My fingers twitch. Her hair is tousled so alluringly that I almost reach out to her. Still, the spark in her eyes as she flinches back angers me. She is mine to own. Worthless without her beauty, she clings to it. Even as I spread my fingers, ready to discipline her should the need arise, her hands slip up to cup her cheeks, to cover her pretty little eyes from my gaze.
It's thick, colouring my vision in monochromatic rust; the blood behind my eyes. Looking down on her I can hardly breathe for the tension in my chest. Her delicate hands still cover her face but I feel as though she has claws, and they dig into my bones. Her chest heaves with pent-up tears and her eyes remain dry.
My eyes roam down her frame. She is a whore, her dress ripped and jagged above her knees, underwear peeking though her spread legs. She has fallen; I have pulled her, her knees striking the wooden boards with a resounding slap. Cowering there she defies me, refusing to look me in the eyes, as is my right. My hand reaches out, gripping the dark copper of her hair, yanking it forward. It takes an age for her to come to me, neck straining, fingernails grasping.
Had she not defied me, had she just done what she had been told, she would not have this problem. It is her fault. She is a whore who needs discipline. I am her master, and she will learn to bow to the superiority before her.
Even as I think of her split lip, the rusty shards of blood floating to coat my feet, I feel my anger surge. The whore has lain with dozens of men. Brothers of mine, in flesh and spirit, have tasted what she offered so sweetly. Maybe it was the sickly tinge of her rouged cheek, barely covering the bruise, or the clumsy attempt to tidy herself up as she left my elder brother's room. Whatever it was, I was drawn in. She offered herself to me in clear understanding. Green eyes locked with mine, staring at me with coy lust. Even then she was a whore.
The world is a haze, my vision fading between oblivion and some ethereal, frost covered glass, and all I can see is her.
She seems so pretty as I stretched her further, yanking her wrists above her head until I hear the pop of her joints. I am not prepared, not completely. I slip back a little; it is surprising how easily that pointy little nose could crinkle and break. I feel astounded, how unaware I used to be, she is so beautiful now. Her body twists and curls as I demand, arching as I pull harder and longer. I can see that there is a pleasure on her face, even as her eyelids tighten and her lips lose colour, she enjoys our time together. She tries to hide it. Her skin reddens and her eyes spill tears, but as my hot breath settles against her neck, I feel her tighten and shiver. Her mouth widens, and I see her eyes roll as she whimpers for me. The sharp sting of her teeth distracts me from her eyes and I know I growl as her eyes widen in fear. My hand grasps her chin, and I see my fingers digging in against her petite jaw, even as I drag my hand away again and raise it in front of her eyes.
I know she understands. My hand slices down against her cheek, and her head thuds against the floor. Her eyes are hidden by hair, sticky and clumped in knots; I see her lips move in faint whispers but can’t hear her. She knows I do this for her. So she can be the best she can be.
I enjoy watching her learn, how utterly satisfying this is; to be able to completely discipline her when she did wrong. To see her writhe on the floorboards, flecked with her own fluids – blood, sweat, tears, my darling is so cliché - fills me with a sense of control I have yet to chronicle in my life. Yes... yes, she is indeed my little whore, and how I do love her. It is an epiphany I feel, this is the love that neither of us can escape. We are to be, fated. I know she will learn now.
My fingers slide out, shaky with reality, as I make to help her up. She flinches.
Blood gels against the wall as she slides slowly down. Lidded eyes stare out at me, accusing and hateful, even in their drugged state. I can hardly feel; limbs heavy without nerves. My fingers itch to touch her again, I see them clench against my palm, drawing small sickles of red skin. Her mouth is open; I see her tongue touching the inside of the corner of her lips. Slick and fine, blood drips slowly from that gaping frown, sticking to her chin.
The slow throb at my chest makes me look down. Three long marks adorn my skin. Clotting with thick blood, the marks seem to expand and swell with rich padding.
Sighing, I look down at her, hard eyes staring at me with undisguised malice. I can see her legs, twisted at angles that shouldn't exist. Her arm is bent and her blood spills on the old floor, staining the boards thick red. Yet she still defies me. It seems she will never learn to bow.
***
It is so cold.
His hands leave warm imprints against my skin whenever he touches me. Marking my body with his fingerprint, making me his to own, again and again. The warmth is fleeting, so each time he hits me, each time he caresses me, it stings with heat.
I know that I will cry and wail when he hits me, but that makes him so mad that he hits me again, so I will try not to. It frightens me that I think of the next time and it isn’t an “if” but a “when.” I don’t understand why I am being punished. I don’t understand why he calls me a whore and slaps me so hard that I can’t feel my teeth – or perhaps I can feel my teeth and that’s why my jaw pains me so. My mind wanders now, and I’m not sure of the time or how long I’ve been here, how long he had been hitting me or how long I have until he starts again.
I can’t remember if there are windows in the room, I know that I had noticed when we first entered. I was giggling, and he kept his arm wrapped around my waist, whispering how much he loved me against my ear. His breath was cold and I shivered, looking to see if there was a window I should close. I know that I wasn’t prepared, not for the first slap. I can’t remember. Not what I was doing, or why, or how it felt, now.
Everything becomes a blur when my head whips to the side, he slaps me often now. They are soft though; the slaps. His hands are soft too, with drying blood, and gentle as he cradles my head against his knee. I can feel the fear in my chest, thudding up against my ribcage, like my heart is trying to tell him I won’t give up. I swallow as carefully as I can, feeling my throat scream in protest, I squeak as the pulse in my neck speeds up. I know my blood rushes about my body, trying to reach all my limbs at once, to heal me quickly. My mind is tired, though, and I want to give up, even if my body doesn’t.
I don’t know what I want anymore, he is just so kind now, and it is almost as if this is a dream. I want to wake up and realise that he sleeps beside me, curled with his arm about my waist, nose in my hair. The pain is the only reminder.
His hand strokes along my hair as I begin to cry against the bleached fabric of his jeans, and he does not hit me for ruining his clothes. I can hardly breathe, red mucus spurts from my nose as I cough, and pink saliva drips down against the floor. I think the boards used to be brown. A mottled, old brown, that said that the house was old and creaky. Dusty with age, so that my hand prints smear in red-brown dirt, and I cough out the blood. He uses that word a lot; love. He tells me that, over and over again. I love you. I think he wants me to respond. I can’t. When I open my mouth, a low keening noise shudders out, and I have to click my teeth together to stop from vomiting.
I know that the jiggle of his knee is him getting angry again, so I keep my eyes low, and try not to move. His fingers tangle in my hair, yanking back so my eyes stare into his own. They’re full of emotion, those eyes. Before this, I didn’t believe that people had emotions in their eyes. It was silly, to think these big, intangible, things could end up inside such small vessels. Now I watch his eyes, and I see it all there. He loves me, and he hates me, and he’s so very confused that he’s not sure which he’s acting on. I hope I’m wrong. I hope that he will stand up, and help me up, and we will leave and not come back to this dark place.
There are no windows. I can see that now, even though my sight blurs at the edges. No light filters in through boarded up spaces, and I can’t see the door. I don’t remember how we came in. I am beginning to panic again, my heart is fighting its own race, and I bite my lip, even though it hurts so much. He is no longer whispering, but staring at my eyes, seeing through me again.
He says he had to teach me, because I was a whore. He repeats this too; whore. He punishes me because he loves me. The present tense he uses fills me with fear again. He has not finished. I wonder if he will let me go a while, before the next lesson. I pray.
***
There is blood on my hands. No matter how hard I wash it stays there, staining my hands forever. I can see it coating my fingers, drying under my fingernails and spotting my limbs. It is everywhere. When I look into the mirror all I can see is her face. Staring at me, willing to be set free, to let her out of the prison I left her in. Chained in my mind, she cannot move, only torment me silently; my ears fill with her screams, her eyes are glaring out at me from her figure in every surface.
She lies rotting under the floorboards of that forgotten home. Missing, disappeared, assumed alive and living it up in some unknown city of night - like she had always threatened. My hands refuse to stay clean. My mind refuses to sleep. I can hardly get up in the morning, and fall into restless nightmares at night. Anything more strains my conscious thoughts.
Slipping out the door one night, running into my brother in the corridor, I catch a glimpse of her. My beautiful little whore; alive and well, as I know she has always been. She has tricked me, and run back to my brother for protection. She can change her appearance all she likes, but I know it is her. Our eyes make contact, breaking off moments later than they should. This time, I smile and retreat back to my room; this time she will learn to bow.
Still good though.
Have a look through, though, and you might see something.
Gender:
Points: 240
Reviews: 896