Magenta
December 21st, 2011, 12:12 AM
I guess there really wasn't much behind this one... just sort of started writing while I was in one of my, er, moods. Not really one of my best pieces or anything and is by no means spectacular. It just sort of came out. I was more surprised at how long it was considering my memory and all that.
--
She knew nothing good could come of it. She didn’t know she had left it like that. It was a simple mistake. The one time she was innocent though, he wouldn’t believe her. Why would he? She’d cried wolf too many times. There had always been too much implied, too much suspected. Of course this is what he would assume.
He came rushing out of the bathroom, stomping heavily. His six foot frame had never seemed so intimidating. Suddenly, two-hundred pounds looked bigger than before. She took a step away, then another. He kept coming. He kept asking ‘what was that?’ over and over. She tried to explain but it was no use. He would not believe her.
‘Take off your clothes,’ he demanded.
‘No!’
‘Now.’
She screamed. What else could she do? She screamed until her throat was raw. She screamed and kicked and punched. She fell back on the couch and kicked at his face but he caught her feet before every blow. He forced her legs back down so she could no longer try to harm him. Tears streaked her face. Her eyes had once been clear and shining… now they were stinging and glassy.
No no no no no!
They were upstairs. Her grandmother, her step-mother, her family. They could help her. She screamed hysterically. She screamed at him to stop, not to touch her, to leave her alone. She screamed wordlessly. She let out ear-splitting shrieks. No one came to help. She stood in the middle of the basement, trying to escape. There was no door that could be closed or locked. She was not trapped physically. She was trapped in herself. She couldn’t leave, couldn’t run.
Let me go…
Her clothes were on the couch behind her. Her fingers and toes were frozen. She felt cold and bare even in her socks. Her eyes were closed, she hoped he was satisfied. She clung to her bra. That was what was left. If he touched those next… She shivered. She was still screaming. What took mere minutes felt like ages to her. Ages of humiliation and guilt. No one was helping her. No one was telling him to stop.
She could hear the television upstairs. They had turned up the volume.
He reached out for her underwear. Something snapped in her mind at that point. She recoiled then lashed out. The palm of her hand connected with his face. He’d seen enough. She knew he had seen enough. He had what he wanted, there wasn’t anymore to see. She started to fight again, pushing him away and ran.
She ran into the bathroom, her prison, and locked the door behind her. If he tried to get in, she screamed louder. She was sobbing. No one could understand her now. She knew though that the only thing worth screaming was not to touch her. Never to touch her again. She kicked the door shut in his face every time he forced it open. She shoved against it with her feet, trying to be as close to the door as she could to hold it shut yet as far away from the person behind it as possible. He finally stopped trying to get in.
She stayed there for at least an hour. At some point, he threw her clothes at her. That earned another fit of screams and sobs. She didn’t bother to put them back on. Not until they had been washed. What could be cleaned from them? Nothing but memories. But they had to be cleaned. She sat on the freezing tile floor. She didn’t have to be naked to feel it. Everything was gone, everything was useless. She was nothing. She was an object. She could be thrown around like a toy.
A useless, lying toy.
For weeks, she refused to let him touch her. She pushed him away when he tried to hug her. She’d glare at his mere presence.
But worse than that, she soon found out, was that she forgave him. She stayed angry and never forgot but she pretended nothing happened. She found that she could still talk to him and hug him and whenever he was around, she forgot.
But I always remember at night when I’m alone.
--
She knew nothing good could come of it. She didn’t know she had left it like that. It was a simple mistake. The one time she was innocent though, he wouldn’t believe her. Why would he? She’d cried wolf too many times. There had always been too much implied, too much suspected. Of course this is what he would assume.
He came rushing out of the bathroom, stomping heavily. His six foot frame had never seemed so intimidating. Suddenly, two-hundred pounds looked bigger than before. She took a step away, then another. He kept coming. He kept asking ‘what was that?’ over and over. She tried to explain but it was no use. He would not believe her.
‘Take off your clothes,’ he demanded.
‘No!’
‘Now.’
She screamed. What else could she do? She screamed until her throat was raw. She screamed and kicked and punched. She fell back on the couch and kicked at his face but he caught her feet before every blow. He forced her legs back down so she could no longer try to harm him. Tears streaked her face. Her eyes had once been clear and shining… now they were stinging and glassy.
No no no no no!
They were upstairs. Her grandmother, her step-mother, her family. They could help her. She screamed hysterically. She screamed at him to stop, not to touch her, to leave her alone. She screamed wordlessly. She let out ear-splitting shrieks. No one came to help. She stood in the middle of the basement, trying to escape. There was no door that could be closed or locked. She was not trapped physically. She was trapped in herself. She couldn’t leave, couldn’t run.
Let me go…
Her clothes were on the couch behind her. Her fingers and toes were frozen. She felt cold and bare even in her socks. Her eyes were closed, she hoped he was satisfied. She clung to her bra. That was what was left. If he touched those next… She shivered. She was still screaming. What took mere minutes felt like ages to her. Ages of humiliation and guilt. No one was helping her. No one was telling him to stop.
She could hear the television upstairs. They had turned up the volume.
He reached out for her underwear. Something snapped in her mind at that point. She recoiled then lashed out. The palm of her hand connected with his face. He’d seen enough. She knew he had seen enough. He had what he wanted, there wasn’t anymore to see. She started to fight again, pushing him away and ran.
She ran into the bathroom, her prison, and locked the door behind her. If he tried to get in, she screamed louder. She was sobbing. No one could understand her now. She knew though that the only thing worth screaming was not to touch her. Never to touch her again. She kicked the door shut in his face every time he forced it open. She shoved against it with her feet, trying to be as close to the door as she could to hold it shut yet as far away from the person behind it as possible. He finally stopped trying to get in.
She stayed there for at least an hour. At some point, he threw her clothes at her. That earned another fit of screams and sobs. She didn’t bother to put them back on. Not until they had been washed. What could be cleaned from them? Nothing but memories. But they had to be cleaned. She sat on the freezing tile floor. She didn’t have to be naked to feel it. Everything was gone, everything was useless. She was nothing. She was an object. She could be thrown around like a toy.
A useless, lying toy.
For weeks, she refused to let him touch her. She pushed him away when he tried to hug her. She’d glare at his mere presence.
But worse than that, she soon found out, was that she forgave him. She stayed angry and never forgot but she pretended nothing happened. She found that she could still talk to him and hug him and whenever he was around, she forgot.
But I always remember at night when I’m alone.