Chapter Thirty-Five - Promotions
“Who are you looking for?” Carla asked the leader.
“I felt something inside the bakery and then it was gone.” The leader answered.
“What he you feel?” Carla followed up.
“Another person who could use magic.” The leader explained, “When you are as powerful as I am, you can sense when someone else in the area can also use magic. If there is someone else here that can use magic, that might be a problem.”
“People are happier now. Life is better. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to ruin that.” Carla thinks out loud.
“Some people just aren’t happy, no matter what life is like.” The leader follows up.
“Are you happy?” Carla asks the leader.
“No. No one who leads is happy.” The leader explains.
“Why not?” Carla continues.
“Because you always have to keep an eye over your shoulder.” The leader answers.
“Maybe this person who can use magic just wants to be left alone.” Carla suggests.
“That might be true, but I have to know for sure.” The leader says.
Carla felt sorry for the leader. He had all this power, but he wasn’t happy. He could do anything he wanted and yet, he is fighting this war, trying to save everyone. Carla and the leader continue their tour. Carla is impressed with how different everything is. Everyone does seem to be happier.
“I want to help,” Carla offers, “What can I do?”
“I’ll tell you what, you can lead the staff that maintains the castle. If you prove you can handle that, I’ll give you something more challenging.” The leader offers.
Carla wasn’t sure what to say. She knew the entire staff that maintains the castle because she was part of that staff. The others are likely to resent her getting a promotion over them. Furthermore, the person who oversees the staff now probably isn’t going to like being replaced.
“What is the person that does that job now going to do?” Carla asks.
“We’ll find something for them to do. You don’t have to worry about that.” The leader assured.
When Carla returned to the Castle. The person in charge of the staff gathered everyone together. He explained that he had just been given a promotion that was effective immediately and introduced Carla as his replacement. Carla then got up to address the staff, but she wasn’t sure what to say.
“Thank you. I am honored to accept this responsibility. I know that you will do continue to do an amazing job. Back to work everyone.” Carla announced.
“To the point, I like that.” The leader approved, “I am aware that these people are going to try and stab you in the back. Handle it the right way, and you will have a bright future.”
“How do you know?” Carla asked.
“Because I know people.” The leader answered. Carla knew the leader was right. She was one of them and not all of them liked her. She needed to weed those people out fast.
“I won’t let you down.” Carla promised.
“I know” the leader agreed. After saying that, the leader left Carla to take care of other matters. Carla was left alone with her thoughts. Maybe she was wrong? Maybe she could fulfill her ambitions here in the past. The leader of the entire empire noticed her. She is being given a chance to show everyone what she can do.
Once Carla assumed control, little things started to happen just as the leader predicted. By themselves they were no big deal but accumulated, they added up. It didn’t help that the staff was uncooperative in identifying the ones responsible. It took Carla weeks, but she finally figured out who the culprit was. Once she did, she assembled the staff.
Once the staff was assembled, she called out the offending staff member and informed her that she was being transferred. Once the offending staff member was gone, Carla started giving little rewards in recognition for well-done jobs. Over time the staff started to like Carla being in charge.
One day Carla got a visit from the second in command.
“We have not been able to locate the princess yet.” The man informed Carla, “We are certain she is still here somewhere and that she has disguised herself. She may even have had help. Once we capture her, we are going to send her to the other side of the empire where no one knows who she is. We will give her something to do, and she will be able to lead a normal life there. We think you can help us find her. You have done an outstanding job. Find the princess and your future will be secure.”
“How do you know I can find her?” Carla asked.
“Because we now know that she was the other girl that was with you when we found you the night, we liberated the people here. The leader would like to speak with her.” The man explained.
Carla wasn’t sure the man was telling the truth about what would be done when Gina was found. However, she couldn’t deny that they are being treated more than fairly and that everyone was generally happier now that these people had come. Maybe Gina would be better off on the other side of the empire, leading a normal life.
“Okay, I will do what I can to help find the princess.” Carla promised.
The Glass Cage
The room was dark. Barely visible out of where I sit, alone in the middle of a room I can't tell if there's an end to its vast darkness, no matter how hard I squinted or tilted my head to make out shadows and imaginative images. Like birds outside a bedroom window, or tooth fairy money beneath a sleeping childs head. Perhaps, even salt on lips from chips, or a teenagers first shot of liquor followed by disgustingly sweet candy in the form of water. I was like a shrouded veil of death all around me. Thick, suffocating. It had been succumbing me to nothing but the uncomfortable ticking of my internal clock for years. And all I could do was listen to its hand-grenade rythym, in silent plea it would not burst from my slightest movement.
I wasn't a formidable child. Not one that was especially gifted in arts, science, or music. I was god awful at anything academic. But I enjoyed the fine arts, anyway. Sound engineering, when able to in senior years, band. I loved English class but I wasn't good with words. I got C's because where I live, that's the lowest grade possible. I could not fail, though it always felt as if I would.
And I lived all those years; my school-age, working age, innocence and rebellion and subsequent illness I fostered just to end up in a cage of someone else's creation. No blanket, or pillow. Nothing to relieve myself in, or to hide away beneath, besides the thin cloth you would find on someone in hospital. It was itchy; stained with sweat and regret. Regret, I allowed my morbid fixation to set on a woman who seemed ever charismatic, with teeth charming as a flank of knives and eyes like those of a shark. Iris' polluted with passive ghosts of loves long, long gone. Ones who probably faced the same captivity I do.
My captor is sickengingly sweet in appearance. But as soon as they step down into the shroud of screaming and thrashing, they become violence. Silent sedation. Something disgusting yet elegant enough to appear as a born again virgin.
Ive been called a lot of things. A liar, an abuser, a manipulator. Terrible. Disgusting. And far, far worse I cannot utter in fear of what would become of me. But my captor's tongue is soft in its lashings-- promising if I don't talk, I will be good. Good, good good. How do I be good?
I went through a lot. Although, no one seemed to care.
Perhaps if they had bared witness to the words thrown at me, they would hurt for me. Or perhaps it would start creating horns and a tail and fangs on my frame. I am not quite sure. But I never run out of time to think. Although, it is certainly warbled in its comprehension.
The first time I thought I was loved, it was a morbid fixation. Someones sick obsession to fix me. As though I was broken. I was not. I was just terrified. Hurt. And she took that, and ran.
She had been my best friend. Brunette with streaks of red in her hair, brilliant blue eyes and a love of equestrian animals. But she changed. Perhaps it was who she had always been, anyway. If I think hard enough, I get flashes like a heat stroke of me eating a sweaty cheese sandwich my mother had packed hastily- caring for three children with a full time job- and this pyro in flesh had thrown books at me. Those hardcover science books that would creak like the bones of a undisturbed body if I attempted to open one. My neck would snap to the right, as tens of people watched on, unsure as to what to do. I loved her despite.
She broke her knee later in the month, an equestrian she had raised who had bucked up against her. I held the door open to the bathroom. She told me to go fuck myself. Not in jester. Her words were thick with venom. I cowered against the door, as I stood dutifully as she did what she needed. Later, she would press a kiss to my forehead and tell me I am so good to her.I loved her because.
She shoved me against the lockers after class. I had tears on my cheeks and she laughed. I was bruised, and she was amused.
I tried to kill myself. She got a restraining order and I was nearly sent to a school for the criminally insane. Her mother was a lawyer on the school board. My elementary salaried mother could not do anything. I was stuck.
I then fell for a shadow of a nobody. A girl who lived in squalor. I loved her despite her broken down home. The child who was only 3 in a diaper and nothing else wondering the street as my father picked me up.
I missed New Years- the last my entire family would spend together to be with her. I claimed her as my own flesh and blood-- I cleaned up the mess the 3 year old made in the bathroom when she was busy cleaning up the mess her drunkered of a mother was preoccupied with.
Two months later, she raped me. Ate McDonalds as I sobbed in her shit-stained wall bathroom, trying to clear the blood.
I fell in love with the girl I took to my high school graduation event. She liked frozen, organic blueberries. They had to be organic. because they were small and sour. She cheated on me with my best friend for months, then him with me although I did not realize. He knew. He said I shouldn't be angry at him. But I was. he asked me for beers. I poured it down the front of his trousers and then skulled a bitters.
I had several flings. Another girl- rich and two years younger. A lovely family and many things I could only hope to own, like a VR set with a game of the open deep sea. She was the deep sea. A girl that cheated and attempted to harm herself due to me leaving. It was sick.
Then a girl with dark hair, dark liner and a foot taller than me. She was never kind. But I was drawn. In the span of three months, she cheated on me twice, and assaulted a minor. She claimed the minor assaulted her, so she changed her name and fled the town. Disgusting, woman.
But I met her best friend. The love of my life, I think. She asked me to finish a beer she stole from her father. It was completely full, an hour into the party. She hated beer. She didn't look at me except when eating chicken nuggets- so my best friend said. This girl looked at me like I hung the sun.
I kissed her on a windy rooftop beneath the moon and coddled by stars.
That loving girl who hated beer began to hate me, and threw things. Punched things near me. She claimed I cheated when I was assaulted, again, because I was a body with a heart on the outside of my chest cavity.
I found rebounds. Then met a woman I truly was infatuated with. She was gorgeous, a makeup artist with a confident personality. So confident, she strung me along for months, and on my birthday my father paid for our hotel stay and dinner. That dinner, she told me how she had sex with all of her friends and did not understand why I would be upset. It wasn't her sexual experience, rather the fact it was my birthday she chose to tell tales of scorned lovers and steamed car windows.
Several hours later, she asked me to be hers.
I didn't realize she raped me the first time we met until the month we broke up.
I met a friend. She told everyone I lied about every disease I ever had. Health problems, mental health, familial abuse.I cried.. She did not care. I remained her friend for months. And she introduced me to two other friends.
I was raped twice at one of my new friends homes. She did not care. She wanted attention and to hangout. Did not care I was assaulted.
The girl I cared for for so long, who hurt me neverendingly, left me day after I was assaulted. She said I cheated. She wanted to get back together a few days later, but my grandma had died In that time. First death in my life. I told her i couldn't. She cried and told me I was awful.
I told her I was ready two weeks later. She had already slept and started falling for someone new. I saw it on her lockscreen as we remained friends. I cried, panicked as she was in the shower. Another love, starlit girl, told me to leave. I couldn't. I still loved this awful woman.
I had a new friend. Or old. I knew her since high school. Defended her as people made fun of her although I did not know her. Invited her into my life. Introduced her to my girlfriend. She chose that girl despite my trauma.
And so she began to suicide-threatening me. On, and on. For days and hours. Called me endlessly. Made fake accounts to contact me if i didn't respond. When I blocked her, she messaged me from a texting app to bypass the block. I felt deeply sick. I didn't have time to file a police report. She had said i threatened her life.
Murders of murders, living in fear. Perhaps I deserved this. But i never threatened her. i was stuck. Lost. My first love has returned.
The shadows gave way. Deep blue walls-- they are there--, empty liquor cans on an oak tablestand my brother had built me. I could nearly hear a sonneta being played on a piano nearby. I was drunk. So late, or so early. Nothing, or nothing at all, became my life.
I had not been kidnapped by a person. Only, ever, my own mind. Forever just that.
I pushed my worn down notebook away-- illegible even to me, as if i wrote it with a backward hand to be proofread by eyes not my own
My body felt raw, skinned. I just want to be human. But i live within my own imprisonment of ghostly remnants, replaying and replaying ever endly.
"juliette? Time for lunch!' My dear, overworked mother yelled from upsitars.
And came the infinite near. Twilight. Finally, the night and day remembered i existed.
The Pencil
“Hey, can I borrow a pencil?”
I’m sitting in my 10th-grade Chemistry class when I speak those fated words. We’re about to take a test, one of those scantron things that have to be filled out in No. 2 pencil only, and I can’t find my pencil anywhere. I lean over to the kid sitting next to me. Tom Peli-something. He’s a bit weird, and I’ve never really spoken to him much before, but I’m desperate, and this kid’s always prepared.
“Sure.” Tom pulls another pencil out of his backpack. Before he hands it to me, he holds it up between us. “Just so you know, it’s haunted.”
“What?” Did I just hear what I think I heard? I knew the kid was weird, but what the hell?
Mrs. Conway’s sharp voice pulls me out of my thoughts. “Put everything away except for your pencils and erasers. I will not pass out the test until everything is away and the room is quiet. And you will need the entire class period for this test.”
After a few more whispers and shuffles of books and other materials, the class grows quiet. Tom is still holding the pencil between us.
“Whatever, I’ll take it,” I say, grabbing the pencil out of his hand.
Tom just shrugs. “Okay. I warned you.”
Mrs. Conway hands out the test, and I get to work filling in the little bubbles for what I hope are the right answers.
C. Hydrochloric Acid
A. Carbon Dioxide
B. 18 Electrons
C. Hydro—
“Of all the things you could do with a pencil, and you’re just filling in those little bubbles?”
I look up at the sound of the small voice. It sounds like the speaker is right in front of me, but there’s no one there. I look around, but no one else seems to have heard the voice. Confused, I return to reading the next question.
If a sample of matter is uniform throughout and cannot be separated into other substances by physical means—
“I’m not complaining, really. It’s just that there are so many other things you could use me for.”
Again, I look up, but there’s no one there. I glance over at Tom, but he is focusing on his test. I scan the room, looking for any sign that someone else heard the voice, but all of my classmates have their eyes on their test.
“Do you need something, Mr. Speero?” Mrs. Conway is at her desk, glaring a warning at me over her glasses.
“No, Mrs. Conway,” I answer quickly and try to get back to my test.
But when I pick up my pencil to fill in the next bubble, I notice something on the eraser. Something sitting on the eraser.
“I mean, you could doodle, or even sketch a masterpiece!” the thing says. “You could write a story or a letter. Even an essay would be better than this!”
I gasp and drop the pencil on my desk, drawing the attention of several of my classmates and my teacher.
“Mr. Speero! Is there a problem?”
“Um, can I go to the bathroom?”
Mrs. Conway looks at me sternly and then rolls her eyes. “Fine. But don’t dawdle, or I might suspect you are up to something.”
I just nod at her, stealthily grab the pencil, stuff it in my pocket, and walk out of the room. Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see Tom smirking at me as I leave.
When I make it to the bathroom, I pull the pencil out of my pocket and stare at it. It looks like an ordinary pencil – yellow except for the black lettering spelling out the brand name and a number 2, with a dull, lead point on one end and a pink eraser held in place by its metal holder.
Suddenly, the eraser begins to morph. Two little arms stick out and grab the edge of the eraser, and soon a head appears. The little thing pulls itself all the way out as if he were pulling himself out of a hole. When his entire body emerges, he sits down on the edge of the eraser and looks at me thoughtfully.
I stare back at him in fascination. He looks like a fully grown man, but he can’t be more than half an inch tall, and he’s entirely white, though slightly transparent. He’s wearing an equally white, equally transparent outfit consisting of khakis, a collared shirt, and a sweater vest, and on his nose sits a pair of wire-framed glasses.
“What are you?”
The little man shrugged. “Ghost, ghoul, poltergeist. Call me whatever you like; I’m not picky.”
“Tom was telling the truth?”
“He usually does. One of the reasons most people think he’s kind of weird.”
“So, do you, like, belong to him?”
The ghost looks indignant. “I don’t belong to anyone! Tom just happens to be the current keeper of the pencil that I haunt. Or, at least he was. Now, that honor has been passed to you!”
“What? Because I borrowed the pencil?”
“Yes!” the little ghost says excitedly. “And now you get the benefit of my great wisdom!”
“Look, I just needed a pencil to take this stupid Chem test.” Then an idea hit me. “Wait, the benefit of your wisdom? Does that mean you can help me on my test?”
He sighs. “I suppose I can. But I wouldn’t be much help. The sciences are all well and good, but they don’t hold the pure passion and depth of literature or art. If you really want to put me to work, set me loose on an analysis of Shakespeare or a short story about the futile pursuit of love. I was a writer, painter, and professor of art and literature in a past life, you see.”
“Of course you were,” I mutter. “Look, I gotta get back to finish the test or Mrs. Conway will fail me for suspected cheating. Sorry, but I don’t have any use for a haunted pencil. Tom can have you back.”
“Wait!” the little man shouts at me as I exit the bathroom. “I can make myself useful! I can! I’m intelligent and ambitious. Together, we can really go places!”
“Not interested.”
“Please, don’t give me back to that idiotic boy!” the ghost begs. “I cannot stand that imbecile!”
Getting tired of the little ghost’s whining, I shove the pencil into the pocket of my jeans, but that doesn’t shut him up. His muffled voice stays with me all the way down the hall from the bathroom to my chemistry class.
“You don’t know what it’s like! He’s had my pencil for four years, and I don’t think I can take it a day longer. Please! Don’t give it back to him!”
His pleas are starting to wear on me, and I consider giving in and just keeping the pencil for the sake of the little whiny ghost professor, but when I enter my classroom, I come face to face with Mrs. Conway.
“Are you ready to take your test now, Mr. Speero?”
“Um, actually, I need a pencil.” Her raised eyebrow tells me that she doesn’t quite believe me, but she still leads me to her desk, pulls a sharpened pencil from her drawer, and hands it to me.
“Anything else?”
“No, Mrs. Conway. Thank you.”
I walk silently to my desk as Mrs. Conway sits down at hers. The little professor is still yammering away in my pocket, making my next decision easier. I pull the haunted pencil from my pocket and hold it out to Tom.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I whisper.
Tom looks up from his desk and glances at me and then the pencil. The little professor is now on his knees on top of the eraser, his hands clasped as he pleads with me. “Don’t do it! I’m begging you! I’ll do anything! I’ll—”
Tom shrugs and reaches for the pencil. The instant Tom takes the pencil from my hand, the ghost disappears, and I can no longer hear him.
Tom smiles down at the pencil. “Hello again,” he whispers to it before sliding it back into his backpack. Then, he goes back to his test without another word.
Trying to shake the memory of the tiny ghost from my mind, I do the same.
Which element below has the highest electronegativity?
Pass the Popcorn, Please
‘A movie? Tonight? Sure, sounds grand.’ I’m not feeling great, but he seems so pleased so I didn’t like to say no. I know it’s vital to be open and honest, but on this one thing, it seems inconsequential, and I have wanted to see this film on the big screen.
We jump in the car and chatter back and forth on the way there, a fencing of words, flirting and not so subtle innuendo. It has always been this way for us. Wordplay is a big part of it all and we laugh back and forth as we parry and trust with our words. The automatic doors, of course, don’t open to regale our entry as if we were minor royalty. Instead, he reaches out and opens the door for me. He does it without thinking. It’s one of the things I find endearing.
As we enter the darkness of the cinema, I always get that thrill, that little bit of excitement as if I’m entering another realm. I let him lead the way. He keeps going up, higher and higher. I arch an eyebrow. He’s a middle of the middle type of guy. I’m guessing those seats were already sold as we only go a few rows behind where we’d usually sit.
The trailers play and we munch our way happily through our popcorn, cinema sweet. As we sit in the darkness, I lightly trace my fingers along the inside of his wrist. So, light and feathery. I feel something inside me clench and respond just to the feel of his body under my fingertips. I let my fingers stray farther, as i stoke back and forth along his forearm. The things those arms can do to me. My mind starts to wander from the movie. I‘m now hungry for something other than popcorn.
He must have heard the catch in my breathe as he takes the popcorn from between us and places it on the empty seat beside him. He raises up the armrest between us and he leans towards me. My fingertips continue to explore him. Gently up his arm, up over his shoulder and tickling his neck ever so slightly. I lean forward and shower little kisses on his neck and as I go to move away, I nibble and lick at his earlobe. I take a quick glance behind us. It seems no one has clocked us. All is well. I settle back in my seat, my attention returning to the movie momentarily.
As I settle in, I place my legs across his lap and run my fingers up and down his thighs. I can feel the muscles tense underneath my touch. I’m enjoying this. After a few minutes, I decide I’ll push my luck. My fingers trail higher. It becomes immediately apparent that my light touches are having an effect. I feel his cock, hard and ready under his trousers. I take my legs down off his lap as I swallow a self satisfied chuckle and continue my ministrations. I can feel his cock jump up towards my hand, pushing and straining against his clothing. I lick my lips. So seldom do I get the jump on him. I’m savouring the moment.
I sit forward slightly, slide my hand higher and pop the button at his waistband and slide down the zip. I reach inside down inside and feel the warmth and hardness of his cock. I can’t stop myself, I grab the knob of his cock and gently tease the tip I run a fingertip just around the top. Feel his cock bob towards me. A small laugh sneaks out, as I love seeing the effect I can have on him. I can see the little drop of pre-cum sitting there, so close. I whisper loudly, ’excuse me, I’m just going to grab the popcorn.’ I reach across and as I do so, my mouth sneaks down and sucks the tip clean, running my tongue around the knob, just for good measure. I can feel the jump inside my mouth. I love the taste, the feel, the silkiness of his flesh combined with that slightly salty taste. I pull my mouth away and settle the popcorn in my lap, as my hand reaches back, pulls down the elastic band of his underwear and release him to the cool air of the theatre. I begin to slide my hand slowly down to the base of his cock and then wrap and twist my wrist on the way back up. I can’t quite get to all of him, but I suspect this should suffice. Slowly again. Tantalizing. Teasing. I loosen my grip, turn over my hand and scrape my nails across the sensitive exposed skin. I feel him sinking deeper into his seat as his legs go wider.
I peek over my shoulder at the couples that are seated in the rows around us. They don’t seem to notice, or if they do, they don’t seem bothered. It just adds to the fun. I grasp him firmly and start a slow rhythm down and up, pulling slightly, increasing my grasp, moving just that little bit faster. i can feel his legs bounce as his feet start bouncing against the floor. I speed up, moving my wrist around to get to the sensitive back of his cock. I go even faster. I can see him holding his composure, but I know he can’t be far off now. ‘Thanks for the popcorn,’ I stage whisper again, and lean across his lap. I place the popcorn in the empty seat next to him and lower my mouth. I take him in my mouth. I run my tongue all the way around and so slowly, run my mouth down the length of him until I can go no further due to the confinement of his trousers. I laugh with him inside my mouth. I hear him grind his teeth. I breathe in, increasing the suction on his cock. I lock up and down first on one side, then on the other, all the while keeping the suction strong. I let my tongue lazily wrap itself around him, then as I pull my mouth up, flick the lip between his cock and his knob. I feel fingers tangle in my hair, trying to shove me back down, but for this once, I’m in control. I push back, refusing to let him dictate the pace. This time I bob quickly, as far as I can and then back up again, fast as a shot. The fingers in my hair increase their pressure. Two more quick trips down until I languidly pull my mouth back up and torment his knob some more, licking in lazy circles all the way around all the while running my nails down and back up the shaft. I hear it then, half growl, half command, ‘slave’. I can hear his desire His want. I have done this. I can arouse him like this. The sheer happiness of that knowledge causes me to smile, inadvertently scraping his cock with my teeth. His thigh muscles tense under me. I can’t resist any longer, I slide my mouth down his cock until I can feel him, deep within my mouth and back up again. I increase the speed with each stroke of my mouth. My tongue shooting around constantly. My pace is more frenzied now. I want to taste him shoot into the back of my mouth. I want to feel his cum shoot down my throat. I try not to let my hunger become too noisy as I go faster and faster up and down his cock, loving every minute of it. The fingers clench in my hair, shove my head all the way down and I can feel his pleasure slamming into the back of my mouth and then sliding down my throat. Just what I wanted.
As he finishes, I lick off every last drop, I tuck his cock back into his underpants and zip up his trousers. I leave the button to him, they are not my strong suit. I lean towards his ear and whisper, ‘I love a good snack when I watch a movie.’ I chuckle and settle back and once again prop my legs across his.
‘So I noticed,’ he replies wryly. I return my attention to the screen and pick up the storyline again. It’s not tricky. It’s relatively straight forward. I’m feeling very pleased with myself. As his hand rests upon my knee, I smile to myself and then up at him. He arches an eyebrow and gives me that slight smirk I’ve come to know so well. He grabs the popcorn tub and hands it to me. ‘Can you hang onto that for me?’ he asks. I take it in my hand, a little puzzled, but presume he may be off to the loo to help reorganise anything that isn’t quite back to where it should be. I go to move my legs away, but he holds on tight. I tilt my head to the side in a half shrug and let my attention return to the scenes on the screen ahead of me.
Then I feel it. Slight at first, and I realise what’s happening and I fight back the urge to swear under my breath. I feel his fingers slide up the leg of my shorts. He doesn’t waste time and makes quick work of my underpants as he pushes them aside and slides his fingers straight inside of me with no warning at all. I feel my muscles clench around his fingers. They slid in so easily as I was already wet from the pleasure of sucking cock. It has always made me wet. I can feel his fingers there, just wiggly back and forth inside of me. My thighs muscles tense. Oh. This is so not going to be good. He may have the ability to come almost silently but that is not a skill I possess. Right now, it’s just teasing, but even that is starting to drive me crazy. He leans over and whispers in my ear. ‘My dear slut, your challenge is to not come before the end of the movie, unless I tell you otherwise.’ I tightly nod my head.
Why would I think he’d play fair? He left his fingers there inside of me, just teasing, taunting me, making me wetter. Just when I thought I could adjust to holding back the urge from those fingers, he slid them slowly, painfully slowly, all the way in as deep as he could go. A slight wiggle, then oh so slowly back until just the tips of his fingers were just barely inside of me. His thumb brushes across my clit. I grit my teeth and will the sensation back. Try to push the desire down. As I feel my breathing start to even out. He slams his fingers hard inside of me, once, twice, three times and then rests them again to gently stroke my inner walls. I take a deep breath in and count to ten. ‘Was that you asking for ten, slut?’ he asks quietly. My head shakes vigorously back and forth. ‘I’m sure that’s what you said,’ he chuckles and starting slowly, but increasing in speed after every number I count in my head. 1,2,3…each time faster, after number five, he pauses for a moment and adds a third finger to the two already fucking me. 8,9,10. I am so grateful I was able to hold off. I’m not sure I can again. If he does it. If he pumps me even harder, or faster will I be able to stave off the orgasm I feel building inside of me? I think it unlikely. I try to focus on the movie. Anything to pull me away from my body. I can feel my brows furrow in concentration. Trying my best to shut down my overwhelming desire to come, I drive my nails into the palms of my hands. I want to please him, but I want to come. How dang long is this movie anyways? I have zero idea where we are in the plot line. How much time has gone past. Just as I think I’m back into the world around me, he pumps his fingers a few times, just to remind me. Like I could forget? Like I could pretend I couldn’t feel him there, penetrating me? Each time, I could feel my body getting used to his fingera there, he’d move them again, my muscles tightening around him, trying to draw him in, take me hard and fast. I close my eyes. My legs start to shake. I am oblivious to the world around me. My whole being has come down to focus only on that desire, my need, my want. I can’t hold off much longer. There they are, pumping again. Will this moving never end?
Almost as if on que, the end credits start to roll, I feel sheer relief as I think I can finally come now. In a heartbeat of a second, he slides his fingers out of me, and presents them to my mouth. I feel so utterly empty now. I can feel my muscles searching for something to clamp around. I open my mouth and suck his fingers clean of every drop of me, but the scent is still there. I can smell me in the air. The realisation hits. Those people around us must be able to smell me too. I lower my head in mortification. Please don’t make eye contact. Don’t look around, just let me go without having to actually see the faces around me. My forehead is covered in a sheen of sweat, even though the cinema is air conditione. My legs twitch back and forth. I am So hungry, I want any and all holes filled. I just want to be fucked into oblivion. He puts his hand under my chin and raises my head until my eyes meet his. ‘Pass the popcorn, please,’ he smiles and grabs my hand as we walk out of the cinema.
Mom,
Sometimes I catch myself looking too closely at the lines around your eyes. The way they paint your skin. I find them beautiful, this sign of age and love and life. An art piece designed by God and life and trials and happy moments. I try to remember when your skin was smooth. I can only see it in old photographs. I wonder what I will look like after living like you. Everyone always said I looked like you. An almost perfect match. It never felt that way. You are far too perfect. Too beautiful. Too strong. Too funny. Too much of everything I want to be and everything I will never be.
I catch myself remembering when I was younger. The moments when I was so small they may have been dreams. Everything was always loud. Too much to do. Not enough time for anything. I watched you. The way you ran about the house. Watching children. Cleaning messes. Cooking dinner. Making calls. Answering the door. I watched and followed. I wanted to learn. I wanted to make it easier for you. I didn’t like the way you sighed into Dad’s arms when he came home. The way you seemed to disappear until one of us cried long enough for you to return. I tried to soothe them myself. It never worked, until it did.
They listened to me. My little brothers were soothed by the words I copied from you. I learned which books they liked best. My older brothers were tired and stressed. I learned the best way to make them laugh using your voice. I felt like you. I liked making them happy and I liked the way you smiled more often. Your wrinkles became more pronounced with bright eyes instead of tears.
I liked to be like you. I wanted to be like you. Until I didn’t. Surrounded with messes I didn’t make. Children that weren't mine. Food I couldn’t prepare. Calls I was terrified to make. Doors I refused to open. I became angry. I didn’t want to be like you. I felt like another mother. Another parent for siblings older and younger. I hated that I had your eyes. I hated that I had your voice. I hated that I shared your responsibility. But there was some light in your eyes, some of your laughter through the house. You were brighter in a natural way. You went out with Dad. You had time for friends I'd never met before. I could handle everything. I promised you. I really could.
And I did. I handled it all. I wanted to make your life easier. Juggling two jobs; one far too thankless and wageless. I could make it easier, even if it made me hate you a little more every day. I would make your job easier, but I wasn’t made to be a mother. Not yet anyway. From baby dolls and bottles to growing boys and homework in what felt like seconds. A stupid path I chose. I could feel myself crumbling into something I wasn’t. I looked too much like you, but I had a hatred that not even I could comprehend.
It wasn’t your fault. You tried. You really did. I insisted on it and you were tired. If I wanted to step up, who were you to say no? You and Dad could barely handle it on your own. I wasn’t going to let any of your efforts go to waste. I had promised myself and God. You would know you were loved and appreciated. My teacher taught me that imitation was the greatest form of flattery. You deserved more than just flattery.
I promise you it wasn’t your fault. Sometimes I still get angry at everyone, but never you. You were doing your best. I could never blame you.
And I still remember watching you, wanting to be you. I still want to be you. Maybe I’ll take a little break before becoming a mother though. I don’t think I’ll be as good as you. I’ll never have your warmth or your smile or your patience or your kindness. I think I lost it on my way here. But I have my first wrinkle. It’s next to my right eye. I saw it in a mirror. It’s more of a crinkle, but I noticed it when you said a joke. I know you said it just to make me laugh. To make me feel better. To make me feel like a kid again. To say sorry again for everything you couldn’t do for me before. You said you could never apologize enough. I told you once was enough, but I’ll take the extra laughter and the extra smiles. They remind me of yours just like the wrinkle of happiness around my eye.
I wanted to be like you too young. I still want to, but now I think I understand. You were never your responsibilities or your duties or your relationships. You were the scent of apples. You were the color green. You were your red hair. You were the upturn of your lips. You were your love of sewing. You were your many baking ventures. You were the person who loved shrimp. You were your kind words. You were your laughter, the kind so full and loud that everyone can’t help but laugh too. But most importantly you were the wrinkles forming on your skin, etching every happy moment of your life into a tapestry.
My tapestry is just beginning. My motherhood is not quite here. My wrinkles are just starting to form. I want to be like you. I want to be myself, amplifying every little gift you give me. You gave me life, sorrow, and happiness. You gave me everything I am. I only hope that I can live up to it all. But I know what you’ll say. You don’t care as long as I’m me, as long as I’m happy. I love you for that. I love you for every mistake you made, every lesson you taught me, and for every moment you made me smile.
Mom, I’ve never met anyone quite like you and I’ll never be able to thank you for everything you’ve ever done for me. Though my childhood wasn’t perfect and neither was you, you were the best mother for me. You were everything I could have asked for and more. I love you and I can’t wait to see the rest of your wrinkles.
Love,
Your Daughter
Letter 1
I was born 6lbs 4oz on November 9th.
My mother never cared for gender reveals- so I was a surprise. Welcome and warm, like a gift of pyjamas on a cold day. My grandma says she prayed id be a little girl, so perhaps it was a gift or fate, or natural biology. Who can say. I was born at exactly 4 am that Friday morning, wrinkly and wet with a birth mark on my neck the same as every blood relative on my mother's side. I joked in my late teens about the theory that birth marks were how you died in a past life, and how we all must have been stabbed. No one ever laughed, telling me off for it, but I found it funny. My father went to retrieve my big brothers from home- 7 and 4 sometime that early morning, and at the top of my childhood stairs they stood excitedly bouncing on the tips of their toes, wide eyed and waiting.
"You have a baby sister!" My father proudly said as he entered the door, knowing they'd be there waiting. My aunt beamed from behind the boys, with a boy and girl of her own. My younger-older brother grinned best he could after having his mouth frozen at the dentist, while the eldest grit his teeth and bared an awkward smile.
"That's great." He said, elongating every word like it was an inconvenience.
Bastard. I showed him, I did. He got one look at me nestled under a yellow pleated blanket, and his heart stopped and remolded to always protect. He wore a badge that said his name, followed by Big Brother beneath that he never took off as he sauntered around the hospital halls with my carrier. He refused to stop holding me- was by my side the entire time I was home, for many months.
He would not stop playing Yellow by Coldplay, and in the interim would sing Wonderful World. Both brothers were by me constantly, enticing me in games and hurriedly assuaging my wailing with their own toys. They bought me birthday gifts and would try to outdo each other by goading my attention with shiny wrapping and baby voices. I honestly preferred the decrepit doll I had in my fist instead, blank in the eyes and creepily dressed akin to a victorian child.
My mother adored me. Of course she did. I was her baby- and her baby girl. The youngest and last of my grandmothers grandchildren, her grand shields as she'd call us in our broken English. We learned Portuguese as easily as English, adoring her from the moment we woke to the moment we slept. We would shuttle our Christmas gifts to her as if they were her own, and she would warm our hearts with a bone-crushing hug and peppering of kisses. We got fed as soon as we got the all clear for solids, soup and egg yolks drenched in sugar for dipping with our full-fat bread and very quickly, the stapled family Mac and Cheese (which I have now weaselled the recipe from her to hold over my brothers heads).
My father loved me too. His little girl. Daddy's girl very quickly, bought by huge lollipops only bought from an island two hours away and sneaky nights on the porch with a bag of lays and a bottle of vinegar for the sauce. Disgusting now, but startlingly exquisite in my early years.
My younger-older brother had a magnet calendar on the fridge with every month being a new dog. One month, im unsure which, was a picture of a Springer laying on the grass. He was transfixed, insisting we got her. So my parents got him the Bible of Dogs where he could learn everything about every breed, but he never strayed from his chosen dog. The name Holly was listed beneath the picture of the dog on the calendar, and that was that. We got her on a rainy spring day. It was overcast, and we had to drive several anticipatory hours to get where we were meeting the kennel owner. I remember standing on the gravel, wide eyed as he unlocked the back of the truck and I saw my dog's whole family. A senior, with sad eyes gazing up at me from where they rested their face on their paws, two bigger puppies in one crate and a crate with a lineup of at minimum six small Spaniels. I remember feeling a pang of sadness for these poor dogs- all sequestered to the cold, dark trunk without so much as a blanket. But I was 7, and unaware of anything except the two circular dog cages being set up. The owner set a puppy in each, and my brother who had wanted the dog flocked to the left towards our Holly. Our baby. She shivered on my baby blanket in the back, my brother stroking her neck with a featherlight touch and me twisted around to stare at her in wonderment. That wonderment turned to fear, as she got older and more rambunctious and could knock me over with a twist of her head.
My childhood was one of love, light and joy. My brothers would line up outside my door to give me a payment- listerine strips most commonly- just to watch a movie in my bed with me. The other brother would stand diligently outside my door on their DS waiting their turn for the 90 minutes. My cousin, my aunts only girl, was my sister and mentor in so many ways. We spilled tears in laughter over a Farm game where the horse could talk, and awkwardly averted our gazes on the shared lounge chair during the twilight sex scene. She was the first to ever straighten my curls, and was excruciatingly patient despite how annoying I could get. My other cousin would get fed up quickly, and devolve into video games with my eldest brother while the rest of us were sequestered to watching. When my brother and cousin got their first phones, I was left out. My cousin showed me her phone though, and it made it all the better before our special New Years dinners where we would quickly get overheated in my grandma's basement suite, and on Easter we would find a ziplock of chocolate eggs and a twenty dollar bill. Never the parents though, just the grand shields, and my grandma would offer us a rare smile and twinkle in her dark eyes that promised a lifetime of adoration.
Then, I turned 13.
Twister
"Ya'll better hurry up, the storms blowing in."
The drawl whirled off her tongue as fast as the wind picked up in the sky.
Where did that come from? A dialect so distinct you would have thought we were deep in the boot of Missouri. But we weren't. We lived in Bozeman, Montana and she had never been out of the state.
Claire was 5 years old when she started to have break through speech impediments that consistently sounded like a midwestern woman in her 70's. It wasn't all the time but enough to make me worry.
"We need to see a specialist, Dan." I pleaded with my husband to make an appointment. He never got as worked up as I did about these things. I was the textbook helicopter parent. "People are going to think she is illiterate!" I screeched. He put his arm around me and laughed it off.
Ever since we adopted Claire, she was my world. As two dads who once thought having a family was just a dream, I wanted to protect the life we had built with everything I had in me. She came into our lives when she was only fourteen months old. Her biological mother was in her twenties at the time and had been trying to make it as a single mother in the slums of Billings, Montana. She eventually succumbed to her life of drugs and overdosed in the one-bedroom apartment she was being evicted from, leaving Claire to cry out into the night alone and scared. Eventually, one of the questionable neighbors who could no longer stand to hear the cries of a baby in the early hours of the morning came to beat down the door. When he found the lifeless young mother lying cold on a mattress in the middle of the room with Claire sitting next to her crying, he called 911. Officers arrived shortly and took Claire out of that scene she had been in so many times before and started the chapter to her new life.
We had been on the waiting list for 6 months before we got that phone call, and I was elated to finally start earning my new title of dad. Horrified of her back story, I swore to protect her at all costs and give her the best life I could.
"She is fine, Chris. It is her age. She is experimenting and finding new ways to communicate." He seemed annoyed that I was even bringing it up. "Remember when she came home from daycare after the first week and had a lisp?" We both smiled. "It was just a new discovery she had to try out for herself, but it went away just as fast as it came on. This will pass."
Maybe he was right. I was overreacting again. We packed up our bags at the park and headed to the car. After all, she was right a storm was moving into the area.
Once we returned home, I asked Claire what she would like for dinner. "Nothin beats fried chicken and mashed taters. I haven't had a good home cooked meal like that in years." Appalled I stopped and stared as she continued coloring at the kitchen table.
"Oh yeah? And who made you that meal?" I asked skeptically.
"Memaw used to make Sunday dinner after church each week. She taught me er'thing I know about good cookin. I s'pose that would be the last time I had a meal that good. Memaw's house." She had stopped coloring and was staring off as if lost in a deep memory of time that she vividly could see. She smiled and then returned to coloring.
I looked over at Dan who had walked in on the back end of the conversation, and he shrugged his shoulders and moved on.
"How about we order a pizza?" He said smiling and changing the conversation. He thought it was all just some sort of a game.
Dan and I stood next to each other in the kitchen, and I gave him the look that meant it was time to do something. He sighed and quietly said "It is just pretend, make-believe childhood fun." I wasn't having it. "It is getting worse." I urged.
"What are you two fairies yabbering on about in there?" Claire was now standing with her hands on her hips staring at us both.
We were stunned, frozen in time unsure of what just happened. She had never spoke like that before, and she had never been around anyone who would have taught her such phrasing.
"Claire?" I said soft and firmly.
"What daddy?" Her voice sweet and innocent as before. "Do you know what you just said?" Dan asked her, still taken back with what had just happened.
"I said what daddy." She smiled and shook her head as if he was the crazy one, and then skipped away to her room like normal.
"See! There is clearly something wrong. When are we going to do something? Are you waiting for us to walk in and find her smoking a pack of Marlboro reds while doing the daily crossword?"
Dan shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. "It just doesn't make sense."
I walked over to the table where she was coloring before and looked down at the papers. My eyes widened and my heart stopped. Dan saw the shock on my face and quickly rushed to my side. "What is it?" He demanded.
Once he was next to me, we both stared down at her artwork mortified that any of this was actually happening.
A perfectly drawn Confederate flag filled the page she had been coloring.
"YEE HAW!" Claire exclaimed loudly down the hall from her bedroom.
"Okay, it is time." Dan agreed.
Letter 3
I was diagnosed with BPD, panic disorder, major anxiety disorder, and two eating disorders by 16. I fell in love in that time, with my best friend. I wrote a book about it, if you'd like to know deep detail. Anyway, I loved her from the moment we met. A phenomenon for BPD people is having a favourite person, or FP, and she was mine. From the moment I saw her, like one of those cliche stories where you just know youre in love because the world fades away. But it isn't romantic. It is torrential and tumultuous and horrid. My very life depended on her. We absued each other in many ways, her family targeted me and tried to have me shipped off to a school for the criminally insane and I was under the scope of too many adults who'd come to my home bearing gifts of letters written by their daughters blaming me for everything wrong with them. That destroyed me. My mother eventually took to burning them. We didn't have the money to sue. We didn't have the power or resources they did. So I attempted suicide in the change rooms.
After the abuse and before the perception. Pills in my body, writhing on the bench. I don't remember anything past ambulances and stomaching pumping and charcoal down my nose. I don't remember much of any of that time because I quickly turned to drugs. Cutting with refined blades. Destroying myself how everyone else ever has.
I was eventually forced, with stipulation of returning to school into dialectical behavioural therapy, group therapy and personal therapy three times a week. I was put on my first medications, and I hated it.
It saved me. It changed my brain chemistry and I got better. Not cured- you cant cure BPD, just manage it. And I didn't really manage it, but I did much better than I used to. I was still a horror to know- manipulative, selfish, uncaring, emotionally abusive. Id date people I never loved or was attracted to for attention, and threatened suicide when they left and all but physically stalked them. I called these trysts family, and abandoned my own. The people who were there and loved me because they had fallen apart and were struggling and I could not be suffocated by the pain of it all.
So I swallowed liquor and smoked and took things from people I didn't know just to dull the bluntness of life.
It was a horrible time. Until a few years ago, really. I traumatized so many people but refused to accept responsibility. I would hurt people and blame them for tiny faults in the grand scheme. I chose the wrong people to care for. The wrong people to trust.
And I spent many of those months in doctors offices, and within white walls barred off with prison doors and limited visitors who couldnt look me in the eye. I expected too much from children- that friends would visit me in a terrifying ward after doing something they couldnt comprehend. I made it their issue. I made it anyones I could. I bled, and I bled, and I took pills and cried until I was a shell of that little wrinkly, wet baby.
I hated everyone. Because I hated me.
I grit my teeth remembering these things. I have been told for years by numerous people I should write a memoir because the things I told them were unbelievable. And I don't know if I will ever be able to rip off the scab on my heart and talk about them properly, so for now I give you this.
Im still not okay. Because I have sick family members and a broken heart from too many things to count and though my tattoos cover most of the past, when its hot the past raises on my flesh and I can feel it. It's tangible and horribly in reach. But I am doing better. I went to University though I was told I never would. Ive found people who love me, as fleeting as they may be, despite being told no one would. I let people touch me despite the trauma. I take my medications- five times different from the original, but they work. And I haven't hurt myself in almost two years. I am not kind to myself, but I am lenient. I am trying. And I am so grateful for my family and loved ones and I will get better, because at this very moment I have never been so good.
I still feel like a little girl, trapped in a body I never properly learned to conduct so every sound is a jagged note. But I try.
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Letter 2
Ive attempted suicide several times. More importantly- I wanted the morning from 7 to a half past free, so I slept in my school uniform. I kept a butter knife stuffed into the plush of one of my teddy's, and would use that to nervously drag across my skin. Never enough to even cause a hairline wound. I was so disappointed in myself. I spent the mornings on the way to school reading fan fiction in the backseat, which I suppose is to thank for my adoration of writing now. I had a hairbrush that I would rake through the front strands and leave the back a matted nest for months. I would throw water on the back to tame the breakage, and a girl once asked me "Why are you wet?" with such horror and id insist I wasn't, despite the dark spots on my shoulders and back from where my hair laid and the tiles of the bathroom splattered with water.
I didn't have a good elementary experience. I was mute till fourth grade, whispering my answers to questions to the TA assigned to me for class questions or only speaking to my family. I was bullied mercilessly for being too big, or too slow, or too dumb. Roll around 6th grade, and I decided to use a third party texting app to target three of my bullies.I remember the day I decided, I was laying on my left side on my iPod and it clicked- make a fake instagram to torment my classmates. I used the alias 'A' since Pretty Little Liars was the hype of fifth grade, and I thought it worked. I remember standing outside, just on the edge of the group of popular kids or the soccer kids to hear them chatting about the show. Something clicked. Something different, wrong. I never said much mean, either that I was watching or on special occasion 'Unhappy birthday' which struck painfully for a young girl. I wrote a swear word on the whiteboard in permanent ink since I got to school early.
They had a cop come in, and ask the hypothetical of what if they took all our phones and knew who did it? But my iPod was at home. I smirked to myself, I remember, and some poor girl lower on the wrung than me freezed up and everyone hooked their talons into her.
It was revealed to be me. The teacher tried to have me expelled. The priest said we were Catholic and I was just a child who deserved a second chance. Not a great man, but kind in his regard to me that day. I offered up my sexuality as leverage, or apology.
I told my mother it was the evil bunny, because I was on my iPod one day and I saw this image of a fluffy white bunny looking in the mirror and seeing a distorted mirror image.
My family was starting to fall apart, too. Mental health issues I won't divulge and divorce. The usual pain of family. So I tried the butter knife. It didn't work. I found cracking the shell of my brothers shaving razor worked, and used that. Never do that, please. It has scarred me for life, no matter the tattoos or makeup or ointments. You may think you'll like it, be happy for it, not live long enough to see it- but you will live long enough, and you will hate it. A stark reminder of these kinds of cruel times.
And at some point, I downloaded Skout. I was looking for friends- though I did meet one who has been a friend for half my life, I also was abused and assaulted multiple times until horrifying things occurred. I was made to cut myself, send inappropriate things, do horrible things to myself a CHILD should not have to do. But I was threatened. I was scared.
And it changed my mind forever.