Carrie was bipolar. I knew that before she moved in. She kept various pills lying around, which I referred to collectively as her “no crazies.”
Take your no crazies today doll?
She liked that.
She kept her illness in check, but whenever she felt as though her meds were stifling her creativity, she’d simply go off them. It got so I couldn’t tell the difference. Occasionally she’d hop into her car without explanation and vanish. We’d catch up in a day or two, no questions asked. It was our pact: We were who we were.
I can’t remember why it ended, really. Or rather, what excuse I offered; there was nothing in particular. I do recall the night her eyes went wild. She was on top, making brutal love to me, when she seized my throat and cried, “Will you take care of me?!” The choking wasn’t new, but this certainly was.
I felt her grip tighten on my throat and my cock. She wanted an answer. I gasped out an affirmative. It was only a syllable, and a labored one at that, but did I really have a choice?