Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Not for the Timid
As some of you know, April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month. For some reason, I have no qualms about commenting elsewhere about this, but I'm not able to talk myself into posting on my own blog about my experiences.
What I will do, however, is offer up some fiction. I'll warn you now, it might be a bit too much for some people, so if you're at all squeamish about the evil that lurks within a person's soul and what they are capable of, go read... um... Samuel Park http://dailypepforwriters.blogspot.com/
He's WAY more upbeat than this post is going to be.
His smile was a wicked crevice from which his tongue flicked out reptilian fast to wet his bottom lip hungrily. I shrank away from him, terrified and confused. I thought he was joking. He hadn’t acted that way before he had downed half a case of beer, and being the god of wrestling he was, he barely staggered. His breath stank as he pulled me against him, but I kicked him hard in the crotch and ran.
It probably would have hurt him more if it hadn’t been shriveled up by steroids.
The darkness of the wood grew and slithered around me, the crickets sang their mournful song, the cars sped by on the highway far below, but all I could hear were his thoughts as he chased me through the brush. Limbs pulled at my hair, branches grabbed at my coat, rocks jumped up like hares to trip up my feet.
As if I didn’t already have enough obstacles with my pudgy body and asthma? Perhaps if I’d had an attack, it’d have been so damned unsexy he’d have lost interest. I’ll need to remember that for the next time I’m a helpless, daft bitch in a ‘B’ movie with bad dialogue and questionable special effects.
Wet grass was the only scent in the air as I ran away. Not for my life or because I was strong or brave, but just so he couldn't have me. Senseless and futile, as his body had been sculpted by years of push ups, weight lifting, and fad diets, but in the end all I had was panic. He tripped me harshly, and I fell to the ground, sprawled out like a dirt angel in second-hand clothes. I tasted the wet earth thrown into my mouth, mixed with the blood from my bitten tongue, and it was like a last meal before dying.
So, please, Daddy, when you pull him out of your trunk in the desert tonight, do me a favor: Shoot him in both his heads.
And what else? POETRY!
Quiet like a church mouse,
one that knows it sinned,
her bright eyes watch the shadow
as it creeps closer to her bed.
The startled cry of surrender
is muffled by a calloused hand
as supple flesh gives way.
She knows she can’t wake anyone,
can’t tell anyone.
It would stop,
then no one would be left to love her.
She feels dirty under the rhythm
of the hot breath in her face,
but she inhales her shame deeply,
with a smile.
He doesn’t love anyone else this much,
and no one loves her more than he does.
He said so.