, would he?
Nat nods as if confirming a suspicion. Takes another pull off her cigarette, holds the smoke in her lungs for a beat, lets it curl from between her lips. She studies you in a way that makes you feel seen. “Man, you really are. The hair, the clothes, the look in your big saintly eyes. Like a little rabbit who doesn’t have any idea about the world at all.”
“And you do?” you shoot back.
Surprise flickers across her face. Maybe she didn’t expect that. When she recovers, her smile is so sharp it doesn’t reach her eyes. Her voice is low as she says, “More than you, I bet.”
It’s common, the way in which everyone underestimates you — merely for being the preacher’s daughter, you are supposedly shielded from all wickedness. Little do they know, malevolence originates from within your own home. They presume to possess all knowledge. They attribute the bruises upon your legs (whose hues mirror Nat’s) to a mere iron deficiency.
No one in your hometown realizes how keenly you are aware of the world. You watch it — the news on your television, the people confessing in church, the secrets no one is supposed to know. You are just as smart as them, just as curious as them, and yet you are treated like a child who doesn’t know any better. Like an outcast. It stirs up something bitter and twisted in your chest, like weeds taking root. It’s in your ribs, clawing to get out.
A truck roars past. Wind kicks dust into your ankles. You both blink against it.
Wordlessly, you return Nat her soda and stand up. You need to leave. You expect her to let you walk away. To be glad to see you go, as many of them are.
Instead, she asks: “Where ya going?”
You ignore your racing heart. Ignore the ache in your chest. You look down at her, sitting on the curb with her scuffed shoes and leather jacket, her bruised jaw, her bruised heart. The sun halos her as if she’s a fallen angel.
A wolf, you think. And you reply coldly, “Home.”
Something flickers behind her eyes, but it vanishes so fast you think you may have imagined it. She crushes her cigarette under her heel and shrugs. Just like that. Nothing about her is affected by your answer. It doesn’t matter to her that you’re standing up, leaving. Not in the least.
“Later.”
So you leave.
Lunch is always silent. The TV is on but you can hear the grandfather clock behind you and your father’s sniffs as he stares down at his plate. He doesn’t know what to say to you.
There was this silence at first, when he still tried to understand you, when he knelt in front of you and gently took your hands in his own, like a man trying to coax a frightened doe. It faded when you grew older. He is too proud of a man to admit he doesn’t know his own daughter, who sits across from him, not meeting his eyes.
Now there aren’t words, no matter how badly either of you want them.
The grandfather clock continues ticking.
Something has occupied your thoughts since school started a week ago. Perhaps you might join the cheerleading squad — a hobby to diminish your presence here and shed your naive image.
The idea makes you anxious. Your father should be glad. Should applaud your decision to finally put yourself out there, even if he doesn’t like the sport or the uniforms. You will wear something much more modest than the rest of the girls. Something that won’t cause a stir around the church congregation.
Your father notices how quiet you are and mistakes your thinking for submission. He doesn’t see you as an individual, but an extension of himself. A project to mold, a duty to shape you so you don’t stray from the path he has chosen for you. No one is supposed to question him. No one is supposed to disobey. To your father, being an obedient little rabbit has always been the highest form of worship. He doesn’t realize how much you resent this.
“I was thinking about something.” You start, swallowing and picking at your food — barely eating.
Your father looks up. His gaze is stern and heavy. He thinks you’re going to tell him your sins again, like you always do. You do this to him often, confessing the things you wish to do but know are not right. So, he can put a stop to them.
After all, you are the church mouse, the girl who is supposed to be seen and not heard. You are the girl who is so soft, so gentle, no one can believe she has an inner life. “I think I’d like to join cheerleading.”
Cheerleading is the last thing he probably expected to come out of your mouth you notice once he freezes. You can almost see his disapproval. You know what he sees when he looks at the cheerleading squad: short skirts and tight uniforms and girls who do anything to get attention. They are the exact opposite of what you are supposed to represent.
A beat. Then, after a moment to absorb the information, “Cheerleading.” You take note of the hard edge to his voice. He sets down his fork and leans back in his chair, fingers tapping on the tabletop.
He doesn’t even try to hide how displeased he is. Cheerleaders are not proper daughters of God. They are sinners. He doesn’t want those girls to ruin his daughter with their sinful ways. “What on earth has inspired such an idea?” He asks icily.
“I just want to… get involved with something. I don’t think it’s a bad idea to try some new things.”
The idea seems almost inconceivable to him. He has never seen you as anything but a puppet to control. Something to shape to his image, using scripture as his chisel. Your father tilts his head to the side.
“And you believe cheerleading will be good for you?” He does not bother to hide the skepticism in his voice. Your father doesn’t trust you. In his eyes, you’re a naïve young girl, too delicate to understand the world and too stupid to defend yourself.
“I—”
“Cheerleading is for sluts.” He states, makes it clear by slamming his fist faintly to the table. You flinch. “Are you one?”
Heat rises to your face. Your cheeks burn. You didn’t expect that question, so blatant and accusing. The question is more of an insult. “No, Father, of course not.”
That doesn’t seem to appease him. It makes you nervous how he studies you, his gaze moving across your features, down your neck. He is searching for something to confirm his suspicion, some trace of sin hidden under your pale skin. “I hope you don’t ask this anymore. I have raised you better than this.”
For a long moment, there is utter silence. Your throat is tight with frustration and shame. “Sorry.”
Then, you go back to silence.
After Sunday mass, you find her. Just your luck. Nat is sprawled on the hood of a rust-chewed sedan parked crooked by a tree line, cigarette balanced between two fingers like it belongs there.
It is not until you’ve gotten closer that she sees you. At the sight of you, she raises an eyebrow, like she didn’t expect to see you again. She takes a pull of her cigarette, blows out a small curl of smoke and grins faintly. “Hey.”
Your footsteps crunch in the leaves and grass as you come to a stop in front of her. Your hands clasp behind your back. The wind has become cooler, the air thicker. The sky is still blue, dotted with a few clouds that look like you could scoop them with your hands. “Hi.”
She watches you with those intense eyes of hers as you stand in front of her, close enough now that you can smell the faint scent of smoke that always seems to cling to her. If your father saw you talking to her now, he’d lose whatever is left of his damn mind.
But, every saint has a past and every sinner has a future.
“Is it yours?” You ask, pointing to the car.
Her gaze flickers to the sedan, then back to you. She lets out another lazy breath of smoke. “Nah.” The car is clearly old and beat up, with rust creeping along the edges and dents in the door.
As always, your curiosity gets the best of you. You can’t help but wonder who the car actually belongs to. You don’t ask, though, because you get the feeling she won’t tell you.
Instead, you shift your gaze to the bruise on her jaw, faint yellow but there. It looks like it happened a few days ago. “Are you okay?”
That makes her smile. You can’t decide if it’s amused or bitter.
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about me.” There is something condescending about the way she says that, as if your concern is foolish, as if she is above worrying. She taps the ash from the tip of her cigarette. “You’re not supposed to be talking to me, you know. Your dad thinks I’m bad news.”
“I’m not more stupid than the rest of the people just because my dad is a fucking preacher,” you snap quietly. “I know what I’m doing.”
That seems to ground her. Make her stop thinking she knows better. Her expression softens. Something warm flashes in her eyes. It catches you off guard. It’s the first time you’ve said anything to imply that you’re not the mouse you appear to be. “You’re right.”
That unexpected gentleness is enough to silence you. You watch her exhale cigarette smoke again, eyes lingering on the curve of her jaw, on the bruise there. There is no denying she is beautiful in a reckless kind of way. Like fire. “Can I?” You nod at her cigarette.
She raises an eyebrow at the request. When she holds it out, your fingers tremble. Nervously, as if your father could see from the trees that you are about to do something that goes against all of his teachings.
But you take the cigarette from her hand, bring it to your lips. You mimic her, inhaling like she did. The smoke burns as it fills your chest, but you control it. You hold your breath for a long moment. When you exhale, the smoke comes in a thin, grey curl from your mouth and nose.
Nat watches you as the smoke disappears into the air. It feels like her eyes are everywhere — on you, on your hands gripping the cigarette, on the way you try to mimic her. It feels a little bit like being scrutinized, but there’s something else, too. Something you can’t put a word to. There is a moment where she studies you like a painting, taking in your features. She smiles faintly. “You’re not as uptight as I thought.”
“You are as asshole as I thought,” you feel emboldened enough to make a joke. Try to. You don’t know why — but you felt the need to do it.
You don’t expect her to laugh, but she does. It isn’t just a smirk. It isn’t a scoff, either. It’s an honest laugh, a rough, throaty sound that surprises you with how nice it sounds. It makes your stomach twist.
She smiles at you again, eyes crinkled faintly at the corners. Not unkind. For some reason, your heart flutters when you see it. “I can be a real pain in the ass, that’s true.”
She is more human than you first thought, more than you ever would have expected from the town outcast. It makes you want to know more, want to see what else she keeps hidden. That curiosity is a hunger.
You exhale another plume of smoke. Nat watches it, eyes tracing the grey wisps as you speak. Her voice lowers to match yours. “We can go down by the creek — if you want. It’s a place I go sometimes when I need space from everyone.”
There is something forbidden about this, you think as you follow her. Your father would be horrified to see you now, with the village rebel, walking down to her secret spot. It is so different from your carefully constructed life, the life where you do everything the right way, and make no mistakes. The life where your life is not your own, where you are a mouse.
For once, you want to be different. For just a moment, you want to be a little reckless.
The path down to the bank is hidden beneath a few trees, barely visible. You follow her like a quiet shadow, keeping your footsteps light. The forest hums around you. The grass is cool underfoot.You wonder how many times she’s made this walk through the trees alone.
Underneath the branches and leaves, she slows to a stop. From here, you can see the creek. The water is clear. Sunlight touches the surface in shimmering ripples. The sound of the creek is like a whisper, soothing after the silence of the forest.
Nat sinks down onto the bank. The grass is long, and some of it has bent over her boots. She pulls another cigarette from the pocket of her jacket, pats empty space next to her. An obvious invitation.
Nervously, you obey. You sit next to her.
The wind stirs Nat’s hair. You can still see the fading bruise on her jaw. You wonder how she got it.
The grass is cool against the back of your legs. You feel the heat of her body next to yours, the brush of her shoulder as she leans back. She offers you the cigarette again, but you decline politely this time. You watch her raise it to her own lips. Another long pull of smoke. It leaves her mouth in a long, grey plume that fades into the air. She stares up the moon through the trees. “Pretty, ain’t it?” She murmurs.
Like you, you think.
But what you say is, “Yeah. Real pretty.”
For a long moment, you are both silent again — listening to the creek and the wind through the trees. The air whispers around you. You can hear the grass rustling and the faint hum of insects. And, after a moment, the sound of Nat’s voice. It cuts through it all. “I like this spot because it’s quiet. I can breathe.”
“What makes you feel trapped?” You ask.
The question makes her give an ironic laugh, almost bitter. She takes another slow drag on her cigarette, letting smoke roll from her mouth. You study her face, the way her expression tightens as her shoulders hunch slightly. “This town.”
Your heart tugs when she speaks, a feeling like longing. Something bitter in your throat. I know that feeling. “Tell me about it.”
She gives you a fleeting glance. There is a hint of understanding in her eyes, like you said something that caught her attention. Maybe she sees a part of herself reflected in you. She pulls her knees to her chest, resting her chin there as she stares out at the creek. A few strands of hair fall over her face. She pushes it back. “It’s a small town. Everyone knows your business. Everyone tells what to be.”
There is a deep, quiet honesty to her voice, a vulnerability you have not seen from her before, like the words are things she hides even from herself. You wonder how much you are alike. You understand how it feels to always be under the watchful eyes of the town, to be judged for your every decision. People assume things about you. They expect to act a certain way.
“I know what that’s like,” you say quietly.
It catches her attention. She looks at you again. Her eyes hold yours for a moment, intense and thoughtful, like she is trying to read you. Then, her gaze softens at whatever she sees. She smiles. It is not the same smirk she wears in school. This one is gentler. More honest in its amusement. “Sorry you do.”
The sympathy in her voice makes your heart do something strange in your chest. There is a feeling that blooms to life, a warmth you can only describe as understanding. You want to say something — something kind, or thoughtful — but the words catch in your throat. So she speaks instead, and her voice is still quiet, but a little lighter. Almost playful. “You must get tired of being everyone’s good girl all the time.”
“You must get tired of being the town’s ‘bad’ girl all the time.” You echo.
A huff of laughter leaves her lips. The smirk returns, the familiar one you remember. She blows a thin cloud of smoke into the air, still leaning back on her hands. Her shoulders have relaxed. The sight makes you feel a strange sense of… safety. Like, maybe if she can be honest with you, you can be honest, too.
Suddenly, the very thoughts that once locked you inside your room, for which your father’s wrathful voice and stinging hand left their mark, resurface. A new object of your desire emerges.
As do these sentiments, so too does the familiar aversion.
It feels like you should not be thinking or feeling these thoughts at all. They are dark. You know you are supposed to reject anything impure. The sin of temptation sits next to you, whispers in your ear.
The feeling is a desire, one that burns in your gut. The same part that aches from hunger, that wants the things she has, that wants to be her. All of a sudden, you want to reach out to her. Place your hand over the exposed skin of her arm. Feel the softness there, the heat.
It is a thought that would appall your father. You could never do it. You cannot cross that boundary. It is wrong. You are wrong for feeling this way. You are the preacher’s daughter, which means nothing is allowed. And yet, no matter what, your eyes keep drifting to that bruise on her jaw.
That mark of something wrong. It makes your fingers twitch with a strange, almost violent impulse to reach out and touch it. You want to brush it with your fingers, as if you could erase it, as if you could take the mark away.
Something like desperation builds inside you. You want to be closer to Nat as much as you are scared to. But here she is, sitting so close to you, her shoulder brushing your own. The heat of her body is a magnet for you. There is a pull.
So, you reach out, almost without thinking. And you lean in slowly, giving Nat time to pull away.
She does not.
Instead, she meets you halfway. There is something vulnerable in her then — in the sudden melting of her body, the sharp exhale. In all the times you have seen her, there was never a moment that she let you touch her.
Lips meet.
Soft. That is the word that comes to mind. She is so shockingly soft. The kiss, the way her lips yield to your own, the way her breath hitches, how she breathes you in. It sets your heart racing, makes that ache in your chest grow.
For a moment, there is no sound but the whisper of the creek. All you hear is the sound of her breathing, of how it quickens, how it turns heavy in a way that is so intimate. It makes you want to do more. So much more.
Slow, careful, you place your hand beside her jawline. Your fingers brush over the bruise there, a touch so gentle it is barely a touch at all. In a second, her hand is around your wrist, holding your hand to her face.
There is something desperate about the way she grips your wrist. Your palm presses against the bruise. Her eyes are closed. She is letting you touch her. There is a soft noise that escapes her, something small and vulnerable. She is letting you see a part of her you suspect no one has ever seen.
This makes the kiss deepen. The taste of her lips. The scent of cigarettes in her hair. The heat of her body. The way she leans closer. Closer.
Heat floods your body, warms all of your skin. Your hand shifts, fingers slipping into her hair, gripping the locks almost as if it is your lifeline. Your brain goes soft, blank of any thought except the way she kisses, the way she tastes, the way her teeth graze over your lower lip.
It makes your heart hammer in your chest. You cannot breathe. You do not care.
When you pull away, she is breathless, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she inhales. She opens her eyes and you catch a glimpse of them — they are dark, almost black. Her lips are slightly parted. They are red and kiss swollen. You realize, in that moment, that you caused that. Her cheeks are flushed slightly, as if you burned her.
“Sorry, um...” To be honest, you let yourself get carried away. Carried away from the deepest hidden feelings inside your ribs, hanging and waiting for a moment.
The word makes a half-smile spread across Nat’s lips. Her eyes are half-lidded. She watches you through those long eyelashes as if she is looking at you for the first time. You can see how her gaze drifts to your mouth. When she replies, her voice is gruff. “Don’t be sorry,” she says.
Then, she pulls you in again, her hand slipping behind your neck and pressing her lips to yours. She kisses you like she wants to devour you, like she is starved.
Undeniable to say, that when you get home, you can’t stop smiling.
