This story is written by a Black, transfem person who just wants to indulge her dark fantasies :)
Triggers: Rape, transphobia, racism
(For those who are impatient, I get it. The sexy stuff starts like 2/5 of the way through with a paragraph that starts with "Imani turned and looked to Jackson")
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There was truly no reason for the city of Casper, Wyoming, to exist- not in the year of our lord, 2024, at least. Nearly every single person who lived there wanted out. The only ones who cared enough to stay were those who came from old money from the mining and oil industries that had long since dried out. For the rest of the poor rabble, it was a different story. Most talked on and on about plans to move down to Colorado, while the ambitious few set their sites on California or New York. Although, anywhere would be fine, as long as it got them out. Most people had the means to leave, hence why Casper should no longer exist.
And yet, the wretched little town persisted. Its denizens didn't scatter to the wind. Something kept them there. Something more than the empty space, constant snow, and shabby storefronts. Something hung in the air, like a miasma that dragged people back in before a single hope or dream could take form. Everyone talked about leaving, but few ever did.
Imani wondered what could possibly keep people in that freezing hell hole as she gazed out of the window adjacent her desk. Had she not inherited her current house from her late father a few months ago, she never would've bothered stepping foot in the state of Wyoming. The state itself was basically a bunch of empty space occasionally interspersed with White people. As a trans, Black woman, Imani obviously felt out of place everywhere she went in the small town. Stepping out of her house would attract countless stares as if the people had never seen melanin before.
But hey, she didn't have to pay rent. At least, not until she finally managed to sell the place and get the hell out of there. Ridding herself of the property was a slow process, however. Thankfully, her job as a writer allowed her to work from home, meaning she could do as little socializing with the locals as possible.
Most days passed by as blandly as this one, with Imani typing away at her desk, sipping from her 5th cup of coffee, and gazing out the window as if some eccentric money mogul would pull up to buy her house at any moment. She minded her business and kept to herself. The neighbors didn't seem keen on getting to know her, which was just fine by her.
One neighbor in particular, however, seemed to be oddly nosy. Jackson, Imani's next door neighbor, could usually be found sitting on his lawn in a fold-out chair, surrounded by empty beer bottles. Every day, he would stare down the other houses in the neighborhood, not with malice, but with the frustrating curiosity of someone who didn't know how to mind their damn business.
Jackson knew about every marital squabble, sordid affair, and family fight on the block and even had a front row seat to some of them. Occasionally, he would holler out to one of the husbands who'd been kicked to the doghouse before rightfully getting cussed out, to which he'd respond with his own colorful series of curses.
Never once, though, did Jackson call out to Imani. Maybe it was because there was no drama to be witnessed from her home, but she couldn't shake that there was something more. She'd introduced herself briefly when moving in, to which he simply muttered his name and stared at her with a speculative look. It wasn't the first time she'd received "the look". Many people around there had never met a Black person before, let alone a trans girl. Whereas most of the neighbors had grown accustomed to her, however, Jackson continued to eye her with that same odd look over the months. Whenever she left the house he would just stare her down until she returned his gaze, which made him quickly turn away.
Imani stared out of the window, at first focusing on her own reflection. Her dark brown eyes stared back at her through the window. Looking herself over, Imani followed the flow of her braided hair that draped past her shoulders and rested lazily on her hips.
She wore nothing but a pair of mid-length denim shorts and a white tee, exposing the light brown skin of her arms and legs. The shorts fit just a little too tight and she shifted uncomfortably. They hadn't always been so small on her, but her thighs and her butt had been growing recently, which made it hard for her to fit into her usual wardrobe. She was usually thankful to her mother for blessing her with a skinny waist and wide hips (something most trans girls don't get), but damn it made shopping difficult sometimes.
Looking past her reflection to the neighborhood outside, Imani noticed Jackson wasn't in his usual spot on his lawn. Usually, by this time in the afternoon, he'd have downed at least one six-pack of beer. Thinking nothing of it, Imani was about to return to her writing when, as if on queue, Jackson's front door slammed open and the man came stumbling out.
Immediately, she could tell something was off. Jackson was constantly drunk, but she'd never seen him this drunk. He was stumbling heavily, as if being shoved from side to side by invisible attackers. His arms swung in the air for balance, spilling most of what looked like a bottle of whiskey over himself and the ground. This performance continued until he finally tripped and fell face first into the tree in the middle of his yard.
Imani winced as she saw the impact. She continued watching, seeing if he would move, but nothing happened. Springing to her feet, she rushed to the door and slipped on her shoes before running outside. She might not have been particularly fond of the man, but she wasn't so cold as to stand by and do nothing when someone had a potentially fatal accident in front of her.
When she reached Jackson, Imani quickly knelt to see if he was okay. His was thankfully intact with only a little bit of blood dripping down a cut on the left side.
"Hey! Jackson, hey!" she shouted his name as she shook him. He responded with a drunken grunt, but his eyes remain closed. Imani sighed in relief seeing he was still alive.
It was at this point that she noticed other details about the situation, most notably the smell. It smelled like whiskey mixed with sweat and depression, a description which could also be used to describe Jackson's appearance. He was in a light gray T-shirt drenched in liquor. Even through the wetness of the whiskey, however, Imani could see stains of unknown substances littering the shirt. He also sported a pair of cargo pants that looked like some kind of animal had chewed it to bits before realizing it would have a better tasting meal if it drank bleach. His facial hair somehow always seemed to stay at the same scraggly length. It was a reddish-brown peppered with gray, just like the medium length mop of hair on his head.
Sighing again with disgust more than relief, Imani stood and pulled at his arm to try and get him to sit up. She couldn't tell if Jackson was exceedingly heavy or if she was really just that weak. Jackson was, by no means, skinny, but he wasn't too heavy set either. He had something of a dad bod, the kind where one could assume there was a fair amount of muscle under the fat. After struggling for almost a minute, she only managed to flip him over onto his back, which revealed a confederate flag design on the front of his shirt.
Imani rolled her eyes, wondering to herself why exactly she was helping this piece of shit. There was no way she'd be able to lift him herself, so she darted across the street to one of the neigbhors' houses and knocked on the door. A moment later, a man she knew as Derek opened the door. He was a White guy with light brown hair, green eyes and just a little scruff on his chin. He was about her age, around 25, and seemed about half a foot taller than Imani, so he must have been around 6' tall.
"Oh- uh, hello?" he said as if it were a question.
"Hey, sorry. I don't mean to bother you," Imani responded. She explained the situation, gesturing to Jackson's unconscious body as she did.
Derek sighed and agreed to help, sounding just as reluctant as Imani. Together, they were able to hoist their drunk neighbor from the ground and half carry, half drag him to the front door. Jackson woke up from his stupor as the two sat him down in his foyer.
"Huh? Wuzzuh... Wuz goin' on?" he mumbled, blasting his helpers with the stench of his breath.
Derek, visibly wincing and rapidly losing patience, berated the man, telling him in no unclear terms to "stay his ass inside" if he was going to drown himself in liquor. Jackson either didn't care or didn't hear any of it. Instead, he kept his eyes trained on Imani the whole time.
