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Intrigued, I pick the towel off the ground, mindlessly wrapping it around myself before venturing out. I creep toward the sound, letting my curiosity get the better of me. I should have known better. My mother only laughs for two reasons. One, when I’m the cause. And two.
A man.
I shouldn’t have been surprised when I walked into the main room and caught my mother buried deep between a stranger’s thighs, his fingers corded tightly in her poorly dyed blonde hair, head back, facing the ceiling, while she bobs eagerly in his lap. For a moment, neither of them sees me standing there, so I’m able to fantasize, just a bit, imagining two different people in their place.
Wobbling on my feet, I picture it so clearly, my uncle’s fingers ripping at my scalp, nails digging so far into my flesh, I feel pieces of myself getting caught beneath them. He holds me there, suffocating me with his unrelenting length. I can almost feel it, the pain of my throat being rubbed raw while I taste blood and violent desire. Hot tingles wrap around me, boiling my insides until I drip down my freshly washed thighs. With his predatory grin etched into my retinas and the fantasy on my skin, I trace the sticky stream, following it into my throbbing center.
I don’t see the two of them anymore. Instead, I see us, how we were during those endless days. Bound, chained, bleeding, and raw, I bring myself back to better times, feeling my need coat two fingers while rapture swims through my veins. Sounds subtly penetrate my thoughts, but my hissing as my nails scrape against my wet walls drowns them out.
Faster.
Deeper.
Frantically, I pound my flesh, adding one, two, more fingers until I replicate a fraction of the sensation he gave me. I’m almost there, at the peak of my euphoria, when high-pitched shrieking and shaking disrupt me. My mother wretches my hand free, madly righting the towel that has fallen around my breasts as her guest ogles from his place on the couch.
“Ignore my daughter. She doesn’t know how to behave.” The last word is said with such malice I almost fumble on my feet. I don’t have the time, though. Mother roughly takes me by the shoulders, her sharp nails making beads of blood appear on my ghostly flesh. “I’ll be right back, baby.”
“Who’s this one?” I ask as she pushes me into the hallway, eyeing him over her shoulder while he smirks in my direction. Waving me hello, he blows me kisses before my mother shoves me into the room. I trip then, falling onto my ass with a wince.
Tangling my hair into her fists, she yanks me to my feet, drawing me close enough to smell the salty tang of his semen. “Don’t you fuck this one up for me, you little bitch. Put those fucking clothes on and then go out there and act like a fucking normal girl. For once, Maude, be fucking normal.” She leaves the room in a huff, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the walls.
I watch the space she left for a handful of minutes, turning her words over in my head to make sense of them. She claims I’ve scared away countless men, but she never cared about it before. Why now?
Why him?
Returning my gaze to the outfit she picked, I gingerly lift the top with a finger, examining the vibrant color.
Pink. It’s always pink.
That’s what normal, pretty girls wear.
Girls who wear pink don’t slice open their veins with rusted metal. They don’t shove random objects into their bodies to fill a void.
Girls who wear pink don’t crave the pain brought on by their uncle's hand. They don’t miss the taste of his release, covered in their blood.
I don’t wear pink, but I’ve played many games before.
Sliding into the coarse material, I pretend to be what my mother wants me to be; pretty, perfect, and quiet. I don’t touch myself. I don’t speak out of turn, and I never, ever, bleed.
Dressed in this silly costume, I brush my hair, making sure my dripping ends rest nicely against my back before stepping out of the room again. This time, they aren’t on the couch. They aren’t even in the living room. Instead, I hear their voices drifting in from the kitchen, followed by the acrid aroma of something burning.
Pushing open the swinging door, I come into the broken-down kitchen with a smile, playing the part mother ordered. Neither of them notices me at first, so I look around, examining the man from behind. He’s broad, the kind of big my mother believes will save her. Unfortunately, she fails to remember those same muscles have knocked her out more often than not. So see, she bleeds too. What makes me so different?
“Oh, hello, pretty girl. I didn’t get to properly meet you earlier. I’m Jim. What’s your name?” I don’t respond initially, opting to run my gaze from his unnaturally bright blue eyes to the twitch in his bare, dirtied feet. I feel his eyes doing the same, grazing down my body, undressing me from these awful, unrevealing clothes. That must be why my mother picked them. She hates it when her guests stare.
The curiosity behind his gaze never wavers from me, nor does the sickening desire turning my insides black, but I keep that smile on my face, especially when I feel my mother’s glare turn on me. I don’t have to look to feel it boring into my skull. I’ve gotten used to the goosebumps she leaves on my skin. My first instinct is to spin and meet her glower, displaying the fury I feel from being made up as a doll. But instead, I choose to ignore that instinct, keeping my eyes on Jim’s darkening gaze.
As the silence goes on, my mother’s patience for me runs out. “This is my daughter, Maude. She’s quiet. Say hello,baby girl.”
Baby girl? She’s never called me that a day in my life.
But he has.
Tilting my head to the side, I let my stare fall to the floorboards, acting meek as she said when I utter, “Hello.”
A couple of seconds pass before I meet his gaze again. Fighting the instinctive nature to roll my eyes at the devious glint that enters his bright, beaming white smile, I turn away, finally facing my mother. Her dull blue eyes are glittery, but full of malice and exhaustion. She tries to hide it by blinking, fanning long, fake lashes coated in a thick layer of mascara, but I see the little red veins swirling around the white. I attempt to count them while she speaks to me, but the sound of her voice gets lost in my thoughts as I fall into their web.
“Maude.” Her throaty smoker's rasp breaks through the fog as she hisses my name past her lips. “Why don’t you be good and fix my friend a drink in the other room? His glass is looking a little empty.” Together, the three of us look at his glass, and the amber liquid still hovers at the top. With a smile, Jim downs the drink in a second, gulping the entirety without a grimace before handing it back.
