by Zoe Blake
“Fucking bitch,” muttered John as he grabbed the wine glasses and bottle and stormed back into the kitchen. I could hear him open the refrigerator and grab a beer. There were a few minutes of silence, the crack of glass striking glass as he threw the bottle in the trash on top of the wine and discarded glasses.
The refrigerator opened a second time.
Another beer.
The tense silence is broken by the harsh ring of his cellphone.
“What?”
A long pause.
“Fuck you. No, the bitch was frigid. Fuck her.”
I listened as John walked closer to the sofa. I could see a pair of heavy boots directly in front of the sofa.
“No. Don’t come over,” said John into the phone. One booted foot raised off the ground. The dark shelter of the sofa swung away. “I have plans.”
I didn’t need to see the cruel look in his eye to know what was about to happen.
Jesus fuck, no! No! No! This isn’t fair! You’re pissed at Lacey not me!
John shifted down onto his haunches. Cupping his ear, he said, “What’s that? What did you say?”
He can hear me! He can hear me! Thank god!
Just like my anger allowed me to move for Steve, my desperation must have broken through the barrier and allowed John to finally hear me. To know there was a human being trapped in here.
Now he won’t hurt me anymore.
My name is Jane. Please help me! Help me! I’m trapped, and I don’t understand why. Please, help me!
“What’s that, Lacey? You want to fuck me like the dirty whore you are?”
What? No! Jane. My name is Jane.
“You want me to shove my fist in your ass and help remove the stick you got lodged up there?”
John reached down and grabbed me by the throat. Lifting up my sparse weight, he tossed my limp body onto the sofa.
Despair washed over me as I realized he could not hear me at all. Even worse, I was about to endure all that I had wished against Lacey. Apparently in this afterlife, I not only get punished for my own sins but for the sins of the pretty girls as well. Maybe that is why pretty girls have it so good, have such perfect little lives? Because there is some regular girl suffering for them in another universe. Taking the blows and the shit meant for them.
My unblinking eyes watched as John kicked off his boots and slowly unbuckled his belt. Usually he would toss it aside and lower the zipper of his jeans to free his cock, but this time he just stood over me, wrapping the long length of the leather belt around his fist.
“Fucking bitch,” he raged before pulling back his arm and throwing it forward, violently striking me in the jaw. My plaint body flew backward, somersaulting over the back of the sofa to crumple on the floor. John rounded the sofa and kicked my midsection. Thank god he had removed his boots. Still the pain… the fucking pain. Grabbing me by my lower arm, he lifted my whole body and flung me over the arm of the sofa. If I had been real, my shoulder would have been pulled straight from the socket, yet it still felt real. The pain was real.
My whole head pounded and throbbed from the blow to my jaw. There was a sharp pain around my ribs.
“You’re just not my type,” he mimicked in a high falsetto voice.
With my head facing the sofa cushions, I didn’t know what was coming. The crack of the leather against my own body was my only warning before a searing pain radiated across my ass and thighs.
Another crack of the leather and another spike of pain.
Each blow more heated and crueler than the last.
There was nothing I could do to protect myself.
“You like that, Lacey? You whore! Like the taste my belt? Bet you’re a bad girl who likes to get her ass whipped, aren’t you?”
No! Stop! I’m Jane. Please stop! It hurts.
“Fuck I wish I could hear you scream. They should make these things, so the ass turns red when you hit it.”
Each agonizing slap from his leather belt jarred my body with burning misery. My frozen mouth screeched and pleaded to no avail.
John stood over me for what felt like hours, whipping my back, ass and thighs with his belt. There was no reason for him to stop. My plastic body would never show the scars or bleed from the blows.
Please. Please. Please, don’t.
My whimpers fell on deaf ears.
My only respite was when his arm finally tired. Breathing heavily from his exertions, John headed back into the kitchen. I could hear the microwave door open and close. Then the warm smell of pizza.
He was eating leftover pizza in his bare feet in the kitchen.
Like a normal guy.
Like a normal guy who hadn’t just beaten a girl half to death with his belt.
Because in reality he hadn’t… he had beaten me instead.
Not a girl… an it.
Meanwhile, my body throbbed and ached. It felt like every inch was bruised and bleeding as I laid limp over the sofa armrest. Not for the first time, I wondered if I would die… again.
Please god. Just let me die.
I quaked at the sound of John’s approach. Flipping me over, I could see he held a thick, red marker in his hand.
Tilting my head back, he began to write something on my forehead. I tried to make out the letters by the feel of the marker gliding across my skin but couldn’t. John leaned back to survey his handiwork and laughed.
A sinking feeling of dread swept over me.
Rearranging my pliable body, he then wrote something on my stomach. I tried to will my body to lean forward so I could see, but nothing happened.
To my further humiliation, he flipped me over onto his lap and pried open my ass cheeks. The touch of his hand on my bruised ass made me wince. I could feel the cool tip of the marker circle my asshole, around and around. Then he wrote something on my back, I could feel him draw a long thick line down to my ass crack, then a triangle. No, not a triangle, an arrow.
Oh god.
Laughing, he lifted me up and carried me into the bathroom.
I stared in horror.
John reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out his phone. There was a bright flash, then another and another.
He was taking selfies with me.
Flipping me under his arm, he leaned my thighs against the bathroom counter and once again pried open my ass cheeks with one hand.
There was a flash. Then another and another.
My head swam with a dizzy rush as he righted me again.
As he typed into his phone, I stared straight ahead at my reflection.
He had written WHORE in crimson red block letters across my forehead.
On my stomach, he had written FUCK A SLUT and drawn an arrow pointing to my pussy.
I stared at my ravaged reflection. Now, not only was I an object, a sex toy, I wasn’t even a pretty one anymore. My creamy pale skin was scuffed and dirty. My bald head misshapen and small without the wigs. Like an idiot, I searched to see if there were any bruises or cuts from the belt whipping.
There were of course none. No evidence of my pain.
No evidence of his abuse.
I’ve been so upset at having my name, my identity taken from me. I guess now I have a new one. I’ve been tagged with it.
Whore.
A damaged whore.
John’s cell rang. He answered it already laughing.
“Dude, right? Sick!”
I could only hear a garbled whisper of a voice on the other side.
“You’re a fucking genius. I’m doing it now. Yeah, yeah. I’ll send you the pics.”
John put down the phone and picked up the red marker.
This time I got to watch as he drew a crude cock on my left cheek pointing toward my always obscenely open mouth. He then turned my head, so he could write FEED A SLUT on my right cheek.
I want to die. Please god, let me die.
Seven
I was seated upright on the sofa, watching TV, naked.
At least it was a macabre
pantomime of someone watching TV.
John was at the kitchen table working on his laptop. He had been watching football. In life I had fucking hated watching football. Now I had no choice. I had no choice with anything in my so-called life.
The game was finally over, and he was engrossed in whatever he was working on.
My mouth was stretched around an empty beer bottle. He had shoved it in last night when he was finished fucking me. The neck of the bottle pressed down on my tongue, the rim pushing against the back of my throat. The muscles in my throat controlling my gag reflex had weakened and stilled hours ago. Now it was simply something I had to endure.
I could only imagine what I looked like. Propped up on his sofa, as if it were a normal Sunday at my boyfriend’s, the word whore written across my forehead with a beer bottle thrust into my mouth.
A man was on the screen. He was filming in the rain. He had on a bright blue poncho with a logo for WGG News. The information rattled in my dazed mind for a moment before I realized I recognized it. WGG was my local news station. All this time I had assumed I had been transported to someplace unreachable and yet, I was in my own home town.
Shielding his eyes against the rain, the man looked into the camera and gave his report.
Richard, it looks like the car has been down in the ravine for at least a month. A man walking his dog spotted something silver and called the police. Once firefighters were able to get down to the car, they did confirm there is a body inside. While police are not saying anything yet, I can report that the car type and license plate match that of the missing Jane Sedwick.
Hazy memories bounced around my brain till they began to take form.
My silver car skidding off the road into the ravine.
The smell of gasoline.
Crushed glass everywhere.
My willing myself not to die.
Jesus fuck!
The man on the television stepped to the side and motioned for the camera to pan out. I watched as two firemen carried a body bag up the final steps of the ravine before lowering it onto the wet asphalt.
Staring at the black body bag, I don’t even know what I felt. It was too much, too strange. This wasn’t happening. I was not looking at my own dead body in a bag. This cannot be how the universe works. It just can’t. It is too horrific, too cruel.
The news man broke into my wild thoughts…
As you know, police have long believed Jane Sedwick may have crashed the night she fled the scene from the gruesome triple homicide of Bayside Cheerleaders Heather Roge, Tiffany Myers and Lilah Murphy. Their bodies were found with shaved heads and multiple stab wounds. Jane Sedwick is the primary suspect but no trace of her has been found after an extensive manhunt by both local police and the FBI. It looks like the families of Heather, Tiffany and Lilah can finally get some peace knowing the person suspected of murdering their daughters has been found. We will keep you updated as this story unfolds. Richard, we expect the police to have a news conference confirming this body is, in fact, Jane Sedwick as early as tomorrow.
Thank you, Ben. Are there any comments on this development from Jane’s parents?
No, Richard. As you know, the parents and family of Jane Sedwick distanced themselves from the entire situation the moment the murders were discovered. They have never spoken to the press and are unlikely to do so now. The closest we have come is when Jane’s father shouted at the press that he had no daughter.
Stunned, I watched as the news station played old footage of my father holding up his hand to block the cameras as he shouted. “I have no daughter. I have no daughter.”
I have no daughter.
The news continued on with the usual sports and politics. There was only one thought that beat through my body like the cadence of a heartbeat.
I’m in hell.
I’m in hell.
I’m in hell.
And I deserve it.
This whole time I had been asking god for help, no wonder he never answered my prayers.
God doesn’t answer the pleas of the dammed.
Eight
I was freezing.
It was strange to be unable to feel the warmth of blood flowing through my veins or even a pulse and yet to be shivering with cold. My breath was erratic and shallow and yet no frosty mist emanated from my artificial mouth.
John had positioned me on my hands and knees with my head down between my forearms in an inflatable baby pool full of ice. I watched as he surrounded my frozen form with bottles of beer.
He was having a party and I was the beer display.
I could hear his footsteps as he approached me from behind. I expected to hear the crunch of the ice as he jammed more glass bottles between my knees. Disgusted, I had an explicit idea of what some of his friends would be doing with those same bottles later. No doubt they would find endless sadistic amusement in jamming them in my defenseless body. This time I could feel his warm hands on my ass, prying the cheeks open.
I could feel him forcing something between my ass cheeks, the object kept my ass pried open in a vulgar fashion. If I wasn’t so cold from the surrounding ice, I was certain my cheeks would have heated in mortification.
I didn’t have much time to consider what he had done, for moments later, another bag of ice rained down on me, covering my back and neck.
Shaking uncontrollably, I once more prayed for death, knowing god was not listening.
There was a knock on the door. People had started to arrive.
Shame washed over me; countless strangers would be viewing my humiliation, treating me like the object I had become.
“Holy shit! That’s awesome! Best beer tub ever.”
“You are one sick genius.”
“What’s in her ass?”
I’m having trouble remembering much about my past life. There are no cherished childhood memories or fond moments to keep me warm. The only thing I seem to remember is my hatred and despair at my current circumstances. Hating the pretty things who strutted around school. My desperation to graduate and leave all that behind me. What I do remember is lonely nights spent imagining what it would be like to go to a party and be the center of attention. To be the type of girl everyone waited to arrive; the party didn’t start till Jane was there!
Well, I am the center of the attention at the party now... and I wish I was dead.
Somewhere deep inside of me, I don’t doubt I am responsible for those murders the man mentioned on the news. I just can’t remember actually committing them. What few memories I do have are more like emotional impressions, nothing concrete.
Is this another aspect of this hellish afterlife?
Not only are you punished for your sins, you cannot even remember actually committing the sin?
I wonder if at some point my whole consciousness will disappear. Entombed in plastic. All the memories, thoughts, all identity. That eventually I would become the object everyone believes me to be.
I would no longer be Jane, not even Jane Sedwick, murderess.
I would just be a broken doll.
A damaged doll.
A damned doll.
“It’s a bottle opener. Try it out,” answered John. His voice was high-pitched with excited amusement.
There was a warm, slightly sweaty, hand on my lower back. Then something fumbled between my exposed ass cheeks. My body rocked forward with a painful wrench. I could feel something cold and sharp lodged against my puckered hole.
“That’s fucking awesome!” This from a faceless woman standing over me.
After that there was an endless succession of hands on my back and pressure on my asshole as person after person lined up to open their beer with my ass.
My ass cheeks were once more pried open wide. Sharp fingers dug between to push out the collected bottle caps. The thin metal edges of the caps scraped the sensitive skin around my asshole.
‘It’s like she’s shitting bottle caps,” cried out someone.
The bottle opener was we
dged between my cheeks again as yet another bag of ice was dumped onto my back.
“Fuck. The ice is smearing the marker on her back.”
“Damn. You can barely read the Fuck My Whore Ass,” said someone with a laugh.
So that’s what he wrote on my back I thought with detachment.
The party continued for endless hours.
Hours of humiliation.
Hours of degradation as I was used as a bottle opener.
“I say it’s time for the real party to start,” announced John to the small crowd. His words are slurred and slightly indistinct.
Someone grabbed me around the waist and held my body aloft.
The whole room cheered.
Jesus fuck no!
The man who held me, tossed my light body to another who slammed me down onto the coffee table. The hard surface painfully jarring to my chilled body.
“Lift her legs up high so we can get to both holes!”
A hand wrapped around each of my ankles and wrenched my legs up and open.
No! Please don’t do this. Stop!
Helpless, I looked down my dirty and marked body to see a strange man approach my outstretched legs as he unbuckled his belt. He drove his cock into my dry pussy with one brutal thrust. I screamed in pain.
No one heard.
As he boldly thrust into my unprepared hole, I could feel countless hands on my body, pulling on my nipples, poking my stomach, stroking my bare scalp.
“You really should put a wig on this thing, John. It’s creepy as fuck without one,” complained one woman.
“Think I can fit my fist in her mouth?”
No!
Fingernails pressed against the soft pink skin of my inner lip as my mouth was forced open wide. Four fingers were pushed passed my lips. I gagged and choked, my body jerking with the need to wretch. The woman’s large ring scraped the top of my mouth. I could almost imagine tasting blood.
Stop! Stop! I’m begging you, stop! I’m a female just like you! Please!
Her fingernails dragged along my tongue as she curled them into a fist before shoving her thumb in. Knuckles bruised my inner cheeks as the metal of her ring tore the back of my throat to shreds. My body was racked with shudders as it tried to expel the fist blocking my air.