by T. L Smith
The first step I took up onto the old beat-up trailer creaked loudly, under my old hole-ridden shoes. I winced at the noise hoping they wouldn’t hear me. Pacing my next step a little slower, I turned the doorknob, releasing and opening the door. It was never locked because there was nothing to steal. Hearing sounds as soon as I opened the door, I contemplated just dropping my bag and leaving. That was until I looked down at my raggedy shoes and knew I had to change them because I wouldn’t get far otherwise, the pain being too much to handle.
Taking another step inside the trailer, I was hit with the pungent smell straight away—smoke and alcohol dulled my senses. Covering my nose and mouth with my hand, I kicked off my shoes and moved some of my mother’s discarded clothes on the floor trying to find the flip flops I knew she had lying around. Not seeing them anywhere, I got on my hands and knees to look under the dirty old brown couch, hoping she’d kicked them off and left them there. I was not going anywhere near that bedroom of hers to find them.
Sliding my hand underneath, I could feel one and I silently cheered when my hand clasped on pulling the flip flops free. I stood, and the minute I did I regretted walking in and looking for them, I regretted even stepping in here knowing she had company. He was standing with a bottle of whiskey in his hand, and his eyes were roaming me up and down like I was his next meal. I’d seen him before around town, though never knew who he was, or even cared enough to notice much other than he was the father to one of the girls my age at school. His shirt was off revealing his hairy chest, and his pants were undone. I dared not look down, but I clung to those stupid flip flops like they were my lifeline.
Why must I be so stupid?
“You look so much like her,” he slurred taking a step toward me. I immediately took a step back, hoping he didn’t move too much. He was almost at the door where I needed to make my escape, and I knew he would block my way from making that escape easily. My eyes skimmed the floor and up the wall to the exit, his eyes watched me too closely. “I see what you’re thinking, little one,” he teased, stepping the way I was hoping he wouldn’t, and effectively blocked my way out.
“I was just leaving,” I said to him, hoping he’d let me go. He put the bottle to his lips and sucked hard, almost finishing the contents. Then he took another step, so he was closer to me—too close. His free hand reached up and I knew he was coming for me. My eyes searched behind him, hoping my mother would come out, but I knew she wouldn’t. She’d be passed out or drinking herself into oblivion until she was out cold and not caring that she left a man in our home with her teenage daughter.
“I think you could be so much more fun than your mother.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he stepped forward again, this time there was nowhere for me to go. He was now in my personal space and blocking my path stopping me from escaping.
I remembered closing my eyes thinking, this is the moment that my life will change. I will get on this train forcefully, afraid I’ll never get off.
Then my world came crashing down.
His hand came up.
It touched me where no other had been before. He grasped my breast and squeezed hard pinching my nipple. No one had ever touched me there. I had hardly ever seen my own body as I kept it covered.
It came out of nowhere.
The scream that ripped through me as he dropped the bottle and used both hands.
It was a scream of pain.
Scream of torture.
Screams of my lost childhood…
He pushed me up against the wall to shut me up. I was frightened and stood stock still.
I did the only thing I’d seen done on television, I lifted my leg and hoped wherever it landed would hurt. He dropped his hands and cursed so loudly that I wanted to cover my ears.
At that precise moment, I should have run, as far away as I could. Yet, I was surprised at what I’d done, and that caused me to be stuck in that moment, unable to move, giving him enough time to recover and stand up straight. The look on his face was something that would be branded into my mind for the rest of my life. His fists came down heavily onto my face, and he hit me so hard he knocked me to the floor.
After that, he left, and whenever I came home to see his car parked at the shithole I called home, I would not enter. Instead, I’d flee into the woods and sit there, no matter the weather, no matter how much my toes hurt from the cold, because I would never let anyone make me feel that way again.
Present day…
Some things have such an impact on your life that you don’t come to realize it until years later.
Some things shape you to be the person you are, the way you think you should be treated. All these things shaped me into the person I am today.
I don’t wish for anything anymore.
Let’s face it, all wishes go unanswered and unheard.
Now, I try to see people without their masks, even when I know they all wear them. They all hide, I know this. Even the most beautiful ones conceal their true identities.
My mother wasn’t all to blame, there were other factors in my life that brought me to where I am today. I wish I could blame it all on her, but she was only a fraction of the problem.
Stepping into the shower, I don’t recognize my own hands. My usually long nails are now cut short. I thought my episodes had passed, I thought I was normal.
But what is normal? I’m yet to still meet someone that is normal.
My fingers are covered in blood, my hair is matted with it. I don’t know about my clothes because all I was wearing is a hospital gown, before I stepped into the shower, one I have no recognition of putting on. This hasn’t happened to me for a while, and I’m afraid of what it means—my last clear thoughts being that I needed to grab milk after my meet-up with Marina.
Did I even get the milk?
I don’t even know.
Scrubbing my body until it’s raw and I notice no more blood circling and running down the drain, I step out, feeling sore like I’ve run a marathon. My arms are bruised and my hands are aching. It’s happened again, yet I don’t know why. I don’t want to tell Marina because I know what happens when I do. Instead, I hope like crazy it doesn’t happen again.
Walking into my room, I pull out the one box that represents my past—pictures and gifts I keep lay in the bottom of it. My moments in time.
A single picture of my mother from when I was a baby. She looks beautiful, shockingly so, and I wonder where it all went wrong for her? I wonder who my father is? She never gave me answers to that question. My mother told me I wasn’t entitled to them, let alone any of her time. As I glance over the photograph, I notice her hair matches mine—dark and slightly curly. Our eyes, though, they don’t match. Hers are always hollow and lonely, mine are filled with—one day, perhaps, there will be a chance of hope, normalcy.
I do take one thing from her, though.
The sex.
Chapter 2
Remember that one thing I can’t tell Marina what I did? Well, that one thing… that is my weakness. Sex.
Days after my episode… well, I think it was an episode. It must have been because I don’t remember where the blood came from, or how I even got home. I end up in a man’s house, with one wicked stranger on my mind, yet have the hands of another man on me. See sex, no matter how much I know I should avoid it, not want it, it’s impossible for me to say no.
Looking down, his hands are rough and calloused as he skims my naked body. I sit up on one elbow as I watch him pull his pants down and throw his shirt from over his head. His hair is red, I’ve never been with a redhead. I hope he is satisfactory. It’s daylight outside so I can see every inch of him when he stands in front of me, naked. He wants me to say something, an approval perhaps? I ignore him and lay back down, wrapping my legs around his back to pull him to my naked body as I lay on his bed.
He was easy to bed. Hell, he even asked for it.
I can’t say no. I have that insane urge that I can’t kick. And when I see h
im standing in front of me, clean and a good body… how can I say no?
I don’t know him.
Crap! I don’t even know his name.
I only want one thing, and I’m about to get it from him without even saying a damn word.
His body drops to mine and his calloused hand reaches between us, to my clit, and he plays with it, warming me up. He doesn’t need to do that though. I was already warmed up and ready to go the moment we walked out of the restaurant at lunch time. I was sitting there waiting for my coffee when he walked up.
I bet you he didn’t expect me to ask him to take me to his home?
By the look on his face, he didn’t expect me to want to sleep with him either, or even go through with it without even asking his name first.
Shit! What was it again? Bob? Robert?
I shake my head and run my nails down his back and arch up, I need more. I’ve missed the male body. I promise myself all the time I won’t do this, but I always cave within three months of being sober.
What can I say? I love sex, sex loves me.
Even if you knew me, you wouldn’t think that of me.
But this? This isn’t me. This is the demon me who craves what she knows she isn’t allowed to have. Yes. But she takes it anyway.
“Gosh, you’re beautiful.” His eyes drop down between us as he removes his hand and gets ready to insert his wrapped-up cock into me. No way I’d let him do this without a condom on. I may be horny, but I’m not stupid. Before I can protest his lips brush my breast, and up my neck. His breath blows against my lips and it’s too much, too close. He’s not allowed there. Never. I turn my head and pull him close to nuzzle my neck instead. Kissing, is one thing I have separated from sex. It’s too intimate and holds too much meaning. I haven’t kissed a man for many years, and I don’t intend to either.
He pushes inside of me, I feel him, and instantly wish he was bigger so he’d hit that magical spot. I push him to turn him over so I can be on top. His smiling face lets me believe he’s way too happy about this. I don’t touch him as I start moving, my hands go to my dark hair and pull, as I rock back and forth with the sun shining in on my breasts.
He says something, but I completely block him out, not wanting to hear a word from his mouth. He tries again, and his voice starts to crack through my high as I ride him. I shake my head letting go of my hair as I look at him, his mouth opens and I place my finger in there, hoping to shut him up from whatever it is about to leave his mouth.
He gets the hint and sucks instead.
Thank God, because I don’t want to hear him. I know the moment the high leaves me and I reach my destination, my life and who I am will hit me full force. Therefore, I don’t want to hear a word he has to say. He will just make it come faster, my world, which I can escape from in this moment.
My head drops backward, my finger leaves his mouth, and I try to catch my breath. Our breathing is fast as we come down.
“Who are you?” he asks me.
I lift myself up and move away from him.
Now that the high is gone, I’m left in a room with a man whose name I don’t know, yet again.
Why do I do this?
This isn’t me?
Why can’t I stop?
I grab my clothes, dressing as fast as I can to leave. His voice is raspy as he tries to speak to me again, but I shake my head in an attempt to dispel it all.
Why won’t he shut up?
I don’t want the reminder that I’m in the house of a man who I don’t know that I’ve just fucked.
Shut up. Shut up, I chant in my head.
My shirt and pants are on before I know it. I hear his footsteps coming up from behind me, and I know he’s about to touch me, to ask me whatever it is he was saying.
I don’t care. I really, really, don’t care.
Grabbing the shiny doorknob of his apartment as his words threaten to break through, I turn the handle and walk as fast as I can out through the door. This is always the worse part for me, the aftermath of it all. It likes to play on repeat in my head as I make my way into my small house, tormenting me as I go.
Going straight to the shower I stand under it fully clothed letting the hot water scald me, as I start by removing each piece of clothing one at a time, wondering how long my depression is going to last after this one. The longest was a month before I was stupid enough to go back to it again and it all came back. It always comes back.
Grabbing the loofah, I start by scrubbing my skin so hard that it goes red and the pink raises to the point of almost blood. It’s become a ritual to feel somewhat normal after I fuck someone, but it never does the trick, it just leaves me in pain.
Everything runs rampant in my brain after I finish a shower and lay my body down.
Was it my mother?
Was it my first boyfriend?
I think they all played a major part in building the person I am today. I just can’t work out how exactly I’ve gotten to this point in my life. This crappy point, where I’m still the same messed up girl I was all those years ago.
Don’t you grow and learn?
Isn’t age meant to help you with that?
I feel like I’m in a never-ending spin with the devil, and every time I try to pull away, he pulls me back in and stakes his claim on me to do his bidding.
Well, fuck you, Devil, and the horse you rode in on.
Chapter 3
My hands clasp the steering wheel as I sit in my old beat-up car out front of where I work as a bartender. I didn’t want to go in today. Instead, I wanted to stay home in my bed and binge on ridiculous television watching Law and Order, or some other shit on television, to forget about what I did.
Yet, here I am watching everyone as they walk in and out of the establishment where I work. People are hugging each other, touching each other in inappropriate ways right where everyone can see, yet they don’t care a bit about it. Hands, lips, bodies all over one another. Then there are the observers that want what their friend has, and would watch and wait for their chance. I’ve seen plenty of them.
I often wonder why you would have friends when you can’t trust them.
I don’t trust anyone.
This is why, on a Saturday night at twenty-three years old, I was home binge-watching television until my boss called for me to come in and cover for Serena, whose son is home sick. I like Serena, she’s loud and beautiful, but too much for me. Of course, I didn’t say no to him. I said yes because that’s my problem, I’m a yes girl when I should be a no girl.
Von is standing at the door keeping his hands to himself though silently observing. He also knows what’s to come—once a girl tries to make a move on a friend’s man—he’s seen it all too often. Every weekend it happens, men fight over their girlfriends, woman fight over someone who is just staring at their boyfriends. They fight over anything and everything when there’s no reason to. Alcohol does stupid things to some people, things those people wouldn’t do when they’re sober. This is why I don’t drink. I have actually never consumed alcohol and I never intend to.
I take a deep breath and run my hands down my perfectly ironed button-up shirt as I prepare to open the door and walk past these people. Men always catcall, some even attempt to grab at me. I wouldn’t even get out of my car if I hadn’t seen Von standing there. I feel safe outside, always safe.
My hands sweat on the car door handle. When I pull it open, the door screeches loudly. Instantly I think, I either need to fix it or buy myself a new car. I will probably do neither until it dies. It will last me, I keep telling myself.
Von spots me straight away as my heels click on the black pavement while walking up to the door. The music becomes louder the closer I get. Von nods his head to me and opens the door. When I step inside, I notice a couple locking lips as her friend watches and stares too hard. I want to be that kind of girl, to tell her to stop looking at what isn’t hers, to go and do something about it if that’s what she wants.
I do nothin
g but avert my gaze as I keep on walking past her and into the bar. A live band is playing. The lighting isn’t dark which I like because I hate not being able to see. I hate the dark. I’m sure that fear stems from my childhood, from my mother never paying electricity bills.
Two bartenders are behind the bar and two girls work the floor. I make my way past the table of men with loud voices, and manage to slip behind the bar without anyone noticing me. I was a floor girl, but I sucked at interacting and working for tips, so I asked to be a bartender instead. I like the flow and the fastness of it, and I don’t have to interact as much as the girls do.
Only two girls work behind the bar, myself and Serena—who’s off tonight—plus, two male bartenders. They don’t do idle chit-chat, and for that I’m thankful.
My hands start working straight away cleaning and preparing drink orders that the girls request. I try to busy myself so I don’t look out and size up who my next lay will be. I try very hard to avoid that because the low that follows leaves me in my house regretting everything I’ve just done.
“Milanka, we need you on the floor,” Von tells me as he walks up to the bar in my area.
I go to shake my head to tell him, no, but he hits me with a stare saying, ‘Don’t argue with me.’ Von is the owner’s brother, and when the boss isn’t here Von tells us where we need to be. Von knows I hate it. It was him who got me a position behind the bar in the first place. So, I don’t argue because he obviously needs me if he’s asking me and not someone else.
I give him a curt nod and grab the pen and pad he’s holding out. My hand takes it carefully trying not to touch him, and I place the pen in my hair. Then I start wiping the bar hoping to delay the inevitable for a fraction longer. Upon hearing his impatient cough, I see him watching, waiting for me to move. So, I sigh and walk around and out onto the floor.
I observe the tables straight away that he wants me to wait on. My hands run down my apron as I walk closer to them. Sitting at one of the tables are two couples, both leaning into each other and smiling as if they don’t have a care in the world. Do they know the real world? I offer them a smile as I ask them what they need, and they rattle off their drink orders. I smile again then head off back to the bar, slipping behind it to prepare them.