i’m on a roll. my spiel? this is life compressed into four pages. my bukowski is showing. if you’re into self-mutilation or self-defacement or art, whichever one it is these days, you may find this a little triggering.
INSANITAZIA MEMSAHIB
She had been taught all about it at school, of course, in Sex Ed. She had been taught how to avoid it and how to defend yourself and what to do when and if it happened. And the fact that the procedures you should follow in the event of something like that were being taught in school didn’t instill much confidence in anything at all. You’re growing up, eighteen years old, ready to go out into the world, and you were taught how to protect yourself, what to do, how to avoid it. But as she lay there on the bed being raped, she couldn’t do anything. She was numb with fear. She couldn’t move, couldn’t scream. She was sobbing, of course, moaning in pain, but apart from that she was totally limp, totally and completely without motion, without will, without thought or movement or any of those things. “Go for the eyes” were the words that rang in her head but she couldn’t muster the energy to raise her hands to do anything. So she just lay there, and when she felt the sperm shoot up inside her, the body rolled off, grunting, and was soon replaced by another, who again began to thrust and pump, occasionally slapping her across the face or kneading a breast, causing her to yelp a little, which earned her another slap, or perhaps a punch. She felt something being thrust into her ass and she screamed and then felt her nose being broken as a fist smashed into it. She felt the blood running out and mixing with her hot tears, but these were not what was on her mind right now. Everything was just blank. She just lay there. She could do nothing.
“You little cunt,” he was panting in her ear, “You fucking little cunt. You love it, don’t you? You little cunt.”
She wasn’t going to reply because, truthfully, she didn’t love it at all, and she knew that saying “No, I think this sucks” would only get her hit again. She felt the object twisting around inside her rectum and realised that it was the end of a hair brush, and it stung but she tried not to make any noise. “Go for the eyes”. Uh-huh. Yeah. Right. Thanks a lot, Miss Franklin.
The second body soon rolled off her after it came and was not replaced. She lay there, panting, sweating, bleeding. She hurt all over, her bones ached, she knew she would be covered in bruises by the morning, a black eye, swollen lip, broken nose. Even cracked fingernails. She lay there in the dark, not daring to move an inch or speak even a whisper. She just sobbed, lay there going “oh god oh god oh god”. She lay there in the dark and listened to the two boys as they spoke to one another. She could hear the sounds of shirts being pulled on, zippers zipping, belts being buckled up.
“What if she calls the cops, man?” asked one of the voices, “What if she calls the cops?”
“She won’t call the cops, dude,” said the second voice, “She won’t call the cops if she knows what’s good for her.”
“But what if she does?” Slight panic.
“She won’t. You won’t call the cops, will you, baby?” This last part directed to her.
She shook her head, no.
“Because if you call the cops, you know what’ll happen to you, don’t you, baby?”
She shook her head, yes.
“That’s good. That’s a good girl. We’re going to leave now, and we’re going to just forget that any of this happened. We hope you’ll do the same. Because if you don’t, well…” the voice trailed off here, ominously. Sure, Laura was thinking, like there’s anything else you can do to me.
“Bye,” said the second boy. With this the door to her room opened, shut, and she was left there in the dark again. She lay there sobbing for a long time, listening to the radio. “…if I could melt your heart…” She was in no position to argue with any of this so she reached over, winced in pain, and switched on her bedside lamp. The light hurt her eyes at first but soon she grew used to it so she slumped back on the pillows, soaked with sweat, big patches of blood. She took the hairbrush out of her asshole and threw it aside. She wasn’t going to get up, not yet. She reached over for her cigarettes, took one out, tried to light it, but her hands were shaking so badly that she dropped the match and did not try for another. She scooted up a little in the bed, rested her back and shoulders against the wall. She looked over at her study desk. She had an assignment to do. This could wait. Slowly, she got to her feet, pulled on a robe, limped down the hall to the bathroom. Each step was sheer agony but she made it. Once in the bathroom, she studied her face in the mirror. Brutal. Her face was black and blue, literally. Her nose was bent painfully to one side. Her lower lip was busted open and was leaking, swollen. Above her left eye was a large cut that dripped blood down into her eyes, smatterings of it on her cheek. Her brain was throbbing. Tentatively, she turned on the taps and splashed a little water on her face, but it stung too much so she wiped it with the hem of her robe instead. Nobody else seemed to want to use the bathroom and this was good, even though it was only ten o’clock in the evening. She looked at herself in the mirror for a little longer and decided - shit, why not? - and she clicked her nose back into place. This hurt more than it really should have but she suppressed a scream and instead simply moaned. Blood began to flow a little more freely but it would soon slow. She opened her robe and studied her breasts, her stomach. Her nipples had been painfully twisted and were a bright red colour, slightly swollen. The breasts themselves were terribly bruised and she didn’t dare touch them. The rest of her body was covered in welts, bruises, tiny little cuts and scratches. She slipped out of the robe, kicked it to one side, and went into one of the shower cubicles. She shut and locked the door behind her and turned on the taps, stood there for a long time while the hot water cascaded over her body. Then her knees gave up on her and she fell to the tiled floor, crunched herself up into a ball, and remained there, and she began to cry and cry and cry but nobody would hear her over the noise of the shower. She watched as blood rinsed off her skin, mixed with the water and gurgled down the drain. Eventually, she pulled herself to her feet, found a slither of soap in the dish, and began to clean herself, starting with her hair and face. She didn’t touch her nose because it was throbbing painfully, but she cleaned everything else. She wanted to leave no trace of them. She wanted every molecule of their stinking beings removed from her body. She soaped her neck, shoulders, arms, chest, breasts, stomach, thighs, hips, legs, feet, buttocks, between her buttocks and between her legs. She really worked the soap up into her vagina, cleaning away the semen and saliva. Then she rinsed thoroughly, left the shower running, and stepped out of the cubicle. She staggered, naked and dripping with water, back up the hallway and to her room. She passed Judy, her friend who lived opposite her in number three, and Judy looked shocked and worried. Laura managed to smile and lightly shook her head, and she limped into her room, closed the door behind her, locked it, and ignored Judy’s bangings and concerned voice. Laura sat back down on her bed, tried to light another cigarette, and this time succeeded, so she sat there for a very long time, completely still except for raising the cigarette to her lips, inhaling, bringing her hand back down again. She sat there and listened to the music on the radio. “All new HOT-103, with The New Guy, brought to you by Domino’s Pizza.” Laura wondered what all this meant. Was it a message, a sign? Had all this been coming to her? Did she deserve it? She had put Luke down a little harshly in the cafeteria that morning and she wondered if this was her just desserts. Deserves? Which was it? Did it matter?
Soon Judy stopped banging on her door and threatened to call campus security if Laura didn’t let her in. Laura tried to laugh, but it hurt too much and instead she lit another cigarette and opened the top drawer of her bedside table, took out a pack of Panadeine. She opened it and popped ten pills out of the silver strip. Then she reached back into the drawer and brought out a small bottle of Jack Daniel’s, opened it, and washed all ten of the pills down with a single, vile and sickly mouthful of the whiskey. Sour mash? What the hell did that mean? Did it mean they used potatoes? Jesus.
She felt embarrassed, ashamed that she had let something like this happen. She felt it was her fault and, in a way, it was. She had lead Luke on and then, as a joke that she and her girlfriends had going, she left him floating. In a way she felt she deserved it.
“Open the fucking door, Laura,” Judy was shouting outside.
Laura didn’t answer.
“If you don’t open this fucking door right now,” Judy continued, “I’m going to get Todd and were are going to break it down!” Todd was Judy’s boyfriend. He lived three doors up from her.
“So go and get him,” Laura shouted, and lit another cigarette. She felt a little ill from the pills and the whiskey, so she popped six more Panadeine and took another hit from the bottle.
“Jesus, Laura, I’m concerned. What the hell happened?”
“I walked into a door,” Laura said, then began to cackle, so she said again “I walked into a door…and it pushed me into another door.”
“Who did it?” Judy asked.
“It was The Doors! Ha ha ha! What do you think of that?”
“I’m getting Todd. I’m going to get Todd and we’re going to break in.”
“It was Jim Morrison!” Laura said, beginning to laugh now, cracking up.
“I’m getting Todd!”
So Judy went off down the hallway to get Todd. Todd wasn’t there. Laura looked down at herself, at the bruises and welts and cuts and scratches. How could she let this happen to her? She took another long pull from the whiskey bottle, then got to her feet, went over to her cupboard, opened it, took out her bathroom bag. She kept all her shampoos and soaps and so forth in there. She went back over to the bed, sat down on it, crossed her legs with a little difficulty. Although she didn’t like to admit it, and she wouldn’t tell anyone, her ass hurt. It hurt and she had a lot of trouble sitting still for too long. Laura reached over, grabbed the bottle, took another hit, set the bottle between her crossed legs, threw her half-finished cigarette on the ground and watched it for a while as it fizzled out in a small puddle of urine (one of the boys had pissed on her). Then she opened her bathroom bag, took out her razor, unclipped the top and let the blade fall out into her hand. Judy was back at the door now.
“I’ve got Helen out here,” Judy was saying, “I’ve got Helen and we’re going to break the door down.”
“Please don’t,” Laura said, “Please just leave me alone for a while. Give me a few minutes and I’ll come out. I just need to rest for a little while.”
There was silence before Judy said “Well, okay,” in a very suspicious voice and then waited for a while longer before plodding back up the hall. Laura turned the stereo up a little louder, because it was something by The Corrs, her favourite band.
The first cut she made was on the inside of her right forearm. She dragged the razor straight across and watched as the skin peeled back and then there was a pause before the blood started to ooze sheepishly out, almost as though it didn’t want to. It was as if her body was saying “I know what you’re going to do, and by Christ I’m not going to let you do it”, but Laura told it to shut up and drew another jagged line just above the first. She licked the blood away and then repeated the action on her left arm, two thick deep lines. She poured a little of the whiskey into them and winced and then licked it away, the alcohol mixed with her blood, very coppery to taste, intoxicating. She then cut three deep wounds on her right leg, on the inside of her thigh, and then the same on her left. None of the wounds were bleeding very much because she hadn’t hit any main veins (she was a med student, after all), and she knew that she had plenty of time. She lit another cigarette and left it in her mouth as she worked, blinking occasionally to keep the smoke out of her eyes. The Corrs finished and the next song was some trashy female nigger (niggeress?) rap bullshit so she turned it off. She slashed at the soles of her feet a few times but these hurt too much and she couldn’t deal with it so she stopped, wiped the blood off the blade, and continued working, slicing little nicks on her upper arms, her armpits, and pretty soon she wasn’t feeling anything at all so she took another drink of whiskey, coughed, and put her cigarette out on her left nipple. It hissed and died and the smell of burnt flesh was a little jolting so she coughed again and then started slashing at her breasts, first left and then right, really cutting them open, blood and then a clear fluid leaking out, and then she sliced off each of her nipples, put them in her mouth, and washed them down with another hit of whiskey. Now she was feeling a little weak, there was a lot of blood, but still no pain, and she was lucky. She then started cutting at her stomach, pushing the blade in as deep as it would go and then dragging it across. The cuts were very deep and when she put her finger in as an experiment, it went all the way up to her first knuckle. Bored with this, she leant up against the wall at the side of her bed, raised her legs so her knees were at either side of her head, and stuck the razor up inside her vagina, and she slashed carelessly at the insides, and she felt a little naughty but that was how it would have to be. She removed the razor and the blood really gushed out, a dozen times worse than any period, and she began to slash at the external parts of her vagina, all the useless protrudances and pieces of meat and flesh, and she swallowed all of these with some more whiskey. She wasn’t going to have a drop of either of those two motherfuckers inside her, and this was the only way to make sure. Then she cut off her lips because they had touched her there too, kissed her there, but she did not swallow them. She found that a little too…ironic.
Now, really weak, feeling a little sick, she got back to her feet, half-fell and half-stumbled to the door, yanked it open, and went back towards the bathroom, using the walls to support her. Judy was out there speaking in hushed tones to Helen, and when they saw Laura covered in blood, parts of her missing, they both screamed and rushed towards her. Laura hissed, spitting blood and saliva, and flailed about with the razor, catching Helen across the face and cutting open her left cheek. Other students were coming out of their rooms now to see what all the noise was about, and then a lot of them started screaming and they all started rushing to and fro, trying to help Laura and Helen, and soon Helen was out of the house but Laura would not let anyone near her, would not let anyone touch her, and she cut at the air with her blade, and people backed away. Eventually, she got to the bathroom, and she slipped straight over on the tiles, the blood from her feet causing her to do this. Instead of trying to get up again, she crawled towards one of the showers, leaving a thick trail of blood and…Christ, what was that? What part of her body was that?
She didn’t stop to check and she crawled into one of the cubicles, reached up and turned on the shower, huddled up into a ball, and died.