In response to Photo-Fiction #11
“SHUT UP!!! SHUT UP. SHUT. UP” How was she supposed to think straight with him simpering like that. Before it was all, boasting and joking. He was a peacock, feathers extended, preening for every eye.
Now he was begging and sniveling. She felt a giggle begin to build in her chest. This was the one she had feared. Feared his coming, his leaving, his touch and his smile. He was the powerful one, and he had wielded it so well over her. Over her body, her mind, everything that made her, her.
Now he was, crying and begging. He had worked his wrists raw trying to escape the handcuffs, toppled himself onto the floor of the public pool locker room, trying to run. Now futility sunk in, he was begging for his life, from her. In the place where he did it to her, even as she begged him to stop, to look away, to not touch, or feel her.
But she had been there, looked that way, at first she had been willing. Maybe it was her fault, maybe it was her doing, this thing that happened to her. Maybe that’s why the police had never used their cuffs on him, or why his mother tossed her out on here ear, why her own mother had called her tramp and put her out too. Maybe that was why her credibility was shot, and her reputation gone, why this was all she thought about, living his intrusion over and over.
“SHUT UP.” There was so little resistance to his flesh, but then the scalpel was made to cut. Theewarm spurt across her face barely registered. She lay down beside him, as his eyes grew glassy, and he made little gurgling noises. She touched his face, the way he had touched hers, not caring for the crimson that got all over her fingers. The last thing he saw was a familiar gesture. One he used back then, her finger over her lips.