Gwendolyn vs. the Band of Barren Hearts

by Mary E. Palmerin

  There aren’t enough words to describe how safe, glorious, and free this feels. To be able to wash and clean my body without fear that Claude will barge in and make me open the shower curtain so he can watch me clean myself as I pay special attention to my breasts and sex. Those times are gone. Permanently. I’m overwhelmed as realization hits me that I am finally away from that life that I lived in. Part of me thought I could bid farewell to the old Gwendolyn, but I feel a Jekyll and Hyde moment creeping its way back up my spine, ready to strike at any given moment.

  I let out a loud sob as my tears are washed away by the water pouring over my face. The memories are too much. Will they ever bury themselves and never come back up? I wonder how someone can ever go on about living as I struggle to find reasons why I decided to fight. Sure, I won, but what for? Only to live with what happened.

  As the water hits the thrash marks on my breasts and tummy, the burning makes it more real. I understand just how fresh it is. How can I try to pretend that I am okay one moment, but the next I am a fucking train wreck? I cry out louder, for what I am not sure.

  The curtain is pulled back and I fall to my bottom, hurling myself into a tight ball like all the times before; I want to hide myself from my tormentor. My body is shivering from the petrification as I mentally dig a hole and cover myself up, praying that something sucks the air out from my lungs.

  A hand touches my shoulder and I want to react, to bare my teeth, to make my tormentor know that I will fight, for what, who knows. Maybe that’s just because it is part of who I am. Perhaps I am just a goddamn mockery, but I can’t make sense of it all. My wails burn my chest as I claw at the backs of my calves, letting the water rain over my body. I wish it would plug the tub, drown me, and take me out of my misery.

  “Sweet girl. Please. It’s me.”

  Another façade as I hear the voice of my boy. The only slice of heaven that I was able to see while living within that inferno of hell. I shake my head no as images flash before my mind. Even my ears become disloyal to me as I hear the animalistic groans of delight. I turn my head further to the side, biting into my own flesh to make sure I am still human.

  Yes. I am only human and just a girl. A very fucked up one at that.

  “Gwendolyn. Come back to me,” the voice pleads.

  I shake my head, unable to escape the nightmare within my mind. I want to, but will it ever end? Will the pain ever stop? My sex throbs and burns from the agony that Connor inflicted as I sink deeper into a helix of madness.

  Free. Free at last, only to be lost once again.

  I awake with a jolt, anxiety plaguing me. I’m covered with sweat as I pull the covers back, looking to my side for Welch. He isn’t there. I’m alone. Alone again. He’s left me and I want to die.

  “No!” I scream, pulling at my hair that is still damp from my shower.

  I claw at my scalp until I feel myself bleed, welcoming the pain because I deserve it and so much more. I want to die, to be away from this world. Thinking back to the life that I had with my parents makes me ill; I was an oyster protected from the beasts that occupied the sea. They left me and I was fed to the sharks. But I fought and survived.

  For what?

  Only to be alone and insane.

  I turn to the nightstand and flip the lamp switch on, gazing at the digital clock. It’s only 6:30 p.m., but dark outside due to the winter months. I’m panting like a dog that is out of breath, yearning for a release, for water, food, or death.

  I search the room with my eyes and don’t see a sign of Welch. His backpack is situated on the other bed.

  I could’ve left.

  I could’ve left.

  I could’ve left.

  His voice haunts me as I scream, “Shut up! Just shut up! Yes, you’re gone! And now I am alone! All Alone!”

  I run my nails over my face, another grisly reminder that this is real life, not a game or a nightmare that I wish to wake from. Welcome to the new life of Gwendolyn Fitzpatrick. Well, no one can tell me how my story is going to end. I have control of that.

  I stand abruptly from the bed, pacing around the small motel room searching for something, anything that I can use to hurt myself. My eyes dart to the digital alarm clock and I rush over to the nightstand, ripping it from the wall as my sobs fill the air. I wrap the cord around my neck as tight as it will go, hoping that I will die or lose consciousness. Anything is better than coming to the conclusion that I have lost another person that I love.

  My strength is too weak to have any sort of distress.

  “Fuck!” I yell, throwing the clock against the wall, watching it shatter into bits along with my heart.

  I run my hands through my hair again, pulling at the crimson locks that remind me so much of my mother. Suddenly, an idea comes to me and I feel at peace. I ease my breathing and close my eyes, allowing my mind to think back to my parents because I will see them again soon. I smile with memories of my father putting a corsage on my wrist before the Christmas dance last year and the twinkle he had in his eyes when he told me how beautiful I was and how much he loved me. I allow myself to laugh as I recollect when my mother and I had the sex talk because she was more embarrassed than I was. I promised her I would save it for someone that I loved and she cried, telling me that I was an incredible young woman and would one day make a good wife and mother.

  It’s time. Time to say goodbye to the fight. Memories are too much, both the good and bad ones. I head into the bathroom as the soles of my feet hit the cold tile, sending pain to my heart. I step in front of the mirror, realizing the past months I was unsure where my mind was the whole time. But now, soon enough, I will be at peace.

  The reflection before me is quite deceiving. I was just a girl before, now I look like a woman that has lost track of time. Perhaps the abuse, stress, and lack of nutrition has aged me more than I realized. My vibrant red hair stands out beautifully still, just like my mother’s and the thought sends a stray tear down my cheek. My skin is paler than normal and my cheeks are prominent due to the amount of weight I have lost. My green eyes have changed. They used to glimmer with life, hope, dreams, and so much more. Now they are mean, glinting with fire and pain, praying for anyone to hang me and pull the life away from them. My full lips are tattered and chapped, not pink and plump like they used to be. The scratch marks run down my face from my outburst and the red marks from the cord stand out, staining my neck.

  I need to see the rest of the changes before what I am about to do. I wrench my shirt away from my sore body as every muscle cries out when my arms go above my head to discard it. I yank my pajama bottoms off and stare again, only being able to see myself from the belly up. It’s a grisly sight; several beating marks on my breasts and a bite mark on my right nipple. My belly is covered with the evidence of the wire hanger as he thrashed it over and over again. I remain astounded at the evil, the pure expression on Connor’s face as he took it to my sex, beating me until I bled leaving me to understand anytime I move my legs.

  But I’m not sad anymore. These nightmares are soon to end with a ticket out of this mad world and my insane mind. I make a fist with my right hand and bring it up to my face, punching the mirror, not flinching as the shattered glass cuts through my knuckles. I watch the image of who I turned into shatter into the sink, not bothering or caring to pick up the pieces and put them back together again.

  Blood drops onto the white floor; I like the splatters of red blood on the tiles.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Another drip closer to death. I spot a large, sharp piece of glass and step to pick it up. I climb into the bathtub, ready to see Mom and Dad again and more than ready to say goodbye to these memories. So much for giving my heart away to a boy who took it and ran. That was the only reason I fought.

  But he’s gone.

  And soon, I will be too.

  I lay back in the tub, shivering from the cold porcelain on my skin. I grasp the sharp shard in my right hand, tu
rning my left arm around as my eyes fixate on the pulsating in my tiny wrist. Finally a blissful reunion is near. My trembling hand makes its way to my skin as I feel my heart thud in my chest. My shaking is becoming too much for me to push down hard and I scream out at myself, angry, just ready to stab myself in the chest to end my horrid heart from beating.

  I take the sharp piece of mirror between both hands, watching the blood drip from both palms as I squeeze harder on the jagged edges. I raise the object above my heart, aimed and ready to kill myself, screaming out one last time. Maybe it is one last goodbye, or one last plea for help. I don’t even understand myself.

  I hear disorder as the door of the bathroom is opened. Welch stands before me with a plastic bag in his hands. He drops it instantly, crouching on his knees over the broken glass. I see his mouth moving, but I hear no words. No, no, it’s just my mind playing tricks on me. He isn’t real. The mind is a master of trickery, just a disguise of what you want to see; a tug-of-war between bliss and brutality. This is wrong, so wrong. I close my eyes, not willing to stare into his.

  “Goodbye, my love,” I say to the ghost before me.

  It’s a funny thing, to lose control. I want so badly to let my feet go, but part of me is wanting those feet to fight again; to stamp themselves back down and live. I don’t understand what living means anymore. Months ago I had a certain perspective on what that meant, but now that has all changed as I sit in a bathtub holding a bloody piece of glass in my hands ready to end my life. How fucked up I have become is a tragedy, really. I never thought I could end up this way, even when my parents died. But bad things happen to good people and sometimes those memories make their way into the deep crevices of your brain. Sometimes they won’t ever leave.

  “Please!” Welch begs.

  I finally allow myself to hear his voice. It changes me instantly, bringing me back to reality as I drop the piece of glass. I take my bleeding hands to cover my face as my loud sobs fill the air which is thick with grief.

  His strong arms pull me from the tub, wrapping a white towel around my cut up body.

  “You left me.”

  Those are the only words I can muster. He left me, but what made him come back? Regret? Does he feel sorry for me? I’m not sure I can bear to hear the words right now as I come to the conclusion that I chickened out of suicide.

  I hear him sobbing as he hugs me tightly, wrapping his hands in my hair. A strong yank on my locks sends my neck up, forcing me to look into his eyes, a place that holds honesty, sadness, hope, and love. It scares the shit out of me.

  “I’m never going to fucking leave you, Gwendolyn.”

  He’s angry, very angry. My heart thuds quickly in my chest. God, he sets fire to my soul. He makes me feel alive. How can that be? One moment wanting to die because I was full of so much desperation, now I can’t think of anything else except him. Help, God. Help me, please.

  “Where, where did you go?” I murmur.

  “To get you real food,” he bites between tears.

  I cry again, the blood from my hands that stains my face streams down, tickling my neck and sending rivers of crimson sadness to my collar.

  “Don’t leave me,” I cry again.

  “Never,” he whispers, his lips colliding with mine. He isn’t gentle. His movements are full of passion, lust, want, and a yearning for more.

  I wrap my arms around his neck, tangling my bleeding hands in his dark locks, allowing the towel to fall away from me. I don’t feel broken or crazy when I am with him. He makes me feel okay, he makes me feel more than that. Every stroke of his tongue is healing, proving that there is another life out there for me. There is no such thing as a goodbye between Welch and me. I would be dead without him. Two monsters who made it out of hell, living in their own little fucking paradise.

  He trails kisses along my neck, then back up to my mouth as I welcome the taste of my blood on his lips. I urge him forward for more. I need him now, to erase what happened, to make me whole again. He is me and I am him. Jekyll and fucking Hyde. Dysfunctional love at its finest, but it is us; true, real, always and forever. Nothing but death will change that.

  My bloody hands fumble at the hem of his shirt, taking it off his body. I take a step back, admiring his beauty. I push him back on the bed, peppering open-mouthed kisses across the welts and bruises that cover his chest and stomach. He whimpers slightly, urging his hips forward as I feel his hard erection pushing into my chest. I want to give him his own piece of heaven, to erase his memories too.

  My injured hands rub along his ab muscles, the curves and valleys of his physique sending something to my core that makes me remember that I am a worthy woman. He is the only one that has shown me what that feels like and I can’t wait to feel it again. Fucked up or not, I want him and I need him now. My bloody hands leave a trail along his stomach as I find the button to his jeans, tugging it free and yanking his boxers and jeans down to his ankles. He’s deliciously hard for me and I can hardly wait to show him goodness with my mouth, to send him to harmony to forget.

  I wrap my lips around his cock and he wails, grasping onto my hair and pulling it hard. The pain shoots down my spine as I feel the parts of my scalp where I dug into it before start to bleed once more. How can pain feel so glorious? I take him into my mouth fully, enjoying how much he fills me and begin my rhythm of up and down, then tease him with my tongue. I surprise myself because I haven’t done this before.

  “So fucking good, sweet girl,” he praises.

  That increases my need as my mouth moves faster along his shaft. His belly tightens, then he pulls my head away as my saliva leaks out of the side of my mouth. I wipe it with the back of my hand.

  “You are so fucking beautiful. It hurts,” he says.

  His face is sharpened with desire and so much love that I want to burst. I want to climb inside of him, bury myself there and live forever.

  I smile at him then offer a scarce laugh.

  “Funny, I was thinking the same thing about you,” I croon.

  “I love that sound.”

  I raise an eyebrow, not questioning him.

  “Your laugh,” he returns.

  I grin at him again as he grabs my hips, twisting me around onto my back, then opening my legs up widely. I don’t fight the feelings this time. I allow myself to look into those eyes that pierce my heart and settle into my soul. They changed me, saved me, and made me realize that I am alive. Through pain, pleasure, and love.

  “I love you, sweet girl.”

  “I love you, too.”

  I buck my hips up, while he seems unsure about the situation.

  “Make it go away with your love. Make them go away, Welch.”

  “I don’t deserve you,” he breathes.

  I laugh at the remark, because I don’t feel like I deserve him either.

  “Funny, I don’t think I deserve you either. Guess we are perfect together,” I giggle.

  He smiles at me, but there is something beneath it all. This will be a journey, a rocky painful one at that. I can’t think of living without him. My mind goes back to the thoughts I had before Connor took me, maybe life was meant to be this way. Perhaps I was destined to go through all the gore to be with him, my boy, my monster, and my savior.

  “Take me. Make me yours, Welch.”

  “Fuck it,” he yells, dipping his head between my legs.

  “Jesus fucking Christ!” I yell out as his tongue licks my sore sex.

  How delightful it feels as he tastes me like never before. His motions are quick, yet gentle as he licks my lips. I want him to be inside of me as I feel the build-up rising with each passing second. My hips move to their own rhythm. He knows my body, controls it, and I let him because it feels like heaven. His tongue flicks my sore clit and I cry out, wanting, needing, and craving more.

  “Please! Please! Please, Welch!” I plead.

  His mouth leaves me and I groan in displeasure, needing relief sooner rather than later. He slides up my body and I g
asp in surprise, seeing the bloody trail I left on his face, chest and stomach. How strange that something fucked up like that turns me on so much. I really am a monster, but I don’t try to hide my filter when I am with him. I wouldn’t be able to even if I tried.

  “Please, what?” he asks in the most wicked of ways.

  “I, I, I need you,” I stammer.

  “I have to have you!” I cry out, grinding myself against him.

  He pulls away slightly, laughing.

  “Oh, my, my… sweet girl…” he slides his finger into my slick, sore heat, “You do need me,” he groans, licking his plump lips.

  How does he do that? How can you need someone so much that you forget to breathe and blink, worried that you will miss a moment so wonderful?

  “Breathe,” he says. as he continues the enchanting motions.

  I feel dizzy, ready to fall. Fuck it. It’s time to let go. I start to feel a tightening in my belly and he frees his fingers.

  “Fuck you!” I spat.

  “Oh, sweet girl. I plan to do just that. You come when I do,” he croons.

  I clench my jaw as he situates himself between my legs and then probes my entrance. I need some sort of relief from the cravings that I am being denied. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, clawing at his back. He grunts as he enters me slowly hitting my sweet spot, making all the bad disappear. He rocks his hips back and forth in a flawless rhythm, making his way into my heart, body, and mind. I feel him floating inside of every part of me. Nothing compares to this moment as I let my fingers go away from his skin, relaxing into the mattress as I melt more and more like butter with each thrust of his hips.