Someone has done a number on you along the way (more than one I venture to say, a few at least). For whatever fuckery it is you’ve heard, seen and/or participated in, I am truly grateful. I deign to admit you are one amusing, entertaining s.o.b -xoxo

I *wish* I had a bunch of people to blame for my shit; it would be awesome to have that fallback position. But now that I’ve been an adult far longer than I was ever a kid, defensive finger-pointing has lost its appeal. From what I can see, there’s little more to be learned from poring over everyone else’s ancient mistakes… I’ve stockpiled enough of my own to keep me busy in perpetuity.

With that said, you’re welcome. As sons-of-bitches go, I’m happy to be of the entertaining variety.

Born Again

[CONTENT ADVISORY: Here be dragons.]

You’re a filthy daughter of Lot; always have been, always will be. It’s in the divine plan, that you’d end up this way, making me do these things to you. I’m just grateful to the good Lord for giving me the strength to endure your unholy depredations for so awfully long; I held out against the devil inside you for nineteen straight years!

Nineteen years of knowing how rotten and vile you would become, watching you move among people like you were one of them, like you belong in this world! Like you’re anything more than an ugly accident, an– an unpleasant side-effect of the Lord’s bitter medicine.

He had to kill your mother; you know that, right? To teach me a lesson. To open my eyes, He took her from me in the hour of your birth. And so much worse, He convicted her heart of its sinful silence.

She told me in the delivery room that you were never mine, that you belonged to some strange man at a bar. I didn’t know then about the bars, or the men, or the abominations that gnawed at her soul as I slept in ignorance at her side. All I knew in that moment was that her last breath and your first both stank of a woman’s deepest disgrace. She betrayed her vows before God, and He was so offended that He stilled her heart as soon as you were done with it.

You, the slimy, screeching parasite that worked God’s will upon His forsaken daughter and His willfully blind son; you, the damnation she spawned from her tainted womb.

But bowing to the Lord’s wisdom, I paid heed to his warning! Thanks to Him, you’ve never been far from my sight, never been left to the devil’s devices. Your hands have never known an idyll, for I have always known they would surely stray. As He appointed me, I have been the Lord’s guardian, sentinel at the gate of your absent virtue. Not your protector, but your anointed jailer, defending Sodom from itself by walling you up in a vacant life.

Now, though? In these late hours, I tire of my vigil. I’m weary of you, of me, and of my penance. You have been the heaviest of burdens, and though it cost me my salvation, the time has come to lay my burden down. Lay it down and spread its legs, to see it bear for me as I’ve borne for it.

I’ve done what I can for you. Tried to beat the sin from your flesh, starve the demons inside you, and preach to the cancer in your soul from dawn to dusk. Nothing works. You always fail me, as you must, as must all things born into the iniquity of Fallen Woman.

Not even God will save you now.

copyright © 2014 bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls

Cranky Old Man Shit: Fuck Off

Y’know, I kinda thought this went without saying, but apparently not, so…

If you’re a self-described MRA, you are an insta-block. Absolutely nothing I have to say should ever be understood to be supportive of your pseudo-political self-pity trip. The average radfem may hate me, but I’d rather give each and every one of them a warm-n-fuzzy hug than enjoy even a microsecond of your enthusiastic support.

Look somewhere else to justify your jihad, junior.

Limited

My love for you is a meager thing, embracing as it does such a tiny fragment of what you are. For any decent girl, it would be far too little; she would wither in the wasteland of my pejorative affections, a place where only the rankest weeds of your sort may thrive.

My love for you is a meager thing, but better still than any love you’ve ever known, because I save it for the hateful things that haunt your eyes.

Our Secret

[CONTENT NOTE: Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.]

Hey, great, you’re awake! I just wanted to have a little chat with you before we get started. That okay? I thought so.

First off, I want you to know that I didn’t grab you off that sidewalk because of how you were dressed. Yes, you look like the cheapest whore in all of Whorelandia in that outfit, and I’m sure any number of impulsive rapists would have snatched you up on that basis alone. But not this time, not with me. So later, after I’ve set you free, don’t let the cops or your family try to tell you that it happened because you were dressed like a slut. That had nothing to do with it!

In fact, the first time I saw you —oh yeah, you don’t know this— a few weeks ago, you were wearing sweats and no makeup. You looked tired, and a little sad, coming out of that clinic. Certainly no one could have accused you of whoring it up and seeking attention. You were quiet and unassuming.

As you walked by and I followed you through the crowded streets back to your empty apartment, I kept thinking, “She’s perfect. Such a lonely little mouse for me to play with.“

I love lonely mice, because no one notices when they’re gone. And they’re great for… experimentation.

Anyway… the point is, the day I decided to rape you, you hadn’t done anything wrong. If anything you were delicate and timid, which is exactly what I wanted. You were trying so hard to be unnoticeable that you stood out from the background. You were like the only three dimensional object in a world full of flat, paper people.

As you can imagine, I was surprised as I observed you over the proceeding days. It was almost stunning, watching you emerge from your place late at night, dressed like… well, like this. I’d find myself leaning against the bar in one of those sticky, pulsating clubs you visit, watching you move from man to man, grinding on them, promising them things with your body. There were a couple times when I thought maybe I had the wrong woman; that’s how different you seemed.

I had almost given up, and was considering letting the whole thing drop. I’m not going through all the time and expense of stalking for just another stupid slut! Every minute wasted on you was taking a minute away from the rest of my life, and I grew a bit angry with you. Not angry-angry, really… I guess I was just disappointed in you. Frustrated.

That’s why I was in your apartment when you came home three nights ago. I was just relieving some tension and saying my own little goodbye to you; you know, coating your silverware, toothpaste, and pillowcase in my semen, replacing your birth control and anti-depressants with sugar pills and MDMA… that sort of thing. And then much to my surprise, the front door opened and you came in.

Your eye was black, your skankwear in tatters, and everything from your hair to your shoes seemed to reek of sex. There was a shiny, uninviting film on your skin, and your hands were trembling. Someone (or several someones) had apparently tired of your act, and set out to teach you a lesson. Their instruction had clearly been intensive.

Kicking off first one half-broken heel and then the other, you stumbled to your couch and collapsed. From my vantage point in the hall closet, I was able to see when the first sobs hit you; the loud retching noises you made as your mind forced you through a replay of the evening. I thought you might actually vomit up some of what they’d made you swallow, but you never did. You just wailed like a wounded animal until you had exhausted yourself and curled into a fetal position.

It was all terribly interesting and educational, but not at all my scene, so I resigned myself to waiting for you to pass out and give me a chance to sneak away. Until I noticed your hands… roaming. With purpose.

You parted your thighs slightly and slipped your left hand between them, cupping your sex. Your right hand had been futilely wiping at your sodden eyes, but now it moved a little lower and inserted your thumb into your mouth. You began to rub and nurse with a surprising, fevered urgency that made the couch creak and tremble. Once again, your animal noises filled the empty room. Your eyes were squeezed shut and your mouth had collapsed into a hard line. Tears were streaming across your cheeks as your face reddened and the veins in your forehead and neck began to show themselves, It looked as if you were under enormous physical stress.

You grunted then, a great, unladylike, guttural sound that I’m sure you would have restrained if you’d known a man were watching. But you didn’t, so I had the opportunity to see you raw and unedited, as your body reclaimed all the hate and pain those bad men had pumped into you.

Your orgasm burned away your consciousness, and within a few minutes, you were finally out. I emerged from my hiding place, gave you a peck on the forehead on my way out the door, and smiled. We understand one another, you and I. It was so very clear in that moment.

I hummed a little tune as I dissolved into the city outside your home, my own mind wandering back to that day on the street, and the feeling that swept over me as you moved past me.

You’re just so beautifully, wonderfully broken, a fragile, jaded shell around a molten core. Of course it’s hard to see that when you’re in your makeup and slutty outfits; you wear them like whore’s armor, a defense against the monsters who hunt you in the night. But first impressions seldom lie, and I thank you for reminding me of that.

So when people ask you how this could have happened to you, what you might have done to deserve it? Just tell them “I did nothing at all.“ When an acquaintance accidentally says something that triggers the memories we’re about to make together, feel free to lambast and lecture him for his insensitivity. If I’m somehow captured and put on trial, I want you to stand tall in that courtroom and tell everyone assembled that you are a victim and a survivor, a blameless, strong, and independent woman. I want you to positively sparkle in their eyes.

Don’t worry, we’ll keep the truth about you just between us. It’ll be our secret.

copyright © 2014 bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls

Miasma

I detest your silence, not the madness and fear that it hides. It’s your pestilent distance than plagues me; the pernicious strain of isolation that you exhale with every labored breath befouls the room and makes a sickbed of my sheets. You can hear the bell ring as I call, and yet you heedlessly refuse to bring out your fucking dead.

No matter. If you won’t surrender your secrets, I’ll simply have to come in after them.