The straps of her black satin bra fall off her shoulders. Her breasts
flow over the lace edged top, ivory silk etched in china-blue. A sparkly
pink and white thong, the only thing she ever bought from Victoria's
Secret, is stained now, but she cannot decide whether to leave it or
not. A soft pink knit sweater lies in a crumpled heap across from her,
one sleeve hopelessly torn. Her black skirt sits beside her, but she
can't make her hands reach for it.
Slumped against a dingy white plaster wall, she feels like a marionette without strings. All her limbs are broken, at least they seem that way. Try to stand, force her body to move. She struggles to breathe, her lungs feel as though they have collapsed. Her bones feel brittle, her body feels hollow, carved from the inside out. She knows, if she stands, she will fall apart. She can't run, can't face the truth and she can't hide from it either. She cradles herself, remembering and cursing herself for the memory.
She stands, moving mechanically. She sleep walks home, a zombie. She peels away the clothing and climbs into the arms of the porcelain basin. She makes the water as hot as she can stand, scrubs until she is raw, endeavoring to erase the night's cruel stains. But nothing purges her body of the violation. Leaning against a wall, she sinks down, allowing the torrent to cascade over her and flay already frayed nerves. A silhouette of herself stands to accuse her, lacerated by thoughts and memory.
She notices the bruises, spread out like an intricate maze of purples and blue across the map of her skin. Head in hand, scorching tears trail down her cheeks, knees pressed to her chest. The water has turned to ice, her lips are turning blue, but she can't seem to make herself care. She turns off the water, watches as a lost watery trickle of scarlet is sucked down the drain. Exhausted, she shivers and wishes for strength. None comes, not even the mechanical strength that brought her home.
She falls asleep in the tub, dreams of what happened and all that has passed. She tries to pretend that it was all a nightmare, tries to prove to herself that it never happened.
But, when she opens her eyes, the proof lies all over her.
Slumped against a dingy white plaster wall, she feels like a marionette without strings. All her limbs are broken, at least they seem that way. Try to stand, force her body to move. She struggles to breathe, her lungs feel as though they have collapsed. Her bones feel brittle, her body feels hollow, carved from the inside out. She knows, if she stands, she will fall apart. She can't run, can't face the truth and she can't hide from it either. She cradles herself, remembering and cursing herself for the memory.
She stands, moving mechanically. She sleep walks home, a zombie. She peels away the clothing and climbs into the arms of the porcelain basin. She makes the water as hot as she can stand, scrubs until she is raw, endeavoring to erase the night's cruel stains. But nothing purges her body of the violation. Leaning against a wall, she sinks down, allowing the torrent to cascade over her and flay already frayed nerves. A silhouette of herself stands to accuse her, lacerated by thoughts and memory.
She notices the bruises, spread out like an intricate maze of purples and blue across the map of her skin. Head in hand, scorching tears trail down her cheeks, knees pressed to her chest. The water has turned to ice, her lips are turning blue, but she can't seem to make herself care. She turns off the water, watches as a lost watery trickle of scarlet is sucked down the drain. Exhausted, she shivers and wishes for strength. None comes, not even the mechanical strength that brought her home.
She falls asleep in the tub, dreams of what happened and all that has passed. She tries to pretend that it was all a nightmare, tries to prove to herself that it never happened.
But, when she opens her eyes, the proof lies all over her.
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