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Old 03-03-2012, 03:51 PM   #1
antropinus
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When I was a girl growing up in Hawaii, I used to open up the window when it rained at night and sleep with my head on the windowsill. The raindrops felt cool and soothing in the hot, humid air. I’ve always liked rainy days.

It’s sunny today, the kind of weather most people enjoy. The scent from the freshly-cut lawn permeates my dorm room. It’s as if summer could last forever. I feel out of place, like I don’t belong in this world. My boyfriend tells me to spend some time outside, saying it will cheer me up. I force a smile. We’ve been dating for two months and I still haven’t slept with him, but he’s determined to prove he likes me regardless.

I go jogging. I pass a guy, sitting on the lawn, studying. He’s blond, lean like a basketball player. He looks up at me and smiles. I’ve seen him before, in class. Out of politeness, I smile back, then turn away quickly. My breathing becomes shallow. I have to leave the campus, get far away before I suffocate. I head out towards the “good” part of town.

When I can’t run anymore I start walking. The air turns cooler in the late afternoon, and my mood improves even though I’m still sweating. I feel like I’m going into a trance, and I walk for what must be hours. I skip dinner, but I feel no hunger. It’s as if I’m no longer in my own body. Trees pass, houses that cost over a million. Manicured lawns tended by Hispanic gardeners. I couldn’t imagine living there, with a husband and children. I don’t deserve that kind of life.

The sun has set. Darkness comes, and I’m pulled out of my trance. My mind switches back on, and the anxiety starts. I don’t know why, but I turn and head towards the seamier part of the city.

I pass by the bars, the strip clubs. A homeless woman bundled in clothes that must be too warm even at night. Prostitutes standing side-by-side -- safety in numbers. A man, sitting on the sidewalk with a bottle in his hand, singing. My body comes alive, as if I were a small animal in the woods, watching for predators. I become one with my surroundings. I feel the graffiti on the walls as if they were new tattoos on my flesh. I feel hungry, dirty as the streets around me. The ache in my feet blossoms outwards. The city welcomes my pain, and savors it.

I sense someone watching me before I actually see him. In my mind, I see a knife, a gun, maybe a shard of glass. I turn to look at him, but he has nothing in his hands. He doesn’t smile or nod. He just watches me coldly, and my instincts tell me he’s a predator. He’s built like a boxer, and I imagine the ripple of steel muscles underneath his shirt. He reaches into his jacket pocket, and suddenly I’m running as fast as I can. My ears perk up, trying to listen for his footsteps behind me, but I hear nothing. Several blocks later, I collapse, panting and spent. There’s nobody behind me.

Hours later, I’m back in my dorm room. I’m filthy and famished, but I head straight to bed. I can’t stop thinking of that man’s eyes. As I fall asleep, I feel as if he’s still watching me, waiting for the right moment.

The next day goes by in a blur. I sit in class, waiting for the day to pass, and when night finally comes, I’m back walking the dangerous streets. As I walk past the drunks, the homeless, the desperate, I imagine they recognize me; I am one of them. Off in the distance, police sirens, the sharp crack of what might be gunfire, a baby crying. I blend into the shadows, fade into a dark alley.

There’s a moment when the streets go silent. I sense that something’s about to happen, but when it does I’m caught unprepared. I feel a sharp blow to the back of my head, and I lose consciousness.

I wake up on a couch. I feel the back of my head and hope my brain is not damaged, and then I realize my hands and feet aren’t tied. I sit up, and the pain makes me see white for a moment. And then I see him. The same man I saw last night, with the same calculating eyes.

“You should be more careful -- that wasn’t a safe neighborhood you were in,” he says.

Did he rescue me? Or was he the one who hit me? I choose to pretend all is well. “Thanks for your help. I --”

The slap hits my face before I see him move. Again, I see white for a moment, and then instinct kicks in, and my fingers reach for his eyes.

He pivots on one foot, catches my wrist and twists. My momentum carries me to the floor in a gentle spiral, and when I’m flat on my stomach I feel my arm twist behind my back. I’m screaming, fighting him, and just as my arm is about to pop out of its socket he lets me go. I sit up slowly, testing my shoulder.

“Aikido is the art of nonviolence. You must learn to love your opponent as you love yourself.” Suddenly he slaps my face again.

That’s when I realize he’s insane and that I’m in way over my head.

“But that’s the problem, isn’t it?” he says. “You don’t love anyone, least of all yourself. I see it in your eyes. Why else would you walk the streets like that? A woman without love is nothing. Don’t you know that?”

Again, my fingers reach to scratch out his eyes, but I shift suddenly and kick at his groin. He sidesteps, catches my foot, and I’m on the ground with him between my legs. He pulls a knife from his belt, and I freeze with terror. “Please don’t hurt me,” I say. He cuts away my shorts and panties. He unzips his pants. He’s already hard.

He spits between my legs and enters me. “You’re nothing,” he says, and to prove it he fucks me coldly, violently, without any regard for my pleasure or comfort. I try to distance myself from my body, as I always do while having sex, but this time I can’t. The pain between my legs grounds me, keeping me there while he fucks into me. In his eyes, I see a strange combination of lust and disgust. I whimper before I can stop myself.

“Don’t come inside me,” I plead. “I’ll take you in my mouth.”

“I can do anything I want with you. Don’t you know that?” he says.

“Please,” I try again, “wouldn’t you rather fuck my ass?” I try to sound seductive.

He slaps my face again. This shuts me up. “You’re less than a whore,” he says. “This is what you deserve. Now take it.” He thrusts into me hard, making me wince.

After a while, the pain lessens. Although I’m not enjoying the rape, I’m beginning to lubricate a little.

A few minutes later he stiffens. “No!” I cry out but it’s already too late.

He gets up, arranges his clothes. And without another word, he turns to leave.

“Please let me go now,” I say, but I’m sure he’s going to kill me, or at least lock me in here forever.

“The only chains I need are in your mind,” he says, still walking towards the door. “Think of me touching you when you go to bed, and come back tomorrow.” He walks out the door, leaving it ajar.

I gather my shredded clothes. In the hallway there’s a closet, and I find a jacket. It’s too big for me, but at least it covers my nakedness. I find the front door and exit.

When I’m outside I’m surprised to find I’m no longer in the bad part of the city. Instead, I’m in one of the richest neighborhoods. I see a Mercedes parked in his driveway.

I think of going to the police. His come is still inside me, and I’m sure I could send him to jail. Instead I head for my dorm room. When I arrive, I take a long hot shower.

I should feel numb, in shock, but I’m not. I brush my teeth, go to bed. As I lie there, I think of him above me, entering me, his disdain as he spat on my vagina. My fingers slide under the elastic of my pajamas. I touch myself until I come.


When I was in my early teens, I was obsessed with dieting. Surfing the Internet, I found the “Anorexic Creed”:

I believe in Control, the only force mighty enough to bring order to the chaos that is my world.
I believe that I am the most vile, worthless and useless person ever to have existed on this planet, and that I am totally unworthy of anyone's time and attention.
I believe that other people who tell me differently must be idiots. If they could see how I really am, then they would hate me almost as much as I do.
I believe in oughts, musts and shoulds as unbreakable laws to determine my daily behaviour.
I believe in perfection and strive to attain it.
I believe in salvation through trying just a bit harder than I did yesterday.
I believe in calorie counters as the inspired word of god, and memorize them accordingly.
I believe in bathroom scales as an indicator of my daily successes and failures.
I believe in hell, because I sometimes think that I'm living in it.
I believe in a wholly black and white world, the losing of weight, recrimination for sins, the abnegation of the body and a life ever fasting.
Amen



I copied it into my journal and read it every night, memorized it. Sometimes, I repeated it in my mind while having sex.


My boyfriend has left several messages, asking where I’ve been and sounding worried. I erase them and think of calling him, but I don’t. I have nothing to say to him.

The next day I go to classes. I’m strangely at ease, and my concentration is better than usual. At lunch and dinner, I eat voraciously. Food has never tasted better. The catering service serves the same dishes month after month, but it’s as if I’m tasting it for the first time.

Night falls. I go out, wearing his jacket again. It feels like it’s about to rain, but I don’t take the umbrella. I head for his house.

When I arrive, he opens the door and without greeting me he walks towards the room where he raped me. I follow him. Inside I see a table with a pair of handcuffs, a whip, and some rope.

He looks at me. “You deserve this,” he says. “Take off your clothes.”

I do as he says.

antropinus
3/3/2012
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