whiplash girlchild in the dark: three memories
1. The rabbit ejected from the top hat was a fake.
I am being called into the house by my father, some years before he starts molesting and then raping me. I am at the edge of where the street meets our shallow driveway, waiting my turn as my brothers ride a small plastic tricycle down its shallow slope. The anger in his voice punctures our reverie. He is standing on the porch of our trailer, and then we are inside, waiting our turn to be spanked. He says he called for us three times to come inside and we disobeyed. We insist we didn’t hear him. My brothers, only two of them at this point, go before me. They each emerge from the bathroom red-faced and blubbering. I tell myself that I will not cry.
When I enter the bathroom I tell him again that we didn’t hear him and he tells me I’m lying. I’m the oldest and should be setting an example but here I am, not only disobedient but lying to his face. He’s disappointed in me. He doesn’t want to have to do this but I’ve left him no choice; I must learn. I lay across his lap and he raises the paddle and wails my lesson onto my bare little bottom.
I hide my tears when he’s finished with me, yanking my underwear and shorts over my burning cheeks. I'm very young. I still believe defiance might spare me from something.
2. By confessing her culpabilities, she cleared the way for more.
I chase after the man who will become my husband, drunk, down the street. Something I’ve done has set him off. It’s unclear what. He says I was rude to another woman, some friend of a friend in our group, but I don’t remember anything, and he won’t explain. He says he’s embarrassed by my behavior and storms out of the bar.
He moves fast. When I call his name, he crosses to the opposite sidewalk.
Please, I yell. What did I do? Please talk to me.
He shakes his head in disbelief. I stalk parallel to him, also fuming. I didn’t do anything, at least nothing to deserve all this. He just wants to be mad at me.
This realization awakens my instincts. So this is the game we’re playing. Fine. I’ll play my bit.
I run across the street, whipping up tears of distress. Please! I cry again, flinging my purse to the ground and dropping to my knees, clasping my hands before me. I’m sorry! Please don’t be mad at me! I’m sorry!
The crocodile tears become real sobbing, though about what, I don’t know. It’s just the alcohol breaking the dam, letting my whole life course through me.
He’s stopped to watch this pathetic display, and I can see his gears turning. He thinks he’s seeing my soft underbelly. So I go in for the kill, punching my stomach and whimpering. Please, Daddy. He holds out a hand. Come on, get up. Pulls me close and wraps his arms around me. You’re okay. You’re good.
Back in his bedroom he binds my hands behind my back with a tie. He examines some fresh cuts on my thighs, slaps my face.
“From now on, I’m the only one who gets to hurt you,” he says as he fucks me. “We’re going to get married and we’re going to be happy.”
3. She wrapped herself up in an enigma; there was no other way to keep warm.
I’m in a strange man’s house regretting my choices, my fishnets ripped from my legs and wrapped around my neck like a collar. He holds me by the hair while he fucks my face but he’s coming from an almost sideways angle, shoving his dick against the wall of my molars and then barking at me to watch my fucking teeth. I struggle against his grip to try and position my mouth better and he yells at me to stop resisting. He backhands my face, letting go of my hair so the hit sends me flying to the floor. I’m clambering to my hands and knees when he grabs a fistful again, pulling me as I crawl quickly behind him to his room. Get on the bed. Ass up. Spread it. Show me those holes. Good slut. He spits on my face. Tell me what you are.
Dutifully: I’m a whore.
Louder.
I’m a whore I’m a whore I’m a fucking whore, I scream.
Fuck yeah you are, bitch. He paces from one side of the bed to the other, vaping and whipping me with a belt. Yeah, I think I’ll pimp you out, he says. You’re a well-trained slut. You could handle a lot of men.
I mostly assume he’s roleplaying, but I don’t know this guy at all. I keep thinking about how secluded his house is, on a country backroad enclosed by pines. Nobody knows where I am. Every time I hit the wall where I freak out and beg to leave, he calms me down and I end up spreading my slut legs again.
Sweat drips off his nose into my eyes as he thrusts inside my rubbed-raw cunt. I let my body go heavy and limp. “You’re free to leave whenever,” he says. Then he laughs at me.