Gwendolyn vs. the Band of Barren Hearts

by Mary E. Palmerin

  I’m frozen in time, once again. My feet are like blocks of ice, numb and unable to move. I want to run. I want to scream. I want to cry out for help. I want to ask why, God, why. Then I want to kill, torture and slay the madness away. I want the pain to make me crazy enough to do it and I am beginning to think that the teeming point that I have long prayed for has come.

  There is no more fucking around. This is it. Paradise only lasts for so long until the storm comes crashing in, destroying its beauty and wrecking it with its callousness. Sparkling goodness replaced with splintered evil, welcome to my world.

  Connor halts before me.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” he asks in a condescending voice.

  “Do you know these kids, buddy?” Claude asks.

  The woman who seemed so gentle from before ignores the conversation as she boils pasta over the stove. The old woman is still in a slumber with her teeth hanging out of her mouth and a trail of slobber. How can everyone go about normalcy while the epitome of dysfunction surrounds them? It couldn’t be more obvious.

  “Yeah, from school,” he states coolly, anger washing over his face.

  “They your new foster kids?” he asks again, looking up to Claude.

  “Yep.”

  Connor offers him a smile while everyone goes about the motions without a hitch. Welch’s grasp remains on my lower back as he occasionally rubs it with his thumb trying to show that he is there for me without words. But, what does all this mean? I knew that there was something wrong with Connor, something wicked and evil in his eyes. Something that wasn’t there. He sought me out as the new girl to bully, but here he has the upper hand. At least in school, it was in a controlled environment. Here, I am not safe from anything.

  Food. Something I craved so much before we got here, yet now I can’t find it in myself to eat. The spaghetti that was before appealing when I initially walked in the front door is now making me sick to my stomach. Perhaps it’s because I’m sitting at the table while everyone eats vanilla cake, doting on the birthday boy. How could I be so dumb? I envisioned some six-year-old boy’s birthday party, not an 18-year-old who happens to be the same fucker who torments me at school.

  It’s a win, win for him. I keep my eyes down at the cold plate of spaghetti and peas while everyone else enjoys cake. Welch has remained silent as well. What is there to say, anyway? I don’t know if he has eaten because I can’t muster the courage to look over at him. Occasionally he will take his foot and nudge it along mine, only to make me feel human again, whether I am grateful for that or not is still in question.

  Now, I am beginning to think I’m not so grateful. I wonder why I decided not to go eat with my parents that night. Why couldn’t I be in the car and die alongside them, entering the Pearly Gates of glorious heaven?

  “It’s time,” Welch says, interrupting my thoughts.

  For once I am thankful for it.

  “For what?”

  “To go home, Gwen.”

  I sag back into my chair, relief only lasting seconds.

  “Don’t keep him out long, Daddy,” the soft-faced woman says.

  Perplexed, I listen more to the conversation as my eyes avert them.

  “Darling, I take care of what’s mine. Just going to take him out and buy him some lotto tickets and such. Don’t ya worry, cupcake.”

  I can’t handle the thought as I dart from the table and outside to meet the cold, brisk winter air. He is bringing Connor home with us and I can’t even begin to think what he has planned. Part of me wants to think that Connor has some good in him, but after all he has learned from Claude I am sure.

  “Gwen, hold it together. Please.”

  His husky voice brings me to my safe place. But it’s just a façade. Our safe place isn’t real. It never lasts.

  “Is this our time?” I ask, letting the cold air bite my cheeks.

  “Time for what?” he returns.

  “To escape or to die,” I respond blankly, vacant of any emotion.

  “Tomorrow morning we will leave. We will leave tomorrow morning, okay?” he says taking a step closer, dipping his lips next to my ear.

  “Together, sweet girl.”

  A burst of the door sends us apart. Welcome to my nightmare…

  “Can I start on her now, Poppa?” Connor asks as he sits nudged between Welch and me in the backseat of Helen’s dirty car.

  “Hold your horses, son. There’s lots of fun to be had. We are almost home.”

  “Don’t you fucking touch her you piece of shit,” Welch yells.

  The commotion in the back is too much for me to handle. I see an array of fists flying as Connor is pushed into me. Helen is laughing like a crazed woman and Claude slams on the brakes, then my head goes flying into the seat in front of me. I’m then pushed farther into the cold glass as Welch punches Connor, his weight lying on me.

  “Welch, you wanna live? You want her to live?”

  Welch instantly stills, Claude’s ability to work his magical submission over him is evident. But part of me wants to think that he is playing along with this sick game to get us out alive.

  Tomorrow morning. We will be free. Free at last.

  I find the courage to speak, for once letting Welch know that I will take it and be alright to make it out alive. Then we can plot our revenge on them. Tonight, we have to allow it.

  “Welch, stop it. Just stop,” I plea.

  “Good girl, cupcake.”

  Claude starts to push on the gas, then says, “Go for it, birthday boy.”

  Connor’s hand finds the inner part of my thigh as he wastes no time, cupping my sex over the top of my jeans. I detach myself, cutting the strings away from the puppet I swore to myself that I would always control. Not now. Not tonight. I want to float away to another world and not remember tonight. I don’t want to soak up this moment in my hatred sponge to fuel my idea for an eye for eye. I have had enough of it. I am tired of it. Now, I just let go and allow it to happen.

  His mouth finds my neck as I stare out the window, admiring the puffy, white flakes that are falling from the night sky. Such a beautiful sight for such a gory evening. Perhaps it means something; maybe there is something beautiful in my future. Perchance this is the last that I will have to endure before I say goodbye to this Gwendolyn and hello to the freak who aims to kill.

  But how many Gwendolyn’s will life hand me? I fear the answer until I come to terms with my old life. The horrible adjustment that I never acclimated myself to. Who can blame me? How often does this really occur? Connor’s moans make me sick as he takes his hand and places it on his crotch, which is hard through his jeans. How in the fuck can he participate in such activities while his grandfather drives? Claude makes a hard right, my forehead banging against the hard glass as my hand is forced down the band of Connor’s pants. I curl my hand around his hardened length, trained and willing to do whatever I am supposed to do to get out alive tomorrow morning.

  Tomorrow. Tomorrow I am free. Free at last.

  I don’t even remember entering the house. Moments ago in my head were black memories of nothingness. I’m alone in my bedroom with Connor.

  Where’s Welch?

  I hear loud thrashes of Claude’s belt followed by Welch’s cries of aching agony. I walk backwards until I am against the wall in my room. The whips of his belt continue, methodical movements by our torturer.

  “Are you ready to play with the birthday boy, cupcake?” Connor whispers.

  I’m nonverbal. He doesn’t deserve my words. He doesn’t deserve anything except the fiery inferno of hell. I make note of all the bad things I want to do to him, slicing his throat from ear to ear. A smack to my cheek sends me flying to the floor. His barely six-foot frame is stronger than I thought. Why am I feeling now? Why can’t I let myself block out this evilness that is happening? A feeling that swarms in my being is telling me that this encounter is going to be worse than any other that I have experienced. Fucked up to admit, at least it was Welch who
was fucking me, even though we were forced to perform for Claude and Helen.

  Now I am about to be raped by a boy who is going to enjoy it. Connor is more evil than Claude.

  “I think I want to play with you first, cupcake,” he laughs, looking around the room.

  What in the fuck is he doing? I am praying with all my might that my mind will make me not feel this. I don’t want to know, to feel, to remember this moment. But I am forced to.

  Make this be a nightmare. Pinch me and wake me up. I beg you, God. I promise not to seek vengeance, to live by something better than an eye for an eye if I awake in the same bed within Claude’s house. I will be a better girl. Welch and I can run away and make a life out of something, what that is, I don’t know yet. Don’t let him break me, God. I beg you.

  His eyes glimmer with madness and I understand that I have never been more afraid of anything else in my entire life. He rips my T-shirt away, ironically the same one I wore the day he tripped me in the cafeteria, the food staining it. He pulls the cups of my bra down, cackling in between his movements and I allow myself to cry, because I am just a girl.

  A girl who has lost a lot. I lost who I was. My life. My parents. My memories. My hopes and dreams.

  All for this.

  His gaze turns to the room again, scanning it for something and I can’t allow myself to figure what he is doing. Something horrible, I am sure. He stands abruptly, grabbing a metal hanger from the floor and swatting it across my bare breasts. I cry out in pain, hearing footsteps run down the hall. The door bangs as someone begs to open it.

  Swat.

  Smack.

  “Gwendolyn!” Welch yells from behind the door.

  “Boy, I’m going to fucking kill you for running from me!” Claude boasts.

  “No! Welch! Please! Let it be! Listen to him!” I plead.

  The thought of him being cut out of my life makes me sick as the tears stream out of my eyes. Connor’s hands make their way around my neck, applying just the right amount of pressure to keep me conscious. I hate him for that. Make it go away. Kill me if they are going to take Welch. At least then, we will be together away from this nightmare.

  I hear the whooshing of blood in my ears as my vision goes blurry more. He must see that my eyes are glazing over as his hand releases itself. A series of punching and whips is loud outside of my door, followed my moaning and gurgling.

  “Welch!” I try to scream, but my throat is scratchy from the pressure applied.

  I’ve lost my voice and I’m clinging onto my spirit. I’m ready to give that up too.

  The wire hanger strikes my belly. I’m void of expressing my pain. I just let him do it. I don’t hear confirmation of Welch. The other end of the house is silent. My heart is broken and my soul is crushed. I have no reason to hold on anymore. Let him break me now. Then take me, feed me to the wolves, then leave me for dead.

  I don’t fucking care.

  His hands peel my jeans and panties away from legs, as he condescendingly laughs while he opens my thighs.

  “Such a sweet, pink pussy. But I think it needs to be red, what do you think, cupcake?”

  I sink further down into the dirty carpet of my bedroom, accepting my fate. I don’t want to re-attach my puppet strings. Let him play his game. Even if I do make it out alive, I don’t want to deal with giving them what they deserve. I’m too tired. I’m ready to say goodbye to the world. It’s too fucking much.

  The feeling of cold, hard, pain makes me shriek as he strikes the hanger onto my exposed sex. I don’t try to close my legs because that will only make it worse. Let him have me, get it over with. The sooner the better so I can say goodbye to the world that has done me so wrong.

  The claws and teeth that I so long yearned for tuck back into my cracked shell as I stare up at the watermarks on the ceiling, accepting my life. My fate.

  Swat.

  Smack.

  Cut.

  I feel something wet rush down to my bottom, a likely result from his last thrash of the metal hanger. He seems pleased with his handy work as I hear the faint unzipping of his pants. He dips between my legs, licking my abused slit then sliding himself up my body, grabbing my cheeks while forcing me to look at him. My eyes are hollow but I continue to play his game, not letting myself scream out in terror from my blood on his lips.

  He thrusts himself forward, breaking me, taking me, and making me his. I lay there like a rag doll who has been tossed around, torn apart, and stitched back up again. But I am ready to be thrown away now. If I am lucky when he is done playing, he will toss me out back and let me die.

  I can only hope as evidence of life from Welch is gone.

  Gone.

  Hope.

  Life.

  Everything is gone.

  “Such a tight cunt for a dirty whore,” Connor whispers, dipping his bloody mouth down to my lips.

  I taste blood from my torn and tattered sex on his lips and tongue and feel the bile rising quickly in my throat. Before I can understand what is happening, vomit comes out of my mouth entering his. He pulls himself away from me quickly, anger being an understatement for the emotion that he is wearing.

  “I want to fucking kill you.”

  “Good,” is the only thing I can articulate as the hot vomit settles on my chin.

  He wipes it away from his mouth as he continues to fuck me harder and harder. His hand makes its way around my neck, squeezing hard as he bends down to whisper, “Only if you’re lucky.”

  Then blackness. Goodbye, pain. Hello, nothingness.

  “No, Mom! I don’t want to go out tonight!” I yell down the stairs, exasperated.

  It’s a Friday night and I’m preparing myself for an evening out with girlfriends to watch the newest horror flick at the movie theatre. I hear her footsteps coming up the stairs as the French doors of my bedroom open. I grin at her, admiring her beauty and hoping to one day be just like her.

  I get my red hair and green eyes from my mother, but my fiery personality comes from my father. I call it more along the urge of being stubborn. That has always been in my favor, making the honor roll and paving my way perfectly for college scholarships to any place I could possibly dream of.

  My life is perfect.

  Mom strides into my room elegantly. I love the way she does that, moving about so fluidly with intent and grace. Most people think that being an only child sucks, but not for me. I’ve enjoyed my childhood, hitting milestones along the way with a set of parents that love and protect me with all their might.

  My life is perfect.

  “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart,” she says, pushing a stray strand of red hair away from my face.

  I look up to her and smile, taking in the compliment as it makes my heart swell. I never thought that my life could be any other way. It never occurred to me. Sure, it happens in the movies, in books that I read, and articles in the newspaper, but not to girls like Gwendolyn Beth Fitzpatrick.

  My life is perfect.

  “Your father and I would love to take you out to dinner tonight. To celebrate you making the honor roll, perfect A’s again!” she croons, grasping my hand, then bringing it to her lips and kissing it softly.

  “Mom, I want to, but what about the plans with the girls?” I ask beneath my puppy dog eyes.

  “Of course, sweetie. Of course. You go and have fun. I just wanted to let you know how proud I am of the young woman you’ve become. Don’t ever let anyone make you feel differently about yourself, Gwen,” she says softly, squeezing my hand tighter.

  I give her a hug, “I love you, Mom.”

  “I love you, too, Gwen.”

  I look up to see my father standing in the doorway with his gray hair combed perfectly like it always is. His hands are stuffed into his trouser pockets as he sports a big smile across his face. One of pure love.

  My life is perfect.

  “There are my two girls,” he says with his arms out.

  I jump from my bed and run into his arms, on
e of the safest places to be. He hugs onto me, “I love you, Gwendolyn Beth.”

  “I love you, too, Daddy.”

  I bid my parents farewell with a smile on my face because my life is content, happy and nothing is going to change that. An hour later as I head to the front door to hop into my car, a loud knock sends an emotion to my heart, one that I am not familiar with.

  Terror.

  I open the front door to see two policemen.

  “Gwendolyn Fitzpatrick?”

  I nod my head yes.

  Then, the words that they speak become distant parts of who I was. Memories. I should have been in that car with them. I should have died alongside of them, then we could be happy in heaven together.

  My life was perfect before all I was left with was a bag full of clothes and memories that are too painful because they remind me that perfection was just a mirroring image of what was soon to be taken from me, soon to be replaced with a different Gwendolyn. The happiness dissipates and stays behind, along with the recollections that I both yearn for and loathe, and it is replaced with a sentiment that I have to become accustomed to.

  Terror.

  Pain.

  My life was perfect.

  “Gwen, Gwen,” a whisper tickles my ear.

  No! I thought I was gone. I thought I was living in dream, but it betrayed me like everything else turning into a nightmare. Why? Why?

  “Gwen,” his voice says soothingly.

  I open my eyes and pull him down into my body. He’s alive. He’s alive!

  Free. Free at last.

  He cringes as I hug him tighter. I realize that the damage done to his body is great, but he is alive and breathing. That has to mean something.

  “Where are they? What time is it?”

  “They’ve left to take Connor home. It’s 2 a.m.”

  “Let’s go. Let’s be free. Now.”

  We stare into each other’s eyes, understanding without words that we love one another. But there are things that need to be done first. Very bad things. I can’t continue to live my life knowing that Claude and Helen are breathing, doing these very same things to other undeserving kids. It’s ghastly and unthinkable.