Simplicity

Simplicity (or, Act II of II)

In which a crime is committed, old friends are found,

New love appears, and tragedies abound.

I was, as the popular films and movies would put it, on the run from the law. Wanted for the murder of my ex-fiancee, and the attempted murder of my brother, I was in considerable trouble. At first, I was, to say the least, disconcerted by that state, but it really didn’t hinder me as much as it would hinder most people.

For quite some time, I had been living as a street musician. It isn’t that difficult to keep myself of the proverbial radar. You see, I didn’t have much long-term contact with anyone, and I almost never used banks, ATM cards, credit cards, or anything like that. Despite the fact that I was worth around fifteen million dollars, I lived a relatively simple life. No house, no income tax, no property tax, nothing like that.

As a result, ironically, it had proving remarkably hard for the any of the police forces to track me down.

As you may (or may not) know, I am the man that fortune has played with, a man who has lost everything to his brother, time and time again, and finally, three years ago, lost my fiancée, the only woman I have ever loved, to him. You may not, however, know the circumstances under which all of this happened, so I’ll give you a bit of background, here.

Elizabeth Rose Connosint and I were engaged. Both fresh out of college, both virgins, both filthy rich. Then, she decided that she was going to stay with her parents for a few months before the wedding, try and talk them over to accepting me.

Now, some people may blame me for not going with her. But, I looked at the facts, which were: a) I didn’t particularly like England, where they lived, b) her parents didn’t like me, and I wouldn’t get to see Elizabeth very often, and c) my brother, Tod, lived there, and I didn’t get along with him very well. So, I left to wander, as I do tend to have a desire to wander, to travel.

So, while Elizabeth was over in England fucking my brother like a madwoman while swearing to me her undying love and devotion and celibacy, I was fending off the advances of high-school aged virgins, video-taping a middle-aged and very much in love couple at their last night together for awhile, partying with a homosexual couple (and that’s still one of the best damn parties I have ever been to), and saving the life and questionable virtue of an FBI agent (who predicted Elizabeth’s infidelity and had one of the best voices I’ve ever heard).

I didn’t believe her prediction, however, until I returned home to find Elizabeth on all fours in MY bed, taking it from behind, telling my brother that it was fine if he came inside her, since it would probably look like mine anyway.

I left, didn’t listen to her arguments. It wasn’t so much a matter of love, because I still felt very strongly about her, as it was a matter of trust. I didn’t trust her anymore, and wasn’t sure if I ever could again.

I ended up going back to my wandering, leaving Elizabeth to find out just how much of an asshole Tod really was. See, Tod doesn’t let his whores use protection. Ever.

So, as to my most recent predicament: about a year ago, I got a call.

For the first time in just under two years, I heard the voice of Elizabeth Rose Connosint, and it sounded sweet, like honey to a bee. Not as nice as Megan’s (the FBI agent), but I had never loved Megan.

Maybe, I figured, maybe she was going to apologize. I had had no contact with her and Tod; maybe she had broken it off with him, decided to give me time.

Her first words to me dashed that hope, however.

Tearfully, her voice full of sadness, she said, “I’m pregnant.”

I stared at the wall of my hosts in silence. They were all out together at a movie, leaving me to prepare for my evening entertaining the town. I had a cell phone then (though I have gotten rid of it since then. Cell phones, I have discovered, restrict a great deal of one’s freedom), and so it was easy for her to call me.

“And?” I asked gently. I honestly didn’t know what she wanted of me.

“And I want you to come back,” she said. “I miss you,” her voice was seductive, sweet, cajoling. It was no longer the honeyed innocence I had loved, but the voice of one practiced at seduction, one who would do what she felt because she felt like it, without thought to others. It was selfish, lewd, and lascivious. It was, in effect, the voice of a complete and utter stranger.

I hung up, and I went on with my preparations.

The playing that night, at a small park, was moody and sad. The audience, as it always is for me, was rapt with attention. However, instead of the jubilance and excitement of my normal playing, they listened with tears in their eyes, each lost in their own private sadnesses.

It was my mourning time. A chance gone, a love lost, and era that finally died. I felt remarkably freed of any binding she may have had over me, yet I could not help but wonder: What if? Would she have cheated on me if I had gone to England? Even if she hadn’t, chances are that if she was willing to cheat then, she would have sooner or later. Maybe I had been fortunate.

I didn’t feel fortunate, though. I felt lonely. Surrounded by people who enjoyed my company and respected me (to a point), and I felt then to be the loneliest person ever. Odysseus had faithful Penelope to wait for him during his quest. Twenty years she waited. However, my quest was aimless, as I was, and no reward awaited me, no love.

I cut the music off around midnight, as I saw tear-streaked faces nodding off to sleep. I walked back to the house of my hosts, my mind a mess. I listened to empty voices mutter sleepy congratulations, and I eventually nodded off to sleep.

I left the next day. I had lost all desire to stay there any longer. I could hardly remember where there was. All I knew was that wherever there was, it was bad.

I thought I could outrun my mood, as I had outrun my life, and my problems, my hatreds and my jealousies. I couldn’t outrun anything.

It was all coming to roost. I actually did get a motel room, this time. For the first time in my life, I was in no mood to play my music, to spread it like a salve over the wounded souls of the people I met. Who was healing my soul? Where was my salve?

For three days and three nights, I wallowed in my own little pit of despair. I went through all the doubts I had spent much of my life going through. Did anyone in the whole world love me? If I died, would anyone care? Would anyone even notice?


If I were a bit less depressed, if I though anyone would care, I may have committed suicide right then and there. However, I knew that I wouldn’t be missed. I would just have to trudge on, meaninglessly marching from day to day like so many people of the world who are missing so many pieces of their soul. My soul wasn’t missing any pieces. I just never really got to give them out.

I left the motel the next day, and started a long, lonely walk down the highway, heading north and heading nowhere at all.

I stopped at a bar that night. I didn’t drink, and never have, though I was sorely tempted, for the first time in my life.

It is a good thing, a very good thing, that I didn’t drink, however. I merely sat there, drinking water and generally fitting in with the gloomy atmosphere. I caught snatches of conversation here and there. One man’s wife was pregnant with his best friend’s child. He had walked in on them as they were fucking up against a wall, her round, full ass in his hands. The man was drunk enough to be quite explicit on what happened. His friend, a relatively large ex-marine, had had his pretty young wife of five months up against the wall, fucking her hard and fast. Even he wasn’t stupid enough to think this was the first time. He had left without making himself known, however, and his wife had come up to him a few weeks later and told him that she was pregnant.

He knew it wasn’t his. The chance of him fathering a child was extremely unlikely, though he hadn’t yet told her that. A visit to the doctor confirmed it. However, he couldn’t act for fear that his ex-friend, the ex-marine, would beat the hell out of him. He was living in hell, knowing that his wife was fucking around on him, knowing that he couldn’t do anything about it.

A few people down on the other side of me, a man was telling a similar story, but cheerfully, and from the cheating end. He was a figure to be both pitied and held very deeply in contempt. While his wife waited faithfully for him at home, never taking her own lovers, like many are apt to do, he was bending his secretary over his desk at the office, fucking her hard and fast while he was on the phone with his wife. I wanted so very badly to punch him in the face. I didn’t, though. He reminded me too much of my brother.

So, I was sitting there, both hating and sympathizing with my fellow patrons, when all of the sudden, I see my face on the television. Nobody was watching the television, so I was lucky, for the subtitles read that I was wanted for the murder of my former fiancée, Elizabeth, and her unborn baby.

I watched in horror as every detail of the affair was dragged into the light of day. Each gruesome detail, each horrible memory, they were all retold to all of America, right before my eyes. Hell, there were details that even I didn’t know.

I was the last person she had talked to. Unfortunately, they had no idea where I was. I doubted I could get the town to support me; they didn’t know me that well. I had a bunch of witnesses, and none of them would be likely to step up to the plate for me. I don’t even know the name of the town I was in.

I made my way slowly out of the bar, and one thought penetrated my skull: I was in trouble.

I knew I was innocent. I was pretty sure that my innocence would stand up to the test. I decided to go back home.

However, as I made my way closer and closer, I realized that my innocence would not stand up. I had been, as they say, tried by the media. They had gotten wind of the story, and I was already guilty.

There was no evidence there, linking me to the scene of the crime. The motive was weak (and almost two years old). There were no witnesses there. I guess I pulled off the perfect crime, despite my complete and utter lack of experience in murder.


My mind was made up when I heard that a reward was being offered for my capture by Elizabeth’s parents. Those assholes! They knew I would never hurt her, despite what she had done to me, and still they believed me guilty.

I turned right around. Elizabeth’s house, the center for the investigations, was about twenty miles out from Detroit. I turned around, immediately, and started heading in the opposite direction. I hadn’t been to Ohio for years, so I decided to go there. I did, after all, have one friend there who could hide me.

When I had gone on my journey, a couple years back, my first stop had been with a small town. My last night there ended with me running from my life from an angry father who thought I had slept with his daughter (which I hadn’t).

However, the girl had stayed in my room all night, talking with me. I learned that she was going to Denison, a liberal arts college in central Ohio.

There was no connection between me and her at all. No paper trail led back to her, no witnesses who knew who I was knew who she was. There was nothing. For a time, at least, I would be safe.

It took me three weeks of walking and hitch-hiking to reach the school, but reach it I did! I was, for a goodly amount of time, safe.

A few questions, and a little charm, won me the dorm building and number of Elizabeth.

I walked into the dorm, realizing with a jolt that it had been two years since I had been on a college campus. A lot had happened, but maybe I would enjoy myself.

I had, most fortuitously, arrived during a party time, so I could blend in without having to take care of any uncomfortable questions.

It took me a few hours (hours filled with pizza, Pepsi, and music), but I finally got tired of waiting for Liz. Finally, I broke out my guitar, and started to play for everyone.

They all turned the music down, way down, and finally, after fifteen minutes of playing, completely off. I let the music go where it would, leading me from cheerful melodies to soothing ones. The students loved it.

I played for nearly two hours, until one-thirty in the morning. Finally, most of the people had fallen asleep.

I found one of the drowsy ones. “Excuse me,” I said, polite as could be, “but could you tell me where I can find a girl who lives in this dorm named Elizabeth Grayla.”

The young man, who I had assumed was merely sleepy, opened his eyes. I quickly revised my opinion. He wasn’t tired; he was stoned out of his mind. He pointed vaguely down the hall. “Closed door,” he mumbled, giggling a little. Oh yeah, he was completely out of it. “Sixth on the right.”

I thanked him politely, impressed that he had managed to process that much information through his stoned little head.

I quickly walked down the hall, counting the doors to make sure I got the right one. Surprisingly enough, he had been right. The sixth door on the right was the only one fully closed at that time.

I thought that I could hear noises coming from inside, but I couldn’t be sure. The sounds, if they were there, were extremely muffled, almost nonexistent. I figured that Liz must have been sick, and was probably watching television.

I was slightly wrong, to say the least.

I opened the door without knocking, wanting to greet her with a hug. Instead, I found her on her hands and knees on her bed, one guy, a blonde young man who hadn’t even bothered to undress, but had just unzipped and gone at it, as pumping into her from behind, hard and fast. I was rather surprised to see where the thick cock was planted, however, as it seemed to be moving with speed in and out of her pretty little asshole. His hard shaft was planted in her butt, and her pert ass cheeks jiggled a bit with the impact he made with each hard thrust. I could see, as I stood in the doorway in astonishment, dried cum all over her back, in her hair, and on her firm, shaking tits. Her face was slightly obscured as well, and another cock, not quite so thick, was jammed between her plump red lips. A few streaks of cum adorned her face.

I finally snapped out of my trance, just in time to see both young men pull out and shower her with cum. I promptly left, but, on my way out, I saw her looking right at me.

I returned to her room two hours later. The smell of sex was gone. Liz was showered, her damp hair slicked back behind her ears. She looked very vulnerable, sitting there on the bed. For some reason, I pitied her, though I couldn’t say why.

It must have shown in my eyes, however, as she burst out in tears, and began to fall. I sat quickly on the bed and caught her. I held her against my chest as she cried, sobbing out whatever she needed to get out.

I could feel her tears begin to work through my shirt, making a damp stain on the front of it, but I just held her and rocked her gently, whispering softly in her ear.

After thirty minutes, the deluge slowed, then finally stopped altogether. Slowly, she raised her head. Her eyes were red and puffy, and I could see that her plump red lips were trembling.

I looked her in the eyes. “Why did you do it, if you hate yourself for it so much?” I asked her.

I could see she was restraining more tears. “I was so lonely,” she said haltingly, brokenly. I nodded for her to go on, already understanding. There are assholes everywhere, and she had been easy prey. “I didn’t have any friends,” she told me, barely getting the words out. I handed her my handkerchief. She nodded her thanks.

Squaring her shoulders, she started over. “When I first got here, it seemed like heaven. For the first time in my life, I was free. No parents, no teachers hanging over my shoulder. I was allowed to just be me.

“However, I found out that just being me didn’t seem to be making me many friends. And, I started getting lonely. It seemed like everyone around me was having fun, and I was being left out.

“For the first year, I was just fine with it. School work kept me busier than I had thought it would. This year, however, I was ready for it. No matter how much I stalled, I had a great many lonely hours. Then, I met this boy. Oh, he was handsome. Tight end on the football team, as a matter of fact. He started showing interest in me! Me!”

She broke off her dialogue a little to laugh. It wasn’t the carefree laugh I remembered, but was a good bit more cynical. “I was, of course, thrilled. He was so romantic. For some reason, I never felt wholly comfortable around him, but I was too busy not being lonely to really think. My grades started to drop a little, I started alienating the few friends I did have in favor of the ‘in’ crowd. My best friend, Lauren Elosta, was furious with me. We had this huge fight about a month ago, and I ran, of course, to Ryan.

“He was so sweet, so comforting. He made all the pretty little noises that one generally makes when one isn’t paying any attention to what someone else was saying, but I took them as comforting. Slowly, I felt his hand caress my breast. He was rubbing it softly, through my shirt and my bra. I felt my nipple slowly stiffen at his touch, and so did he. He must have been grinning like a madman as he began to pull my shirt over my head.

“Finally free of the shirt, he began to kiss my neck. I moaned, remembering how your kisses felt, before you stopped. His hands worked my bra off me before I even knew what was happening.

“Oh, the feel of his hands on my naked breasts! He worked them like a master sculptor might work clay, with skill and ease. His lips moved lower, slowly, until I finally felt his lips on my breasts. I gasped in pleasure, astonished at the feeling as his tongue slowly circled my stiff nipple, moving from one breast to another. I felt his hand slide down beneath my panties, but I was too wrapped up in the sensation of his lips on my breasts to care. I could only gasp out a swift, ‘No, please don’t!’ before sensation swallowed my body.

“The sound I made when he first started to caress my clit can be classified between a moan, a gasp, and a yelp, and a plead to stop. I started wiggling my hips, trying both to escape his unfamiliar touch, and trying even more desperately to get more of him inside of me. ‘Please, stop,’ I begged him. I writhed beneath his touch as he worked my panties off my hips, then down to my ankles. My skirt was bunched up around my waist, and his finger was beginning to glisten with my juices. ‘No!’ I said. I tried desperately to push him off. ‘No!’ I cried, louder this time. “Stop!” He slapped me, then pinned me to the bed.

“Finally, the moment came. His lips touched mine. I could feel my damp nipples against his chest, as he lay atop me. My usually pert breasts were being pressed down as I felt a thick cockhead press against my virginal vaginal lips. I felt it slide inside of me, slowly.

“I cried out, ‘No, I’m a virgin!’ He just laughed and thrust in as hard as he could.

“My gasp was not in pleasure as my hymen was ruptured. I could feel my virgin blood trickle out of me, slowly staining the bed sheets as he pumped hard and fast into me.

“I tried to push him off, but couldn’t. I could feel his thick cock slice in and out of me. I could feel him speeding up. ‘Please,’ I cried, ‘please don’t cum inside of me.’ I knew that I could get pregnant.

“He, of course, just ignored me completely. He kept thrusting, until finally he began to shudder above me, grunting and squealing like a stuck pig. I felt his thick cock pulse inside of me, and felt his seed spurt into me.

“Finally dislodging him, I ran out of the frat house and back to my dorm. I closed the door and cried myself to sleep. The next day, I made my way to my first class. I didn’t notice the snide looks I was getting. Until after first period, that is, and I was downright told what a stupid whore I was.