A collection of stories, photo captions, and shoddy poetry
If you close your eyes, your perception will bend and twist along with your body. Before long, the house is nicer, the lighting’s better, and the pot-bellied sadist behind the camera suddenly looks a little like Chris Hemsworth. You’re no longer just a collection of irrational insecurities wired to a clitoris; you’re a beautiful, idealized object, transported via your submission to a state of transcendent bliss.
Meanwhile, in the real world, your ass is about to bleed.
“I, um, don’t think I’ve ever said this to a woman before, but… I’d like to compliment you on your joints.”
Poor little leeches… it’s always so messy when you pry them off their hosts.
Next time, try burning it with matches instead.
He reduced her to obedience.
Some foolish men maintain that women are inherently bad at math. But we know better, don’t we?
Why, you love math so much that you even dream of becoming a statistic.
The tickets were easy. It wasn’t her first trip, so she moved through the process of booking a flight with little thought. There was a nervous flutter in her stomach while she packed, but she ignored it, and concentrated on finding her passport.
The plane was crowded, and the men sitting on either side of her helped themselves to all of the available space. She said nothing. The one on her left smelled of cheese and sweat; the one on her right smiled brightly when she made eye contact, but there was something in his eyes that made her worry what might happen if she fell asleep. She couldn’t allow… anything. Not when she was so close. Not when the wait was almost over.
So she sat rigid and awake for nine straight hours, staring intently at the back of the seat in front of her. No one tried to touch her, but she still received with relief the news that they were landing in the States.
There was a problem with her car rental, and as he typed and squinted and sighed his way through a resolution, the man at the counter joked that they didn’t usually rent to teenagers. She couldn’t tell if he was trying to flatter or unnerve her, but quickly remembered it didn’t matter. His motivations were irrelevant. He was irrelevant.
She shivered miserably as the GPS guided her to her destination; the car’s air conditioning was set to “high” and all the vents were pointed directly at her. He’d said he wanted her body chilled for their first meeting, so his hands would burn a little wherever he touched her. Secretly, she thought he might just want to know what it would feel like to hold a little dead girl.
He was a shape in the twilight, standing next to a car in a field when she parked nearby. Her hands felt welded to the steering wheel, and her legs refused to move. She was so close. The wait was almost over.
When he opened the door and took her hand, she began to cry.
And didn’t stop crying for quite some time.
“Why do we need this Skype nonsense? Why can’t we just talk on the phone, like normal people?”
“This is— I need you to be able to see me, dad. So you’ll believe me.”
“Okay, I see. Wonderful. What are you asking for this time? What did you do?”
“It isn’t that. It isn’t even like that.”
“It is always like that. Always.”
“I’m not asking for anything today. Today is a confession.”
“Save me your excu— what? What are you talking about?”
“I’ve been lying to you, but I can’t keep it up. I’ve given up.”
“Given— are you on drugs or something?”
“Or something, papa.”
“Okay, enough. What is this? What is going on with you?”
“Let’s start with the littlest lie, since it’s the most recent: I didn’t fly to the US for a conference. I’m not in Philadelphia.”
“Are you— where are you?”
“I’m not sure. America is so big, and I can’t remember all the states. I think we were in a Dakota at one point, but I passed out and woke up somewhere else.”
“You were— is there someone— are you alone?”
“No, papa. I’m not alone.”
“Who the hell are you with? What are you mixed up in?”
“You don’t understand; I’m not mixed up anymore. That’s why I want to talk to you.”
“You are. You’re on drugs. Your mother will die when she hears this, you know that don’t you?”
“I don’t think you should tell mum about this conversation. I don’t think you’ll want to.”
“Look, just— just shut up now. You’ve already caused enough trouble. We just need to sober you up, figure out where you are, and bring you home.”
“I’m where I’m supposed to be. I don’t know if it’s a home, exactly, but I belong here. I’m— I’m sorry, but I’m not going back.”
“Yes. Yes, you are. You’ll be back on the next plane. And then you will explain yourself to me. You’ll explain how all of my hope and hard work and sacrifice keeps ending up like— like this.”
“Your dreams weigh too much, papa; they broke me. I can’t bear then anymore, and I’m putting them down.”
“Wh— what are you trying to—?”
“But it’s like, carrying your burden all of these years— it changed me. He says it bent me— disfigured me. Which makes me sad, but I think he’s right. He always is, even when he’s wrong. That’s the— that’s the part that’s so— I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to describe—”
“What is wrong with your face? Why are you talking like this? Who the hell is ‘he’?!”
“He’s everything. Just everything.”
“You’re—”
“I know you tried, daddy. I really do. You wanted to raise me right, but I— I was never sure, when it was just something a priest was reciting. I believed, but I didn’t know, you know? But he— he’s showed me I have a soul, dad. A real soul. I can hear it sing when he’s sweet to me. I can feel it ache when he shows me how small and meaningless I am without him.”
“I— I need you to focus. Stop this— whatever this is. Damn it, where are you?!”
“I’ll never be able to make you understand. I know that. I’ll never be able to make you happy. I know that, too. But I didn’t want to start my new life without telling you how hard I tried. How much you meant to me.”
“Stop it! I’ve had enough!”
“Most of my life, you were— you were the only star in the sky. Everything in my world, even the things you didn’t know about— I did it all to please you. Or placate you. Or spite you. And it worked.
“I— I should have been a failure. I never cared enough about what I did. I never respected my opportunities. And yet I succeeded, for one reason. Fear.”
“Please…”
“Fear of your rage. Fear of your pain. Fear of your silence. Most of all, fear of your disappointment. Everything I am, everything I’ve done, I owe to— to the most terrifying parts of you.”
“Please, stop…”
“Soon enough. I’m going to miss you, dad.”
“What is— is something going to happen? To you?”
“It’s already happened. But it will definitely happen again. I hope it never stops happening.”
“Is someone— has he hurt you?”
“Of course. Of course he has. It’s how he teaches me and exploits me. It’s how he builds and destroys me.”
“What has he— are you—?”
“Ruined? Yes. I’m sorry. None of your friends’ sons would ever have me now. It’s far too late for that kind of happy ending.”
“What… have you done?”
“What I was always going to do. From the moment you first tried to be proud of me but couldn’t; from the moment I learned that I would never be enough. This is where I’ve been heading. I crave acceptance so much that I will abandon everything, cross half the planet, and turn my body over to a man who treats it like a toy.”
“Shut up. Shut your filthy mouth.”
“He hurts me so much, but just for fun; he doesn’t use it to get what he wants. Like you, he can break me without laying a finger on me. I’m— I’m a thing now. You probably can’t see it yet, but it’s true. He’s made me a thing. His thing. He explained it to me one night, what I really am, and it all made— it made so much sense.
“Can you— can you even imagine what that means? What it’s like to have someone just— just talk you out of being a person? It’s terrifying, when I think about it. The way his voice moves things around in my head, it’s like nothing I’ve ever thought or felt was real; nothing was fixed. But he’s fixed me now. I’m set in stone.”
“I can’t— why are you saying these things?”
“Because I love you. Because he’s changing me, and you won’t be able to recognize me soon. Because when he’s— when he’s done with me, on some far-off day… I’m sorry, I start to cry when I think about him being done. I didn’t want to cry in front of you this time. I know you hate it. I’m so, so sorry.”
“I—”
“When he’s— when he’s finished, when he’s finally wrung me out and he’s ready to set me aside… he promised. He promised what would happen. He promised I wouldn’t suffer alone.”
“What does that mean? Tell me right now what that means!”
“I can hear his car outside. It’s time, dad. I have to go.”
“Tell me what that means!”
“It means don’t look for me, because you won’t like what you find. I’ve got to go now.”
“You can’t— no! Don’t you— don’t you dare—!”
“I love you all. I truly do. Please forgive me. For never being quite right.”
“No!”
CALL ENDED.
copyright © 2018 bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls
[TRIGGER WARNING: body image stuff]
You look so nervous, poor things. Try to relax; I’m not going to hurt you! We’re going to play a fun little game, the rules of which you learned way back in high school.
I’m going to sit silently while you two stand there exposed; in turn, you’ll each use the skills you’ve developed over a lifetime of culturally-conditioned envy and suspicion of other women to draw my attention to one another’s physical flaws, aesthetic failings, and lack of femininity. The winner will be the first girl to convince me that her opponent is the most asymmetrical, splotchy, weird, and sexually inadequate chick in the room, and will thus be allowed to sit on my lap and feel special while we laugh at the runner-up, just to see if she’ll cry.
The game is called You’re Not Worth Fucking, and if you don’t mind me saying so, I’m certain you’ve both got what it takes to lose.
If you do this often enough, she might get wet at her next mammogram.
And really, if you can make even the most dehumanizing, uncomfortable, and clinical experiences in her life somehow more humiliating and stained with deplorable sexualization, why wouldn’t you? It’s why she’s there.
“And I had heard tales of Brother Paolo Zoppo, who in the forest of Rieti lived as a hermit and boasted of having received directly from the Holy Spirit the revelation that the carnal act was not a sin— so he seduced his victims, whom he called sisters, forcing them to submit to the lash on their naked flesh, making five genuflections on the ground in the form of a cross, before he presented them to God and claimed from them what he called the kiss of peace.”
“You are looking at the witch, are you not?“
“No! I am not looking at her— or rather, perhaps I am looking at her, but she isn’t a witch. We don’t know, perhaps she is innocent.”
“And you look at her because she is beautiful. She is beautiful, is she not? If you look at her because she is beautiful, and you are upset by her- but I know you are upset, because the sin of which she is suspected makes her all the more fascinating to you. If you look at her and feel desire, that alone makes her a witch.”
Umberto Eco
Excerpts from The Name of the Rose
[CONTENT NOTE: Here be dragons.]
“Did you get them?“ she asked as he walked through the door. She’d been pacing relentlessly since waking, and clearly hadn’t yet looked in the mirror; her hair was tangled and sticky, and last night’s makeup had transitioned from contoured to impressionist.
He smiled and held up a drugstore bag.
“Thank god,” she exhaled, slumping dramatically against the kitchen counter-top. “I can’t fucking believe you.”
“Believe me what?” he asked, tossing her the bag.
“You fucking bred me, you maniac!” she giggled, watching him shed his coat and kick off his shoes. “Who does that on a first date? I mean, it was the single greatest fuck of my life, no question, but you should— seriously, don’t ever do that with anyone else, okay?”
“What do you mean?” He dropped into a nearby chair.
“What— are you kidding?” She straightened slightly and regarded him skeptically. Her grip on the bag tightened almost imperceptibly.
“About what? What do you mean?” He reached for her upper arm and pulled her forcefully on to his lap. She went limp for a moment, before her brain remembered that it had an unanswered question.
“Look, I told you I loved it,” she said, watching his face intently. She rattled the bag. “You got me the emergency pills, so we’re good. Better than good.
“But, that shit you pulled— you know you can’t just do that to girls, right?”
“Did it to you,” he observed casually, punctuating the statement with a slap on her ass.
Again she straightened herself, and her eyes narrowed.
“Yes, asshole, you did.” She felt him groping her and chose to ignore it. “I told you we couldn’t, you said I was asking for it, I said you were right but we still couldn’t, and then you fucking pushed it in and finished in me anyway.”
“Made you cum,” he pointed out, and then bit her neck.
“I— yes, I thought that was clear. I admit it. Do you need me to announce it?” She dropped the bag in their collective lap and cupped her hands around her mouth. “I’m a disgusting fucking whore! Okay? Are we agreed?
“Good. Now goddamnit, promise me that you know what you did was wrong.”
“Wrong in what sense?” he asked.
“Are you fucking—?!” She pushed against his chest in an attempt at launching herself upright, but his wandering hands suddenly made themselves at home, locking her in place. “This isn’t funny.”
“I think it is,” he replied.
“Look,” she began, as his grip turned into a slowly suffocating hug. “This is— why are you making this hard? I— I want it to be easy, okay?
“I loved it. I regret nothing. But that was rape, baby. What you did was rape. I’m not— I want so bad to be cool about this, and I just need you to help me. Just a little. Just— please, just tell me you’ll never do it again.”
“I’ll never do it again,” he recited dutifully.
“Thank you.” She relaxed.
“You are easy,” he said with a grin. “C’mon, I mean, clearly, I’m going to do it again. It wasn’t my first time, and won’t be my last.”
She could only stare at him.
“Hell, that won’t even be the last time I do it to you,” he promised, returning her gaze. “Pretty sure I’m going to do it again in just a few minutes.”
Her expression was frozen in horror, but only for a moment; then her eyes hardened. She drew up both legs, drove her heel into his kneecap, and shoved at his face with her free hand. His howl of pain and disorientation gave her an opening, and she seized it, wriggling out of his grasp and falling to the floor.
She hadn’t even managed to make it to her feet before he was upon her again. He grunted angrily and tackled her, sending them both sprawling across the coffee table. Grabbing a fistful of her hair, he pulled her head up sharply, and then smashed it against the tabletop. She twisted just enough to prevent the impact breaking her nose.
But that small victory was her last. Fear, exhaustion, and a rapidly developing concussion seemed to convince her to surrender all at once. Her struggles ceased, and as if out of habit, she helpfully raised her hips while he ripped at her panties. He draped himself over her as he pushed inside her mystifyingly wet cunt, and she arched her back to help him find the angle.
The mournful look on her face suggested she would never forgive her body for those little accommodations.
He began to slowly grind himself into her, growling half-articulated obscenities into her ear with every painfully deliberate stroke. After a few minutes, her eyes slowly meandered around the room, taking in the array of objects that had been strewn about during the fight.
“What —wuh— was in the bag?” she asked dispassionately.
“Aspirin,” he said, and then bit into her shoulder. She nodded slightly and moved on.
“You still —unf— read magazines?” she whispered, increasingly disconnected from the travails of her flesh. “Who —dnh— does that?”
“Magazines make a house look lived in,” he assured her, never breaking his rhythm.
“Wh— what?” she said, her voice growing smaller and thinner.
“I come over— mn, yeah,” he began, momentarily lost in the ecstasy of narrating triumph to the conquered. “I come twice a week —fuck yes— and cook onions and garlic, to make it smell human in here. Once a month, I –your cunt is so good— rent it out, to disturb the dust and scatter strange DNA.”
“You don’t —tngh— live here?” She sounded like a woozy little girl, up far past her bedtime.
“No, this isn’t where I live,” he assured her. “This is where I come to create life.”
And with that, he finished. He made no sound, other than a long, ragged sigh, like a man expelling some vile humor.
“Oh,” she said, her consciousness draining away. When she spoke again, it was both a question and a lament. “Is— is anything real?”
He kissed the crown of her head and then pulled himself out and up.
“Don’t worry, girl,” he said as oblivion came for her. “What I’ve put inside you is as real as it gets.”
copyright © 2018 – bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls
