by Lane Hart
Michelle
The reminder on my iPhone flashed across the screen and announced it was that time of the month again. No. Not for my menstrual cycle to start. For the awkward and often useless phone call I made to my parents’ house to check in on them. I wasn’t allowed to visit my childhood home in person, not since my unfortunate incident that had taken place nearly three years ago. Back then, I’d been a wide-eyed high school graduate looking forward to starting her freshman year of college and meeting new friends. I’d wanted so desperately to fit in that I’d pledged a sorority, my first step towards independence and adulthood, or so I’d thought. That choice had ended in a nightmare of epic proportions that wound up costing me my self-respect, my confidence, and the love of my parents that I held so dear. They gave up on me, kicked me to the curb without as much as a bye or good luck with the rest of your life. How could parents do that to their own child right when she needed them the most? That was always the prevailing question that ran through my head as I dialed the seven digits and waited anxiously for one of them to pick up.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Mom. It’s me. Michelle.” My greeting was met with silence and heavy breathing. She was already annoyed, and I’d only said five words.
“Your father isn’t here, and I’m headed out the door, Michelle. Perhaps you could call back later, or in a few weeks or… whenever,” she rushed.
“Oh. Well, that’s okay, Mom. I’m headed out to work myself, so I just wanted to call and see how you guys were doing,” I replied, hopeful.
“We’re fine.” Click.
She hung up before I got the chance to say anything else. You’d think I’d be used to her shit by now, that it wouldn’t break my heart into a thousand pieces every time I heard her voice. I still held out hope that one day, they’d forgive me my sins and welcome back into the fold. I missed the warmth and security of having my family around, my father’s silent strength mixed with my mother’s womanly understanding. Their absence had left a hole in my soul that had yet to be filled regardless of the years that had passed. The first tear trickled down my cheek before I thought better of it. There was no time for an all-out cryfest today. I had got get to work. After sucking in a huge breath to try and gather my wits, I programed a new reminder into my phone and tucked it away. Perhaps next time, things would be different.
On the short ride into work, I thought about how narrow my life had become since I had withdrawn from college the day after the incident. I hadn’t always been this person; in fact, some might say I used to be the exact opposite of this cowering little creature who was afraid of her own shadow. I’d enjoyed spending time with friends, going out on dates with cute boys, and getting involved in extracurricular activities as much as any other teenage girl. Those days were long gone, smashed to bits in the blink of an eye by one stupid decision that I could never take back. Group therapy, along with encouragement from my landlord and only friend, Mrs. Lafontaine, helped me overcome some of my feelings of inadequacy and guilt, but they never fully went away. We were best friends, served together like peas and carrots for every meal.
One was never too far away from the other.
Just recently, I’d convinced myself that I was ready to try my hand at normalcy again, even went out on a date with a man I’d met at the local coffee shop. He had been nice enough, I guess, clean cut with a wholesome smile and impeccable manners. He did his best, said all the right things, and kept his hands to himself. I didn’t hesitate in saying yes when he asked if he could see me again. Hank, the director of the survivors group, said it was important to take baby steps and to not expect too much too soon when meeting new people. Well, he was spot on about that. Our second date had been a complete disaster, abruptly ending with me jumping from the moving car before we’d reached the side of the curb in front of the house. Once I was safely indoors, my nerves forced my stomach to reject the delicious pizza we had eaten for lunch, and I’d spent the following hour praying to the porcelain god for some sort of relief.
He never called back for date number three.
The following week at group, I’d lied to the rest of the survivors and told them he had accepted a job out of town and moved away. I didn’t think they’d believed me. Hank could smell bullshit from a mile away, but the alternative was way too embarrassing. Twenty-one years old, and I couldn’t even manage one lousy date, in broad daylight, at a crowded restaurant, without losing my shit. What had I thought the guy was gonna do? Attack me with his grease-stained lips while he held me prisoner in the front seat against my will? No wonder he thought I was the biggest freak in the world and cut his losses. Who could blame him, really? Thankfully, Hank had let me off the hook with a knowing glare and a promise to revisit at a later date, which was just fine by me. I was content listening to everyone else’s stories of how they fought to make it through the day without locking themselves away in a darkened closet. Most of the time, that was all I ever wanted to do, especially when I powered up my computer and entered my name into the first available search engine.
The first few times I had done it, I’d sworn to never subject myself to that degree of punishment again. I’d cried for a week straight, refused to eat anything, and raged against Mrs. Lafontaine when she begged me to talk about it. The pain of watching it all unfold on that screen was akin to having the hairs on my vagina plucked one by one with a pair of tweezers. The seven-minute clip left me barely able to stand by the time it was over, ‘cause once it started, I always watched to the end. I fooled myself into thinking it was all a dream, a lie, which was hard to believe unless I saw it for myself firsthand. Two clicks of the mouse, and there I was in all my naked glory running around campus like a disgusting pig. Truth in full-blown color.
The active sisters of Alpha Nu Delta had put the potential recruits through several themed rounds, all of which were perfectly tame. Volunteer work around the community, performing skits, singing songs, and sharing stories about what sisterhood meant to them. I had been ecstatic when I’d finally received my bid and accepted it right away. Following the second vote, I was invited to a formal and secret ritual of initiation into the organization, advancing me to full membership once it was over. I, along with the other pledges, was instructed to strip naked and run around the chapter house from front to back and enter through the side door. I was the last one allowed to run, but once I reached the side door, I found out it was locked. I stood there banging for them to let me in until I noticed the flashes of light coming from behind me. Someone was taking pictures; several someone’s. Not only that, they were videotaping me as well. I didn’t think. I took off toward an open field, buck naked, being pursued by the members of the brother fraternity on the row. Within the hour, the images and videos were uploaded to every online site imaginable, viewed and shared thousands of times with the caption: Whose daughter is this? The next morning, I signed myself out of school and returned home as a failure and embarrassment to everyone in my family. My parents disowned me, my reputation was ruined, and I was stuck to fend for myself with nothing more than a high school diploma.
There was no one there to hold me up when I felt down.
No words of encouragement.
No support, until I’d discovered the traumatic survivors group over three years ago, but things hadn’t gotten any better where my life was concerned.
I arrived at the parking lot utterly deflated and hating the world knowing I had no choice but to keep moving forward through the work day if I expected to receive a paycheck. The entrance to the library was where I gave myself a mental pep talk before slowly venturing inside. I’d been employed there for over a year now, and one would think it was the perfect place for someone like me. Tall shelves great for hiding behind, stacks and stacks of large volume books to re-categorize every few days, and a minimal staff who mostly kept to themselves. Mostly.
My immediate manager was a condescending bitch with a PHD in back-handed fuckery. She thrived on making my days a living hell, wh
ich was pretty hard to do at a library of all places, but she found a way.
“Glad to see you made it on time, Michelle. I could use your help in the periodicals.”
“Sure thing, Mrs. Brooks.” I plastered on my best fake smile. “Just let me put away my purse.”
First of all, I was never late, and she damn well knew it. What she really wanted to say was, she’d been chomping at the bit waiting for my arrival, so she could stick it to me somehow. We’d obviously had a visit from Craig that morning, who was one of our regulars, and he’d left his usual calling card like he did every thirty days. Needless to say, Craig had a serious problem where our magazines were concerned, in particular our monthly subscription to Better Homes and Garden. The kindly old man had a penchant toward Martha Stewart and had been caught on more than one occasion masturbating to her photograph behind the travel section. One look at Mrs. Brooks’ face, and I knew she wanted me to “clean” the pages off before restocking the publication like I did every time he choked his chicken.
Could my life get any more fucked up?
“Don’t forget to use the rubber gloves behind the counter, Michelle.” She smirked. As if I would ever forget something like that.
“No problem, Mrs. Brooks.”
“Great! When you’re done with that, I have another job for you.” Geez, can’t wait.
“The toilet overflowed in the men’s bathroom this morning and could use your attention. I would’ve done it myself, but you know…” She waived her hand around, never quite coming up with a reasonable excuse or flat out lie to make her point.
Guess that answered my question.
“I’ll get right on that, Mrs. Brooks.” Deep breaths, Michelle. Deep breaths.
Things were bound to get better.
Dread
Thirteen or more hours behind the wheel, eyes squinted against the setting sun, and I was dog dead tired and beat to hell. That should put enough distance between me and that cunt if she tried to trail me, or more so, when she did. I chose north as my route to travel this time. Before that, it was southeast, anything to trick her ass up and buy some time before I had to move on again. Mississippi had it charms, Southern belles who sipped mint juleps by day and took hard cock by night. Nothing better than watching them down on their knees, prim and proper like, gagging on my come when I shot down their throats. Yeah, I was gonna miss The Magnolia State, but victim cunt had left me no other choice but to kiss it goodbye. Bitch must’ve had a LoJack on my cock or some shit, or maybe she was part bloodhound. Either way, too bad for her I was on short time with my probation, and once it was over, no more victim fucking services updates, and I could disappear in the wind.
I pulled over to the side of the road to try and get forty winks before I fucked around and crashed into a tree. I had no idea where I was or the name of the hick-ass town I’d just entered, but it seemed quiet enough. The minute I closed my eyes, memories from the past inundated my mind, retrospections from a different time when I thought I’d finally found someone who could understand my plight and wanted nothing more than to help make things easier. I’d been the brunt of my father’s cruelty for so long I welcomed a more positive outlook from that time forward. Thankfully, she was different from all the other trashy bottom feeders my old man usually bought around. Classy and smart. It was easy to see how that selfish prick fell head over heels for Justine the way he did. The same couldn’t be said about her, though.
“Dinner was great,” I praised honestly. “Don’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal, Justine, probably before my mom left to go her own way.”
I sat back in my chair and rubbed my overstuffed belly filled with pasta and meat sauce. My father’s new wife had cooked a spread fit for a king. Too bad he was working a double shift at his security job and wouldn’t get the chance to enjoy it fresh. I’d had no idea the two were even dating, let alone planning to get married. He’d just brought her home about a week ago and announced I had a new stepmother. Hell, I hadn’t even been invited to the wedding. I wasn’t mad or anything; he never included me in his life. My old man made the rules which we lived by, always had, and I was expected to follow them without question or reap the consequences. The two of us existed in a vacuum of hateful disregard, both mutual and time-honored. A new wife certainly wouldn’t change that. Justine seemed friendly enough, younger than I would have expected considering my father’s age, plus she was pretty, which said a lot about her taste in old men. Blond hair with clear blue eyes, she could’ve easily passed for my sister if she hadn’t married that worthless sack of shit I called a father. I just didn’t get the attraction.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it, Dread. Should I call you Dread? Or perhaps something better suited for a well-mannered boy such as yourself.” She smiled warmly, and I couldn’t help but return it.
“Dread is fine, I guess. Don’t matter. Call me whatever you want, Justine. Just so you know, I won’t be calling you Mommy Dearest,” I joked.
“Thank God.” She breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m much too young to be someone’s mother, and I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a pair of mommy jeans. No way in hell.”
She took a seat on the couch and invited me to join her.
“How old are you, Dread? Fourteen?” she asked, eyebrows drawn.
“I’m fifteen, almost sixteen in a few months.” I couldn’t wait till I turned eighteen so I could leave my father’s house and never look back. He’d always been an asshole and a bully. The sooner he met an untimely death, the better off the world would be.
“Sixteen is such a good age. I remember when I was so young. Ah, the good old days.” We shared a laugh at the silliness of it all.
“Are you a virgin, Dread?” she asked out the blue. “Have you ever been with a woman before?”
“Suurre,” I stuttered. “I’ve been with lots of women before.”
My hands started to sweat, and I felt uncomfortable sitting so close to my father’s wife. I was lying through my teeth, but she didn’t need to know that. Justine was breathing heavy, heavier than before, and she was touching my leg for some strange reason. That wasn’t right. We shouldn’t be doing this sitting alone while my father was working. What the fuck was wrong with me? It felt so good having someone put their hands on me. It’d been so long since I’d felt such warmth from a woman’s touch. My mother used to hold me in her arms when I’d been a child and sing me to sleep with soft caresses to my hair and face until I finally closed my eyes. Justine wasn’t my mother, and this felt different. I wanted to resist, but it was as if she was hypnotizing me with her fingers. I felt myself getting hard. I tried to hide it behind my hands, but she saw it anyway.
That was so wrong.
My cheeks flamed with embarrassment.
“Family is very important, don’t you think, Dread? We have to stick together if we’re going to be living under the same roof. I’d hate it if you didn’t want me around,” she breathed.
“Sure, Justine,” I whispered. “I can understand that.”
“The minute your father told me he had a son, I knew we would be friends,” she confessed. “Do you want to be my friend, Dread?”
“Sssure, Justine,” I sputtered. “We can be friends, I suppose.”
“Excellent. That makes me very happy, son.”
She smiled brightly, then gave my leg a soft pat as she moved to the far end of the couch. I was still sporting a hard-on and felt the burn on my neck from the blush that surely started from my toes and crept its way up. The door slammed open, announcing my father’s arrival, and sent Justine rushing over to greet him with an open-mouthed kiss. I crept off to my room like a kicked puppy just before I heard the sounds of my father’s animalistic grunts as he fucked his new wife against the wall of our living room. I hated every minute of it. What did he ever do to deserve such happiness?
I’d prayed that night for death to come.
His death.
Slow and painful.
I woke with a star
t, palming my dick through my jeans, still parked on the side of the road in bumfuck nowhere. I felt sick to my stomach over what had just happened. After all this time, the past still had me by the fucking balls. I jumped out the front seat and took a big whiff of fresh air to clear my head and get my bearings straight. The place seemed as good as any to lay low in for a while. The only problem was finding work for my particular set of skills. I had gotten my GED while I was in lockdown, so there was that, but my skills? God must’ve been high as fuck when he started passing out individual talents and abilities. How else could I explain the fact that I had a photographic memory, for starters. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I could draw anything from scratch after glancing at it only one time. Didn’t matter what it was. Floor plans, old photographs, architecture, hell, even cartoon illustrations. That was how I earned my living, traveling from town to town, hooking up with carnivals, amusement parks, and the occasional tattoo parlor if they had one. Bikers were suckers for cartoon tats; they paid in cash and off the books for my creations, often buying more than one at a time. I wasn’t stupid enough to believe in shit like karma or fate, but I had to do a double take when I realized I was standing in front of a small-ass strip mall with one such shop right in front of me. Fuck it. Worst case scenario, they could point me to a hotel for the night, so I could get some fucking sleep, then I’d start fresh first thing in the morning after a long hot shower.
I grabbed my portfolio from the back seat and walked past the little laundromat and candy shop on the corner. Both were pretty tame by comparison, like there was some sort of imaginary line that separated those businesses from the dregs that frequented the tattoo shop. Masonry Ink was live and in Technicolor by the time I reached the front door. For such a small town, there were some dangerous-looking motherfuckers lurking around the building, waiting to get in. Even more stood around inside. Either this was the only shop in town, or these guys were just that fucking good. Once I stepped through the door, I could see it was the latter. This place was the shit. Better than any I’d ever seen before, and I’d been inside plenty. Leather lounge chairs, glass display cases, bright shiny floor without a drop of paint on it, and the show stopper was some chick walking around serving drinks to the patrons while they hung around. This place wasn’t for me. One look, and I could tell they were legit business owners with no room for an ex-con. I turned to leave and fucked around and dropped my folder on the ground by mistake. Papers flew out everywhere, so I bent to grab them up. Jesus fuck.