Gwendolyn vs. the Band of Barren Hearts

by Mary E. Palmerin

  I feel my forehead hit the hard plastic of the shower and my vision goes cloudy. At the same instant, I hear the familiar animalistic groans of pleasure from before as pain shoots through me. So much for a candlelight dinner and slow dancing before the boy who loves the girl takes her innocence. That’s the way I always pictured that I would lose mine. Not in some nasty trailer by a boy in robot-mode who is forced to fuck me while slamming my head into the shower wall.

  I try to reach out to grab onto something to pull myself away so I can gulp air into my lungs, but there is nothing as Welch jabs himself into me over and over again. The hard movements make me understand that I am alive. This is not a dream that I can simply wake up from. This is the life that I live and I have to take it, play the game, then get even.

  Then, as quick as it began, the commotion and soreness cease as I feel a spurt of something hot along my bottom. Welch releases my hair, leaving me to fall to the bottom of the tub with the once hot droplets panging my skin. He curls into a ball next to me, screaming out in terror as I hear the door to the bathroom close.

  Of course I felt like fighting, everyone does. That is before the wounds happen. Layers need to cover the wounds then scars need to form. After that, maybe I will feel like living again to fight back and survive to show them what hell is really like. Until then, I can only wallow in the darkness and pray to wake up from this nightmare.

  I haven’t spoken in a week. I looked into my counselor’s eyes a few days ago and not even a part of me wanted to tell her about what happened. That can’t be normal, can it? I fear that I was previously a fish out of water who is now making her way back into it to revitalize her gills and bear the elements as a new species. Once I get back there, I will turn into a vicious piranha with teeth aimed to kill.

  I lie here in my bed as the musty smell of my sheets becomes too much, bringing me back to reality from the devising plans in my head. A husky whimper erupts in the darkness, followed by rustling. I sit up as I tilt my head to the side looking over to Welch, seeing his shadow through the torn, tattered curtains providing a small amount of light emitted from the full moon.

  I throw the covers off my body and stand, walking towards the agonizing moans, unable to control my movements. I’m my own puppet controlled by my mind, that is both foreign and fascinating. Terrifying and tragic. My hand is full of intent as I reach the comforter of Welch’s bed, slowly peeling it away and climbing in next to him. The sensation of his bare legs next to mine is unfamiliar and welcoming all in one.

  I know he didn’t want to hurt me, but I am confused as to why he enjoyed it. It was obviously a conditioned response, but it makes me wonder why. How many times had this happened with Claude and what had occurred with the other girls before me? Would I even make it out alive? I would certainly die trying.

  He snaps his eyes open, the stark whites of them the epitome of terror. A smile curves the edges of my face as he opens his mouth to speak. I find myself wanting to erupt into a fit of laughter. Have I gone mad?

  Again, I am unable to control my actions only going about what my body is wanting as I remain trapped in my mind, focusing on retaliation against the fiends. Still, I don’t speak. I only keep my mind on squeezing my lips shut from giggling for reasons unbeknownst to me. It is completely irrational yet soothing.

  He raises his arms and applies pressure to my chest like he wants me to go away, but I shake my head no. He briefly relaxes into the pillow as his hair gently settles on his forehead against the sheer sweat that is beading on it. I find myself wanting to embrace the strange sentiments swimming inside of me, yet brutality remains at the forefront. How can I smile while feeling wickedness all in one? Making sense of life is no more, for I am not the girl I once was. She died along with my parents.

  I must accept that this is my fate and sharpen the teeth that are begging to erupt. To hurt. To pay back. Again, he opens his mouth to speak and I place my hand over it, shaking my head no. I roll on top of him, feeling his hardened length beneath me.

  “You want me, still?” I whisper.

  He squeezes his eyes shut as I rock down on him, the only barrier between us my white cotton panties. My body is responding to him, but I am merely conditioning myself for what is to come in the future. Consider this practice without an audience.

  “Do you want to do bad things to me now?” I whimper again.

  He opens his eyes. This is a test. A test of will. A test of strength and one of manipulation.

  “Y-y-yes,” he stammers.

  So, he does enjoy it. He likes the good hurt. The feeling of taking me before people that use and abuse. Now is the time that I figure out if he is part of the game, on my side, or the opponent. I am still unsure of all things except one.

  He is just as fucked up as I am.

  “Do you play with the monsters?” I murmur, pushing my hips deeper.

  The teeth from before are biting through the surface as my heart is covered in steel. My soul remains locked away in a desert of bleakness and I crave to taste the blood. The pain. The hurt. It will only make me stronger for the fight.

  The comfort that I thought I saw in Welch’s eyes is absent. Everything in life is just a façade, a play, a mirroring image of what the mind wants before it is taken away. It’s cruel. It’s punishment for the hell of the world.

  The wounds and the layers from the week before are not forgotten, make no mistake. They still bleed. But that blood is nourishing the power that is bubbling deep inside. I don’t want it to stop or to scab over. I don’t want the scars to form, to forget. I wish to wake up every single day and remind myself what happened because that ignites the hatred that I have for these people.

  The demons.

  The devils that destroy undeserving people.

  Still, he is silent not answering my question.

  “Are you a monster, Welch?”

  I can’t help myself as a tiny bit of laughter escapes my mouth. I bend down to his mouth, brushing his full lips that I once admired.

  “Now is the time, Welch. Decide if you want me to be your monster or not.”

  “You are fucking crazy,” he pants.

  I cackle, “Oh, I am beginning to think you are right. But, remember, Welch. You are the one who hurt me. You did very bad things to me in front of them,” I continue, rocking my hips along his rigid length.

  He groans, clenching his jaw as something feral inside of me breaks. It’s at this moment that I wonder if I was birthed to become this person. Brooding, bloody, yet wanton while seeking vengeance. The softness I once had is gone forever as I remain unaffected by the change. I am simply coaching myself for the acts that I am sure to endure before the timing is right; before the claws can escape to inflict pain.

  The swollen soreness between my legs is faint from the week before, but I want it back. I crave it. It gives fuel to the fire, boils the blood, adds poison to the pain and that is what I need right now. Tonight is about the funeral, saying goodbye to the old me.

  “Is it my turn?” I giggle, caressing his face softly.

  He furrows his brows, but he can’t help himself as he leans into my touch. He is trained well and I refuse to become like him.

  “Your turn for what?” he seethes.

  “I want to hurt you good, Welch. Will you let me?”

  Manipulation.

  A test.

  This is not love. This is not lust.

  This is a game.

  He is a monster, just as wild as me as the crazy in his eyes glimmers to life. My belly turns while my heart flutters and the dampness between my thighs increases. He painfully grips my hips and flips me on my back, taking control of the situation.

  “You want me to be your monster, Gwen? You don’t know what you’ve asked for.”

  I laugh once more. Nothing is what it seems. The niceness he once had is gone, replaced with guttural need for something more. Something deep and dark that I don’t even know. There is no turning back. This is all part of the game. />
  He leans down as his lips collide with mine. His teeth clamp down on my bottom lip as I taste metallic liquid rushing into my mouth. I find myself wanting to push him away and pull him closer into me. My hands shuffle their way to his hair and I pull hard. He tears his lips away from me.

  “I’m going to do bad things to you, Gwendolyn. Very, very bad things to you,” he says.

  I sense something that we share.

  Intent.

  Influence.

  He has me beneath him willing and able to do as he pleases; only moments before I promised myself it was just a game, and I would remain detached. I can’t. I am his monster and he is mine. This is a flawless recipe for disaster that will equal deadly results.

  A wicked smile splays his face as the façade from before is wiped away. Two fucked up people, two lives changed forever, two monsters formed from the devils of the world. For a moment I think I can see the fangs of mine that I yearn to come through the surface shine in the night in Welch’s smile as he opens his mouth wider.

  “Yes, Welch. You can be my monster.”

  “Gwendolyn, I can’t help you if you don’t let me. This is the last session we have left,” my counselor says, not even making an attempt to look into my eyes.

  I used to think that she wanted to help me, but after years of the system failing her attempts, it appears that she has given up to merely get through the day to provide her family with a mediocre paycheck after twenty-plus years.

  She huffs in exasperation, scribbling notes down on her pad of paper while pushing the graying strands away from her round, wrinkled face. This is a vicious cycle, yet another being surrendering to the Claudes of the world. She has become affected too, but she doesn’t realize it. She is presented with countless empty, dying children and teens who are helpless. I bet she can’t count on more than two hands how many children she has been able to save. How many have truly beaten the odds.

  Part of me wants to tell her what has happened, but my eyes see through her and I can’t bring myself to articulate the words. What good would it do besides uproot me from where I am and plant me in another shit-hole at some other fucker’s mercy? It also inhibits my plans of vengeance. Thoughts of what I wish to do to Claude and Helen make my jaw clench and my eyes fill with fury. My heart thuds in my chest as I feel them tense with each increasing beat.

  “Can you tell me what you are feeling right now, Gwendolyn?” she asks, looking up at me through her wire-rimmed glasses.

  She takes a moment to study me and I cock my head to the side, allowing her to. I have an iron-clad gate around my crazy thoughts and I won’t let anyone inside.

  “You do understand that you will be released from the state once you turn eighteen, which is just in six days.”

  How wonderful. Free. Free at last. But how free will I actually be? Still in school. No job and nowhere to go. Forced to fuck. Forced to watch.

  The system fails again.

  Throw me into the fire, watch me burn in pain, and put it out right before I die. What kind of sick, twisted game is that?

  I curl my knees to my chest and hug them tight, wishing I could claw at the bare skin of my calves to feel pain because that drives me closer to the brink of madness. When I get there I fear what might ensue. God help those around me.

  “If something is happening to you, you need to tell me,” she whispers.

  I look at her with steel eyes and slant a smile. I crouch up on my heels like I am prepping myself to prance on her, to attack her and protect what I want to kill before someone else takes it from me.

  Now, who is the sick one?

  She scrunches her brows, not understanding my movements. Fuck, I don’t even understand who I have become. They say every person has a purpose. Maybe I was born to live a happy life for a while, then for it to be taken away and turn into a person that I don’t know. Someone that I fear, yet admire.

  “Gwendolyn?” she questions, both intrigued and scared.

  “Fuck off,” my filthy mouth retorts as I show her my fangs.

  Sleep doesn’t find me often. I don’t want it to. I want to be a sponge full of hatred until I can unleash it on someone deserving. What happens to me after that is in still in question. The familiar moans of Welch’s night terrors fill the dark room. I look over to his bed, making out his thrashing shadow. Just when I thought I had him figured out for the good guy, he proved me wrong. He is more like me than I give myself credit for comprehending. I stand from my bed quietly, making my way to the door to lock it.

  My tiny footsteps tap slightly over the rough carpet of our shared bedroom as anticipation intensifies a millions times with each passing second. His moans become louder and I know I don’t have much time before the devils on the other side of the trailer wake. I need to move faster. The subfloor creaks with each step that I take while the fright coupled with delight is more than I can handle. My chaffed knees from our forced fucking session days ago scrape the edge of his mattress as my trembling, dainty hand reaches for his comforter. I pull it back softly, climbing in next to his moving body, pulling him close to me.

  It’s these moments when he is in between a nightmare and wake when I have him cuddled next to me that make me realize that I am not completely a monster.

  Yet.

  My hands apply more pressure to his chest, his breathing calms and he sighs into me. These minutes of peace are what we have. The dreams between nightmares. The wake between sleep. The enchantment before terror.

  His forehead gleams with sweat as his brown hair sticks to it beautifully. His dark brows stand out as they scrunch pensively, like he is trying to figure out what his latest nightmare meant. Those eyes, wow those eyes. I don’t let myself look deep into them often because I get lost in a land of gentleness and that isn’t me anymore. Fuck his lips, so perfectly plump. It’s a shame he doesn’t smile more often because he is quite adorable when he does. It makes me disappointed that I can’t see more of him on the nights that we share.

  Before I can understand what I am doing, his influence has me under his spell. I straddle his hips as the stark white of his eyes sends shivers of unknowing down between my thighs and I clench hard on his hips, kneading myself down over his erection.

  This is us. Whatever that means. My body takes over and the feral nature that I have come to embrace is gone and replaced with something that I am unfamiliar with. It’s a wave that I am riding, unsure of where it will take me. It terrifies me, but it also turns me on.

  I really am fucked up.

  His hand reaches between my legs as he wastes no time, pushing my panties aside and rubbing my sensitive slit with the most delicious motion. He is praising my body in such a way that I feel like I am alive again. Sparks of faith urge to splice through the surface, but I won’t let it. I shut my eyes, shaking my head at the thought. His hand leaves me and I allow a tiny whimper to leave my mouth, a sign of my protest. His strong grip finds my hips as he flips me onto my back.

  He knows what I want, what I need, and what I can’t stand to have.

  “You want me to hurt you good, Gwendolyn?” he whispers down into my ear, then gives my neck an open-mouthed kiss.

  The thought of him memorizing my body again sends a surge of moisture between my thighs as I involuntarily urge my hips forward. I can’t look into his eyes. He knows that. His hand cups my face, but the softness won’t last.

  I don’t want it to. It takes me back to a place that I don’t want to visit.

  The old me.

  Make me hurt.

  But don’t make me feel.

  He yanks my hair as he puts his hand over my mouth.

  “Shhh, sweet girl. Let me make you feel good. Let’s both forget tonight, okay?”

  I nod my head yes, as the lips I admire collide with mine. His kisses are hard and full of passion and intent. He knows what he wants as well as I what I desire. He’s telling me a story in the most lovely, dysfunctional way.

  Welcome to my life.

  H
is mouth leaves mine as he yanks my shirt away from my body. My nipples peak in response and I feel him smile against my bare breast. I wish I could see it, yet I am grateful that I can’t. That only adds feeling more for something that is bound to leave me, just like everything else. The internal conversation that I am having with myself goes blank when he bites down on my nipple hard. I feel my womb tighten and I need a release.

  My hands fumble down to my sensitive core and he smacks them away. I can’t take the build-up much longer. He is torturing me in the most horrible, fabulous, amazing technique.

  I hate him.

  I want him.

  His lips kiss at my navel, as he tickles the inside of my thigh. I want to scream out, both in agony and pleasure, then force myself to cover my mouth with my own hand. I have to remind myself to breathe because I have to fulfill the only good thing I have had since the old me.

  Should I reconsider?

  Awaken the old parts of me.

  Fuck! No!

  I release my hand from my mouth.

  “Pain. Please, give me pain.”

  I thought I was thinking in my head, but I hear the echo of my own words bouncing around the room.

  “You want pain, sweet girl?” he asks before dipping between my legs, licking me perfectly.

  His tongue is swirling about in the most enjoyable manner and I find myself ready to let go. His way. Just as I feel myself ready for the drop, his mouth leaves me breathless.

  “What are you doing, Welch?” I whisper.

  I want to shout at him, slap him, and then fuck him into a frenzy.

  “You want pain, sweetheart. I know all about pain.”

  He pulls my panties away from me and yanks his shirt and boxers off. I’ve never wanted anything more in my life. How can something so fucked up seem right? How can I hate something that I want, him?

  He turns me over onto my belly and pulls my legs up so my bottom is up in the air. I feel myself dripping wet. Part of me is embarrassed, but the other part of me just wants some goddamn relief from this unbearable, incredible aching between my fucking legs.