Moving In

[TRIGGER WARNING: Don’t look now, but methinks Satan is already behind thee.]

“Oh, stop those stupid tears, Jeanette! Don’t you realize how fuckin’ lucky you are?

“So I fucked you. So what? You should thank me! That’s right, thank me! Look in a goddamned mirror, little girl; it’s not like there’s a long line of men, gonna wait around for a chance to get their hands on a disgusting thing like you! Be real with yourself, you dumb little bitch: this right here, between us? This is as good as it’s ever gettin’ for you.

“I mean, fuck— who the hell d’you think you are? You and your mother owe me everything. Do you actually think that woman would keep you around if I weren’t here, giving her a roof over her head and a medicine cabinet full of pills? Shit no! She’d be living in a trailer with a meth cook, and you’d be sleeping on a cot in some homeless shelter, gettin’ fucked by someone else, someone who won’t take the time to make you like it.

“And I know you like it; twice tonight, by my count. If I stopped comin’ in here after she goes to sleep, I bet it wouldn’t be long before you’d be knockin’ on my door, tryin’ to worm your way in between me an’ her. Yeah… yeah, if I tried to stop now, you’d do what you always do and ruin everything for everyone. You’d spoil it for her, wouldn’t you, you selfish cunt?

“That’s why I’m in charge of this house and everything in it. In charge of you. An’ that’s why I’m comin’ back in here tomorrow night, an’ you’re gonna like it three times in a row.”

…

How was that? Did I sound like your stepdad?

I’ve been practicing, you know; I pay close attention when he starts telling bullshit, feel-good stories over holiday dinners. I sit there beside you at the dinner table, my hand secretly busy in your lap, while you instinctively mimic your mom’s plastic smile, and I listen to how he brags and holds court, the words he chooses… even the way he breathes. For three years now, I’ve watched it all so very closely.

After all, this is our first night in our new house together, and I wanted it to feel like home to you.

My mum, after not seeing me for a little while:

‘omg why have your boobs shrunk!’

“Are you feeling okay, sweetie? It’s just that, normally, I can read your IUD’s serial number through your leggings, but lately you’re wearing pants designed for women who respect themselves. So is something wrong?

“I completely understand if there is. I mean, your dad told me what happened to you at work. Your boss shouldn’t have touched you that way. Not in the office; that’s inappropriate. It’s just too bad. Because if you’d stopped thinking about work for five minutes, you could have asked him out, and before long, you would have been married and I’d have had grandbabies. I’ve always told you, you have to put men in a position to succeed; if you let them fail, they will.

“Do you— do you think you two could work it out? I mean, I know there’s the whole right-and-wrong thing, but just hypothetically speaking…? No, you’ve never even been out to dinner —and whose fault is that?— but, well, he obviously likes you. You don’t grope someone you don’t like; that’s just common sense. That’s more than most people know on a first date.

“Whatever you do, I don’t think you should report it. I don’t care what your father says; he doesn’t understand what it’s like for girls. The other men will find out and be afraid to even lay a finger on you; then the women will find out, and SNAP! —just like that!— all those girls who have been your best work buddies will realize you’re really just the competition.

“And honestly, darling? You’ll never be able to compete if those boobs keep shrinking.”

4H

[CONTENT NOTE: Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.]

She opened her eyes, and it began.

“Good morning, sweetheart! Eight hours exactly!”

She was already crying, but no one seemed to notice.

“I’ve made you a light, healthy breakfast, and I’ve warmed the shower for you.”

She sat up slowly. She’d expected it to be bad, but... not like this.

“You’re looking really good today, baby!”

She sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at her thighs. They were now more toned than she’d ever dreamed they could be. Prettier, yes, but also stronger. Inviting and propulsive and sleek; everything she ever wanted. She bitterly glared at them through her tears.

“Here are your vitamins and supplements, and a little cool water to wash them down!”

She swallowed both in quick succession, and then padded silently to the bathroom. As had become his habit of late, he stood outside the shower and watched as she bathed. If he felt she was scrubbing too hard, he would intervene and insist she wash gently but thoroughly. He timed her application of conditioner with a stopwatch. And he inspected her as he softly dried her with a towel. She’d never dreamed she could feel so worthless.

“Okay, I’ve queued up your music, and the lights will shift to guide you through your meditation. Just breathe and enjoy, honey!”

Manufactured tranquility washed over her, and she wished —not for the first time— that she could drown in it. Anything would be better than drifting, lost in something warm, enveloping, and mysteriously hostile. A whispering choir in her headphones hissed to her of harmony and health, but her only answer was a pattern of choked sobs that would pass for measured breathing to anyone watching.

“Five more miles! Don’t you dare look tired yet! You can do it, I believe in you!”

Her afternoon in the gym was never pleasant, but it too was getting worse. He’d always enjoyed hurting her and then mocking her pain, but this was... this was diabolical. The miles flew by as she labored under the lash of his affirmations.

“Wow. That was wonderful. Just wonderful. Play it again!”

She’d never imagined playing violin, back when he signed her up for lessons. And yet there she was, playing, and then watching him smile and cheer. His applause was the worst. All she ever wanted in the world, the most precious resource in existence, offered enthusiastically... and she couldn’t enjoy it. Every clap of his hand was a percussive omen of blows yet to be borne.

“Your calves are tight, but we’ll get them nice and relaxed in no time!”

His hands moved over her body with a thorough confidence that was both reassuringly familiar and increasingly contemptuous. His touch had once been a clutching, clawing, clamoring thing, meant to pull her in and never let her go; now it was the kneading of a dutiful baker, preparing a doughy loaf for the window. She let her little sounds of despair die deep in her throat where he couldn’t hear them; he might decide she was still tense and start over.

“So you’re all showered, brushed, and tucked in... good end to a good day, pumpkin! Get yourself some shut-eye and be ready to be great again tomorrow! Night night!”

She was almost asleep when she heard him later, outside her door. Where he didn’t need to be. On a call she didn’t need to overhear. She sighed with relief. Not at what he said —which made her want to vomit— but at the sound of his old voice, his true voice.

“Oh, it’s going well. You know how it is... just another day of preparing my cattle for market.”

She wished so much that she hadn’t disappointed him. She truly did.

Patterns

He wants to leave. You can feel it. That’s why you’re here, living this moment, feeling your body slipping away from you. This is the price.

Daddy left you when you were eight, and never even said goodbye. Truth is, even before he left, he hardly said anything at all; when he was around, it was usually to hound Mommy for sex she refused to supply in exchange for money he didn’t have. Talking to his little girl —simply acknowledging your existence— was seldom on his agenda. And when it was, he most often took the opportunity to let you know exactly how you’d ruined his life.

The short-term uncles and drunken stepfathers who followed Daddy were better and worse, each in his turn. Some looked upon you with disdain, a few with a thoughtfulness that stirred something uncomfortable inside you, and one with a detached, passive pity that made you want to scream at him. None of them cared, not even enough to hurt you.

They didn’t care much more for Mommy, who you discovered was too stupid and selfish to ever hold on to them. You observed the same mistakes made, over and over, until you could see how she was everything she shouldn’t be, and nothing that any man would ever want to keep. She was always a disappointment.

So all these years later, when your own man quit his job, the rent was due, and he fell silently into a bottle of bourbon, no one even had to ask. You called the number, booked the gig, took the pills, and went to your knees. You surrendered your pride and your emptiness, destroying the former and deepening the latter. You’ve proven again that there is nothing you won’t do to make him admit he still loves you.

And now he’s downstairs in the car, waiting. He wants to leave. You can feel it.

copyright © 2014 bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls

Traditions

Melinda opened the door mid-knock. The man smiled down at her.

"I'm your new neighbor, right next door. I wanted to introduce myself," he said. With a smirking shrug, he swept past her into the apartment. When he spoke again, it sounded breezily rehearsed. "You don't mind if I come in? I like your books. Why don't we sit down?"

She was confused, and almost absentmindedly pushed her door shut before following him down the hall to the living room.

"I'm—" she began, realizing the absurdity of being the one to introduce herself, and yet unable to resist. "I'm Melinda."

"I knew a girl with that name once," he said as he dropped roughly on to her couch. He made himself comfortable and grinned. "I fucking hated her."

Again, she couldn't help herself. "Why? Wh— what did she do?"

"She talked too much," he said flatly, the grin disappearing completely.

"Oh! Oh. Um—" she said, thinking it through.

"But that's not what I hated," he interjected. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and stared deeply into her eyes. "What I hated was everything I had to do to shut her up. What she made me do.”

Melinda nodded. It was the only thing that made sense.

"Sit," he directed, and she did.

For some reason, she picked the most uncomfortable chair in the room.

"But see, I'm counting on you here." The smile returned, like spring come early. There was a buzzing in her ears. "I'm counting on you to do better than that other Melinda. I'm counting on you to be smart. You can be smart, can't you, Better Melinda?"

Her "yes" was in the air before she'd even considered the question.

"Good. Very good," he said, returning to his relaxed posture. "Do you have traditions, Better Melinda?"

"I—" Her thoughts raced. She had cravings... so, so many cravings. She had habits that regulated the cravings. She had fears that felt ancient and hereditary. But traditions? She couldn't say. It felt wrong, being almost thirty and unable to say. "I'm not sure."

"That's okay. I'm always sure enough for both of us. " He lightly patted the couch cushion next to him. "You probably don't know this, but there's a tradition in this building."

Her eyes narrowed, as if the spell had been broken. "You just moved—"

"I used to live in the building, with my ex." He patted the couch again. "One floor down. I could have moved into one of the units down there, but I told the super that this is as close as I want to get."

She had, as it turned out, a weakness to magic. "Oh."

"I lived there —suffered there, really— for three long years. Longer than you've been here, according to the super." Without warning, his eyes hardened and he brought his hand down on the cushion with a slap that suggested dire things for her face.

She was frozen in place, but a voice inside her knew what to do. She stood —and wobbled, as she realized she was shaking— and moved to his side. He put his arm around her and she settled into the embrace.

If there were any voices screaming at her to run, she couldn't hear them.

"You should really be careful about that guy, the super," he warned. "He told me a lot about you even before I slipped him a hundred bucks. He lets himself into your apartment when you're on campus. Did you know that?"

Her alarm was balanced by his warmth. It had to be wrong, the way she'd gone from feeling afraid to secure in a matter of minutes. It couldn't happen like that, not the right way. But she couldn't think about it too much; she was just too warm.

"No, I didn't know," was all she could reply.

"He goes through your stuff, copies your photos and videos off your iMac, cums in your food... the same stuff he does to all the women in the building." He laughed. "He's an old school pervert. He's always wanted to tell someone. He looked relieved."

"My— what food? Did he— did he say if he— with the videos—?" She felt serene, but her breathing quickened, and tears ran down her otherwise placid face.

He continued to laugh. "Are you talking about your personal collection of shame? Yes, hon. He told me I could buy a copy. (You're not his type, by the way. He wanted me to tell you that, if it ever came up.)" He sighed in exaggerated relief and this task completed. "He was asking a fortune... I suppose he could see I was a motivated buyer."

He sighed again, this time with something like sincerity.

"That's okay, though. I'll even things up with him someday."

"So, now you have—" she began.

"Yes," he said gently. "Now I have."

She appeared to be thinking. She wasn't thinking at all. Months later, when he recalled the moment in conversation, she would wonder for hours why he couldn’t tell. She didn't like wondering about that. It made her sad.

"So in this building, there's a tradition," he said, confident she understood the backstory. "We're not just neighbors. We're partners. We share a wall, we share a duty... we share everything. We swap wifi passwords. We swap keys. We can count on each other."

He patted her thigh just as he'd patted the cushion earlier. She knew if she were slow to act, the escalation would be even swifter. She stood and looked at him curiously.

"Go get me your spare set," he instructed, waving her away with a flick of his wrist. "And write down your password."

She would not remember searching through her junk drawer for the spare set. She would not remember writing down the password for her router. What she would remember was his voice saying, "Y'know what? Just write down all your passwords." She would remember the way her hand would not reach out to offer him the folded piece of paper, no matter how hard she tried. She would remember him leaning close and taking it.

"I obviously don't have to tell you why you're going to do as you're told. You understand your situation." He pulled her back down to the couch with him. "So really, we just have that one big question left to answer."

"What— which question?" she asked.

“The question I should have asked Other Melinda, when we were living downstairs.” He gripped her shoulder tighter, and leaned his face close to hers. She felt the world shrinking.

“Which question?” she whispered, her gaze unfocused.

“How much are you going to make me hate you?”

The Cult (working title)

Chapter One

Getting To Know You

He’d kept them waiting, but he was right on time.

The door closed behind him with a heavy click as he briskly strode to an oversized leather chair in the center of the otherwise spartan room. Around him —arranged in a haphazard arc— were a series of bean-bag chairs, and nestled within them —arranged in various states of anxiety— were a series of women.

He cleared his throat, mostly for effect. He already had their undivided attention.

“Good evening, ladies! And welcome to The Group,” he said, breaking what had been twenty minutes of awkward silence. There was a smile on his lips and in his eyes; the first for them and the second for him. “Kelly, kill the lights.”

Somewhere outside, the unseen Kelly did as she was told, and the room fell black. When he resumed speaking, it was as if his were the only voice left in the world.

“The dark,” he began, as he settled into his seat. He took a deep, comfortable breath. “It hides things; that’s the essence of its excellence. But it can also be revealing, if you know where and how to look.”

On cue, a projector activated at the back of the room. He casually plucked a pair of sunglasses from his pocket and placed them on his face as a montage of violent sexual imagery washed over him. A weeping drug addict with one man’s dick in her ass and another’s hand on her throat grimaced across his chest, while the tableau of a failed actress/singer/dancer being choked and degraded by an impractical penis graced his right shoulder. His face became a rapidly flashing mask of screaming, sobbing, sniveling girls; he literally smirked through their tears.

After a few moments, he continued.

“All of this… this theater,” he said, gesturing grandly and thus allowing a pair of brutal gang-bang scenes to play out upon his outstretched arms. “It’s just a brief, bright explosion at the end of a long countdown. It’s what happens when you’re all used up, like the fuel of a dying star.

“It’s scary, and powerful, and hotter than hell. And quite the spectacle.” There was a flash, and he was no longer adorned in porn. Instead, he was awash in a softly throbbing, blinding white light that made looking at him uncomfortable. “But it’s not the story.”

With that, the projector snapped off, and he slumped back in his chair.

“No, the story comes before the conflagration. And lives on long after.” They could hear him folding up the glasses and tucking them away, even as their eyes struggled to deal with the sudden transition. “The story is what you‘re living right now. It’s what you’re here to share. It’s what I’m here to put into words.

“Each of you is a thoughtful, intrepid young woman, trying to understand how she fits in a world that’s gone exquisitely, exhaustively wrong.” He laughed. “And each of you is also a pathetic, needy cunt, just looking for someone —anyone!— to teach her to see in the dark.”

He paused to consider the silence. “Relax, girls. It’s okay to breathe.” Someone giggled, setting off the rest. He allowed it to fade away naturally before he continued.

“Now, I know you’ve all been through orientation with my assistant Kelly— say hello, Kelly!” The lights flickered rapidly for a couple seconds, and two or three of the braver women laughed politely. “Kelly’s great, isn’t she? I don’t know if she mentioned it, but she started out just like you. She sat here with me, worrying about the decisions she’d made. Worrying that I would hurt her. Worrying that she might not want me to stop.

“She was right to worry,” he said, with what could only be described as predatory affection. “As are you all.

“But we’ll talk more about that later. Let’s do some introductions… Kelly, give me Jessica.” An unflattering spotlight burst to life above the young woman at the apex of the arc. “Ah, there you are, front and center! Ladies, say hello to Jessica!”

There was a murmured round of salutations.

“So, Jessie, just so everyone knows: you’re a virgin, right?”

Jessica’s face contorted in confusion, and she began sputtering. “N-no, I’m not— I’ve had plenty— you know, not a lot, but—!”

Still shrouded in darkness, one of the other women snorted dismissively. “He meant with The Group, stupid. You wouldn’t be here at all if you weren’t a slut.”

“Oh,” said Jessica. “I—”

“Was that Tara?” he interrupted. “Yes, of course it was. Funny you should say that, though, since it reminds me that you’re not a virgin… and yet you still spoke out of turn. I don’t need to tell you what comes next, do I, Tara?”

There was the sound of leather cushions relaxing, then footsteps in the darkness, followed by two sighs —one impatient, the other resigned— and the explosive crack of an open hand finding an unprotected face.

“Now, Jess,” he began, casually returning to his previous position and topic of discussion. “I believe you were telling us you’re a virgin.”

“I— yes. Yes, this is all new.” Her voice steadily fell as she spoke, reduced to a whisper at the end. “To me.”

“Of course it is,” he reassured her. “But don’t worry, we take good care of new girls here. Don’t we, everyone?”

A chorus of assent arose, absent a single voice.

“Don’t we, Tara?” It was strange, the way they all seemed to feel a stare they couldn’t see.

“We take care! We take great care!” came the hurt, hurried reply.

“You bet we do!” he said, his tone growing more cheerful. “So Jessie-love… before we go any further, is there anything you’d like us to know about you?”

“I— I don’t know.” She began to frown. “I just— I don’t know if this is all… if this is really for me.”

“Well, that’s a shame,” he said, sounding genuinely disappointed. When he resumed speaking, it was as if from a script. “But as everyone learns in orientation, we never want you to feel compelled to stay. The Group believes in the absolute right of each participant to walk out at any time. Nothing you see, hear, or experience in this room should in any way dissuade you from exercising the franchise of flight. At your request, a full refund of all fees and donations will be made available in the lobby. Shall I bring up the lights?”

Her frown deepened. “No. No. It’s not— look, I’m nervous, okay? And, I don’t know…”

“Please,” he offered. “Do go on.”

There was an extended pause as Jessica tapped her reserves of resolve.

“I understand,” she said, measuring her words carefully. “I get how this is supposed to… work, I guess. And I’m not judging anything going on here as, like, an observer… like, when you hit the other girl—”

“Tara,” he reminded her pleasantly.

“Sure, okay. Right. Tara.” His input seemed to arrest her momentum, but she quickly rallied. “I’m not shocked, and I’m not here to— to defend Tara, or whoever. That’s not it. There’s just little things —personal things— that are already pushing my buttons. Words you’re using that I— it sounds stupid when I start to say it aloud, but…”

“You should know it’s safe to sound stupid here, Jessie,” he said. A quiet, anonymous giggle floated by, it’s origin a few bean-bags away. He ignored it.

“There. That!” Jessica sat up as much as the seating would allow. “‘Jessie’ and ‘Jess’ and shit like that. I don’t— I’ve never liked people doing that to my name, and to be perfectly honest, I like it even less from you.”

After a moment of thoughtful silence, he approached her, towered over her for a moment, then squatted down and leaned into her space. He was bathed in her spotlight, but his face remained obscured in shadow.

“Here’s the thing, Jessica,” he said. “I have a policy that covers just this sort of thing, and having heard your concerns, I think I should spell it out for you. Sound good?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“I can explain it best with an example. Kelly, give me Tara.” The lights switched at his command, revealing his new point of interest. Suddenly exposed, Tara seemed to sink into her chair without moving a muscle, as if willing herself to invisibility. “You see, Tara here, her mother was really… I guess you might say, ‘disengaged’.

“As a mother, I mean. As a woman, she was engaged a lot, but never with one man for very long. I don’t want to speak ill of the living dead, so let’s just say that Tara had many more uncles than her mother had brothers, and they routinely made themselves at home in her world.

“Worse than that, though. Those mean ol’ men took her world away, didn’t they?” He rose and walked to Tara, his hand reaching for her. She flinched, but he cupped her chin, and forced her to squint into the glare. He squeezed her cheeks until she nodded her answer. “Mama didn’t have any love left for her little girl; she just gave it all away. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t love to be had.”

He patted her head fondly and withdrew.

“See, there was one special uncle: Uncle Terry. He came along when Mama was starting to wear herself out, and our girl here was just blossoming; no matter where he started looking, ol’ Terry’s gaze always found Tara. He cooked for her and bought her clothes and talked to her about life. After a while, it was almost like he forgot Mama was ever around, like Tara finally had a daddy. Or perhaps a strange kind of boyfriend.

“Because the thing you need to know about Uncle Terry, see, was that dear old Terry was addicted to pornography. The nasty stuff: drooling, vomiting skanks, choked and beaten, strung out and looking for the sort of fix that never fixes anything. He’d watch it in the living room after dinner, with a beer in one hand and the remote gripped tightly in the other; after a few uncomfortable evenings alone in her room, she decided to join him. Watching pretty girls suffer seemed to make him happy, and having never seen a happy adult, she was eager to understand how it worked.”

A ragged, heavy sigh escaped Tara’s throat; she closed her eyes and tried to hide her face with her hands as he continued.

“Using porn girls’ bodies like beaten-up, worn-out textbooks, he taught her to be a woman. She learned the performers’ names and the things that made them special; during really intense scenes, he would pause the action and critique it for her, frame by frame. It was a little like a father sharing his love of a sport with his child; of course, it was even more like a strange man sexually indoctrinating a minor, but she didn’t know that. He didn’t jerk off in front of her or molest her or anything, after all; he just liked sitting there with her, watching her watch. Showing her what men want. Showing her what she needed to become.”

Tara abruptly —almost angrily— crossed her legs and began squeezing her thighs together. Her mouth opened a little, but her eyes remained resolutely shut.

“Six months into her education, our girl awoke one morning to find him on the couch: Pornhub on his phone, cock in his hand, and a glassy, distant look in his unblinking eyes. Thanks to a previously undiscovered heart defect and a handful of boner pills, Terry had managed to die doing what he loved. She’d been under the impression that he loved her, of course, but no matter what he’d promised her —no matter how special he’d made her feel— his final act had proven that the whores were all that really mattered.”

The tip of one of Tara’s thumbs slipped between her lips.

“Now she’s twenty-three years old, with her bad skin and thin hair, sitting here feeling sorry for herself, wondering why she wasn’t good enough for Terry. Why she still isn’t good enough for anyone at all. Why he had to leave her so… unfinished.”

She grunted softly.

“Hey, pig,” he called out. “Tell Jessica your name.”

She grunted again, and her eyes fluttered. “A-Ashley,” she replied, as if remembering something half-forgotten. “Ashley.”

“Good, good.” He gave her a round of patronizing applause. “So who’s Tara?”

“His— she was his favorite,” she whispered. “The prettiest whore.”

“And why do I make you answer to her name?” he prompted, as if coaching a slow child.

“Because it hurts, not being her,” she answered, her voice hollow. “Because I was born— I was born to suffer, and this is what I need to be whole.”

“Good girl,” he said, mussing her hair playfully. He reached in his pocket, drew something out, and shoved it roughly into her mouth. “Have a cookie.”

As Tara chewed peacefully in a post-orgasmic shame-daze, he returned to his primary target.

“Kelly!” he barked, and the lights shifted back to Jessica without any further instruction. Kelly clearly knew a tone when she heard it. “Do you see where I’m coming from now?”

“I—“ she began, seemingly uncertain what the next word should be.

“The answer is ‘no’, Jessicunt,” he said, cutting her off. Her face looked almost relieved. “No, you don’t see. But I’ll show you. I’ll show you.

“I’ll minister to the broken little girl inside you, the one who brought you here tonight. I will dig through years of your inane, bullshit insecurities to find her. Then I will coax her out into this world of pain and make you fucking watch while I put her through hell and laugh at the screams.

“But most of all, Jessica?” He stepped toward her and grabbed a fistful of her hair. She cried out as he pulled her to her feet. “Most of all, I will teach you that no one in this room gives a fuck about what you like.”

That’s when he punched her.

copyright © 2018 bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls

Family Values Theater

“Th-that was my mom. He– um, he died. M-my uncle… he died.”

“That’s terrible, sweetie. Take off your blouse.”

“I’m not— I’m not sure about everything… anything, really, but he was in an accident. In a car. Accident.”

“Oh no, I hope he didn’t suffer. And the bra, too, genius.”

“Didn’t I— what?”

“I said that I hope he didn’t suffer. And told you to get your fucking tits out.”

“Yes. No. I mean— he didn’t suffer. She said it was… instantaneous.”

“Was anyone else hurt? Now the pants.”

“Christina. She— mom said Christina was in the car with him.”

“Is she going to be okay? Those panties are ugly, by the way; get rid of them, or I’ll set them on fire with you in them.”

“Pl-please, no, not now. Can we, please? Not? This is just not—”

“I asked how Christina is doing. I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“Yeah. Okay. She’s in the hospital, on a machine. There's— I guess there’s swelling or whatever, in her brain.”

“Poor baby. They’re doing amazing things with head injuries these days, so I’m sure she’s going to get better. You, meanwhile, just keep getting worse. I can smell your cunt, way over here.”

“Should I– do I need to shower or something? Now?”

“I wish, but no, I don’t have the time. And no shower will ever really get you clean, will it?”

“I… no, you’re right. You’re always right. I’m sorry I stink.”

“You should be; you really should. So, do they know what caused the accident?”

“They don’t. Or Mom doesn’t, at least.”

“What does that mean?”

“I feel like– it feels like I should be on my knees.”

“It’s that sort of keen insight that makes me wonder how you can be such a constant disappointment.”

copyright © 2016 BedtimeStoriesForBrokenGirls.com

Short Stories

“You never made me cum!” she screamed through her tears.

“I never tried,” he said as he closed the door.

Short Stories

“Why? Why do you keep doing this to me?” she wailed. “Don’t you know how much it hurts? D-don’t you care?”

He sighed and reached out to stroke her cheek.

“It’s not that I don’t care,” he said. “It’s just that I can’t take you seriously.”

Goodbye the Hard Way (Complete)

[CONTENT NOTE: Here be dragons. More explicit than a lot of my stuff, which will either make you think “yay!” or “yikes!”]

The room smelled like a toilet in a third-world brothel, and didn’t look much better. The only illumination came from a few bare, flickering lightbulbs dangling from an overhead network of haphazardly strung electrical wires, dimly revealing a cramped, stuffy space that seemed less a carefully crafted rape dungeon than the unfinished weekend remodeling project of an unmotivated suburban dad.

Of course, that’s how most rape dungeons eventually turn out. Everyone wants a classy, thoughtfully architected, carefully appointed place in which to nurture a woman’s nightmares; the dream, I suppose, is something like a panic room that keeps all the panic on the inside. Who doesn’t aim for a perfectly disguised secret entrance, a faultless security system, and the absolute knowledge that you own a soundproofed little corner of hell? But alas, even the most industrious of aspiring serial offenders too often have issues with commitment and impulse control; it’s practically in the job description. So the average fuck-lair inevitably winds up a shoddily-constructed, poorly-ventilated cross between a rat’s nest and a blanket fort. Pathetic, really.

But effective. Definitely effective. A woman never feels more like a woman than when she’s walled up within the failed ambitions of a vicious, violent man.

Or men, in this case; three of them, naked, giggling, and grunting as they knelt around the bedraggled husk of a twitching female body. They were high on… something, and intent on fucking or defiling every inch of her as she gurgled and gasped her way through what appeared to be a losing struggle for sanity and survival. It was obvious they’d been at her for days; most of her body was bruised to one degree or another, angry welts and cuts covered her tits and ass, and her face was a swollen, sodden mess. She was unrecognizable.

Well, to anyone except Bob. He stood in the doorway, surveyed the scene, and smiled slightly; not all the spit, piss, and cum in the world could ever hide her from him.

He cleared his throat. The humid little room fell silent, and three heads turned to him in unison, like nervous scavengers distracted from their feast.

“Gentlemen, could I interrupt? Would that be possible?” Bob smiled broadly and stepped inside, slouching a bit to accommodate the low ceiling. “I’m sorry, fellas, but I’m just dying to ask the –heh– lady a couple questions, and I’m afraid she’s not going to be in any shape to answer if you keep at her much longer. If you’ll give me a few minutes with her, well… I’d really appreciate it.”

A trio of mute, irritated stares served as the sole response, much as he’d expected. They’d been on the stuff –and on her– for so long now that anything not related to destroying a cunt was a challenge for their fried little pervert-brains to process.

“If you guys could help me out, I’d be really grateful,” he continued. “Grateful enough, in fact, to direct you to my sister-in-law, a younger, prettier version of that used-up mess you’ve been chewing on.”

The rape-jackals’ irritation began to melt into frustrated curiosity. Stupid little monsters, he thought.

“My sister-in-law, who is quietly, cluelessly waiting for you right now, upstairs, in your living room.” Bob stepped to one side and grandly gestured toward the doorway and narrow staircase just beyond it. “She thinks we’re here to buy weed, so she’ll never see you coming. Have at her!”

No one moved. Bob sighed, steadied himself, and again pointed patiently but emphatically at the door.

“Go! Now! Go fuck it!”

Having finally heard something they could understand through a haze of bath-salts and ED pills, the rapists clambered to their feet; as if at the opening of a gate, they charged forward, up the stairs, and into the house above, leaving Bob alone with his object of interest. Moments later, they heard a surprised squeal, followed by a series of enthusiastic yelps and a maniacal cackling that could only be described as “appreciative”.

Bob leaned into the stairwell and shouted up at them.

“Yes, absolutely, you’re welcome! Great to be working with you guys! We’ll catch up later, ‘kay?”

Amid the crashing of glassware and overturning of furniture above them, a woman could be heard trying to scream, but the sound was cut off almost instantly. It was difficult to be certain, but as the noises transitioned toward the low, guttural, and rhythmic, it seemed as if they had the little cunt well down the path to destruction. Satisfied, Bob smiled again, and turned back to what remained of his wife.

“Hey there, baby. I thought they’d never leave!”

The was-a-woman remained still and silent as Bob approached. Her blood-red eyes tracked his movements through strands of matted hair as he carefully navigated over and around the numerous puddles and stains that told the tale of her travail.

“Well, hell. Look at you!” he said, squatting next to her in one of the few spots that her body had yet to contaminate. “What’s happened to you now, hm? Got yourself into quite a mess, haven’t you? I was just coming by to drop off Julie–”

“Ng!” grunted the fuck-thing, her mind seemingly stirred from its disassociative stay-cation by the sound of a familiar name. She was still at arm’s-length from reality, but that was good enough for Bob. He only needed her close enough to touch.

“What? Oh, yeah, that’s her up there. Heh. With them.” Bob smiled pleasantly. “Yeah, they are– I guess I don’t have to tell you this, but they’re gonna fuck up her world. Shame to miss it, really… but y'know, sometimes sacrifices have to be made.“

Mrs. Bob seemed to make an effort to scowl through the mottled, swollen mask of pain that had replaced her face, but didn’t have the energy for more than a slow, intense blink. Satisfied, Bob continued.

“The point is that I was on my way out of town, I knew you were down here getting worked over, and I just had to pop in and see how you’re doing,” he said, admiring her new owners’ handiwork. For a trio of intoxicated sex weasels, they clearly had skills.

“You’re looking great, by the way!” Bob held up his phone and snapped a photo; the viscous layer of genetic material that coated every surface of her body glistened as the flash went off. “I mean, I can honestly say, as someone who has always been disappointed in how you look, this new thing you’ve got going on really works for me. Everything about it just screams you–”

He was interrupted by a mournful, sustained howl of hopelessness, emanating from upstairs. The sort of cry one might hear from a wounded animal that’s too exhausted to fight, and too afraid to surrender. Or a young woman who has just realized that her bowels will never function properly again.

“And speaking of screams, there she goes! Jesus, listen to her…!” As Bob marveled at the sound, it began to fragment and sputter; it seemed that her lungs were struggling in vain to give full voice to her outraged nerves. Bob rolled his eyes and sighed.

“Pft. This again,” he said with an exaggerated weariness, before standing and returning to the basement door. Once again, he shouted into the stairwell.

“BREATHE IN THROUGH YOUR NOSE AND OUT THROUGH YOUR MOUTH, JULIE! LIKE I SHOWED YOU, IDIOT!”

Bob looked back at the twitching, drooling spectacle of suffering that he had once promised to love, honor, and cherish.

“Sorry for that, but she forgets to breathe sometimes when you shove stuff in her ass,” he offered casually. “She has, uh– heh, she’s been having a rough weekend. Not as bad as yours, obviously, but– but bad.”

They listened quietly as the sounds of struggle briefly intensified, and then collapsed into muffled, choked sobs.

“Hm. And just like that, she’s quiet again; they must have put a bag over her head! Ha! That’s fantastic, just fantastic.” Confident that they would face no further interruptions, Bob returned his full attention to the quasi-conscious abuse-sponge with whom he shared a mortgage. “Did you know your little sister is afraid of the dark? I had no idea, until she spent all night whimpering about it, locked inside our bedroom closet.”

As he approached, he held one hand aloft and tapped each dangling lightbulb he passed, making them sway gently and blanket the room in an ever-shifting pattern of colliding shadows.

“She didn’t cry much during all the fucking and what-not, but I shut her in there with your shoe collection, and she instantly turned on the waterworks.” Bob leaned against the wall nearest her. “People are funny… I guess sometimes, they just need a chance to see it coming.”

The wretched creature at his feet sagged, clearly exhausted. Whatever feeble biochemical rush had animated her upon his arrival was rapidly forsaking her, but he wasn’t quite finished, and thus gave her a solid kick. When his boot made painful contact with her shoulder, she rocked back, opened her eyes wide, and fought to raise her face to his. She’d learned over the last few days to focus on giving men what they want, a lesson Bob had honestly hoped she could learn some other way.

He noticed for the first time that the weasels had written things on her body in what he could only assume was lipstick. Her thighs, cunt, stomach, and back were adorned with childlike, smeared, and grammatically alarming phrases suggesting which of her holes should be used (all of them), what should be put in them (pretty much everything), and to whom this courtesy should be extended (pretty much everyone). Across her wounded and battered tits, they had simply scrawled “FUCK PIG”.

“Gotta tell you, I find it interesting that they went straight to ‘pig’ with you,” Bob said. “As infuriating, frustrating, and underwhelming as you’ve been as both a wife and a woman, I saw you more like a dog; your empty-eyed admiration was nice, you were fun to pet, and loyal when treated well.

“I did treat you well… right, Becky? I mean, you asked for something, and no matter how stupid, pointless, or wasteful, I tried to give it to you. You know I did. That’s why I trusted you; I knew you’d be a good bitch for me.”

Bob shook his head.

“And trust is why I kept you around for so long. I mean, let’s get real… your drop-off from nineteen to twenty-five has been, what’s the word–? Precipitous. Yeah, fucking precipitous. But the way I see it, you don’t get rid of a puppy just because it grows up to be fat and stupid. That’s your fat, stupid dog, buddy! You stick with that useless mutt through good times and bad, because it’s your job. Because that’s what a man owes his animal.

“Until, of course, the day comes when you have to send her to live on a farm upstate.” Bob’s grin returned. “Oh, fun fact? This place is neither a farm, nor upstate. Wouldn’t it have been cool if it had worked out the other way? I know, right? Heh.”

His laughter trailed off, as laughter often does when it exists only to be heard. Despite all he knew, and all he’d done because of what he knew, Bob couldn’t help feeling wistful. Finality was never something he’d controlled; more often than not, it had hunted him down and wrested away everything he longed to keep. Feeling it in his grasp for the first time was a sobering, almost religious experience.

But the airlines wait for no man, even one grappling with the awesome power of fate. He drew as deep a breath as he dared and clapped his hands in resolution, startling the room’s fleshy centerpiece.

“Welp, I need to get out of here and catch a plane!” he announced. “Selling these guys a set of sisters has been super-lucrative, and I plan to be relaxing on a tropical beach while you and fucking Julie start your own adventures. You are finally going to make me happy, and for the first time, I’m feeling really good about our relationship.”

He returned one last time to the doorway, hesitated, and glanced back.

“But just between you and me, cupcake… did it really have to be your pussy little yoga instructor? Was that a choice you just had to make? There wasn’t anyone else in this entire city that you could have fucked…?” His question trailed off, as questions often do when they’re asked after it’s far too late. “I mean, if you were going to disrespect me and the sanctity of our sham of a marriage, the least you could do is fuck someone better looking than me! Someone more successful, someone with a better family name. Anything that would have shown me you weren’t just a stupid whore who thinks with her cunt. That you still had values… or at least value.”

An unfamiliar feeling bloomed within Bob, and he paused to consider it. It felt a little like regret, only without the sense of responsibility. It felt a bit like sadness, without actually caring. It felt like mourning, before the body’s even in the ground.

Oh, he thought. Pity. It’s pity.

“If you’d shown me anything, I would have let it go. I swear to you, I would have looked the other way. I might have slapped you around a little, yeah, but it would have blown over. Things didn’t need to go this way.

“I’m sorry you were such a goddamned fool.”

He walked up the stairs into his bright tomorrow, and left her to her eternal, squalid today. As he went, he bid her the fondest farewell he could muster.

“Bye, pig.”

copyright © 2015-2017 bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls

Short Stories

“Please! Don’t do this!” she cried, struggling helplessly. “They— these people, they’re sick! I’m their nurse! They need me!”

The collar snapped into place with a heavy, meaningful click.

“It’s a shitty world and we’re all sick,” he replied, dragging her out the door to his horse. “But now I got me some insurance on a leash.”

Better Left

“What don’t you like about me?” she asked, her voice small and her eyes big.

“Your height. Your weight. Your piercings. Your tattoos.” He sighed. “You know, everything nature gave you, and everything you chose for yourself.”

“D-do you—” she whispered as her heart collapsed under its own gravity. Tears raced down her cheeks, as if anxious to escape the scene of a calamity. “Is— is there anything you... you do like?”

He smiled. It was the only lie he had to tell.

“I like that you cried when a real woman would have roared. I like that your panties are wet right now. I like knowing your story before its told, and I like knowing who you’ll dream of when you’re old.

“Turns out, the best parts of you are those the world has thrust upon you.”

Routine

Monday: “Good morning, love! Have a beautiful day!”

Tuesday: “Shut up and go away for a while. I’m sick of you.”

Wednesday: “It’s okay, I forgive you for being stupid.”

Thursday: “Why do you always make me regret caring? I can’t even remember anything I like about you right now.”

Friday: “That was yesterday, baby. Why can’t you let things go? Maybe you don’t love me the way I love you.”

Saturday: “Oh, please. That was a lie, obviously. I can have my pick of girls, and you’re... what? You didn’t seriously think you were worthy of me, right?”

Sunday: “That’s it, good girl. Choke on it. Choke until I know you're sorry. That's right. Yes, honey, I love you too. I promise. It'll all be different, starting tomorrow.”

The Void

Prologue

The tickets were easy. It wasn’t her first trip, so she moved through the process of booking a flight with little thought. There was a nervous flutter in her stomach while she packed, but she ignored it, and concentrated on finding her passport.

The plane was crowded, and the men sitting on either side of her helped themselves to all of the available space. She said nothing. The one on her left smelled of cheese and sweat; the one on her right smiled brightly when she made eye contact, but there was something in his eyes that made her worry what might happen if she fell asleep. She couldn’t allow… anything. Not when she was so close. Not when the wait was almost over.

So she sat rigid and awake for nine straight hours, staring intently at the back of the seat in front of her. No one tried to touch her, but she still received with relief the news that they were landing in the States.

There was a problem with her car rental, and as he typed and squinted and sighed his way through a resolution, the man at the counter joked that they didn’t usually rent to teenagers. She couldn’t tell if he was trying to flatter or unnerve her, but quickly remembered it didn’t matter. His motivations were irrelevant. He was irrelevant.

She shivered miserably as the GPS guided her to her destination; the car’s air conditioning was set to “high” and all the vents were pointed directly at her. He’d said he wanted her body chilled for their first meeting, so his hands would burn a little wherever he touched her. Secretly, she thought he might just want to know what it would feel like to hold a little dead girl.

He was a shape in the twilight, standing next to a car in a field when she parked nearby. Her hands felt welded to the steering wheel, and her legs refused to move. She was so close. The wait was almost over.

When he opened the door and took her hand, she began to cry.

And didn’t stop crying for quite some time.

Epilogue

“Why do we need this Skype nonsense? Why can’t we just talk on the phone, like normal people?”

“This is— I need you to be able to see me, dad. So you’ll believe me.”

“Okay, I see. Wonderful. What are you asking for this time? What did you do?”

“It isn’t that. It isn’t even like that.”

“It is always like that. Always.”

“I’m not asking for anything today. Today is a confession.”

“Save me your excu— what? What are you talking about?”

“I’ve been lying to you, but I can’t keep it up. I’ve given up.”

“Given— are you on drugs or something?”

“Or something, papa.”

“Okay, enough. What is this? What is going on with you?”

“Let’s start with the littlest lie, since it’s the most recent: I didn’t fly to the US for a conference. I’m not in Philadelphia.”

“Are you— where are you?”

“I’m not sure. America is so big, and I can’t remember all the states. I think we were in a Dakota at one point, but I passed out and woke up somewhere else.”

“You were— is there someone— are you alone?”

“No, papa. I’m not alone.”

“Who the hell are you with? What are you mixed up in?”

“You don’t understand; I’m not mixed up anymore. That’s why I want to talk to you.”

“You are. You’re on drugs. Your mother will die when she hears this, you know that don’t you?”

“I don’t think you should tell mum about this conversation. I don’t think you’ll want to.”

“Look, just— just shut up now. You’ve already caused enough trouble. We just need to sober you up, figure out where you are, and bring you home.”

“I’m where I’m supposed to be. I don’t know if it’s a home, exactly, but I belong here. I’m— I’m sorry, but I’m not going back.”

“Yes. Yes, you are. You’ll be back on the next plane. And then you will explain yourself to me. You’ll explain how all of my hope and hard work and sacrifice keeps ending up like— like this.”

“Your dreams weigh too much, papa; they broke me. I can’t bear then anymore, and I’m putting them down.”

“Wh— what are you trying to—?”

“But it’s like, carrying your burden all of these years— it changed me. He says it bent me— disfigured me. Which makes me sad, but I think he’s right. He always is, even when he’s wrong. That’s the— that’s the part that’s so— I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to describe—”

“What is wrong with your face? Why are you talking like this? Who the hell is ‘he’?!”

“He’s everything. Just everything.”

“You’re—”

“I know you tried, daddy. I really do. You wanted to raise me right, but I— I was never sure, when it was just something a priest was reciting. I believed, but I didn’t know, you know? But he— he’s showed me I have a soul, dad. A real soul. I can hear it sing when he’s sweet to me. I can feel it ache when he shows me how small and meaningless I am without him.”

“I— I need you to focus. Stop this— whatever this is. Damn it, where are you?!”

“I’ll never be able to make you understand. I know that. I’ll never be able to make you happy. I know that, too. But I didn’t want to start my new life without telling you how hard I tried. How much you meant to me.”

“Stop it! I’ve had enough!”

“Most of my life, you were— you were the only star in the sky. Everything in my world, even the things you didn’t know about— I did it all to please you. Or placate you. Or spite you. And it worked.

“I— I should have been a failure. I never cared enough about what I did. I never respected my opportunities. And yet I succeeded, for one reason. Fear.”

“Please…”

“Fear of your rage. Fear of your pain. Fear of your silence. Most of all, fear of your disappointment. Everything I am, everything I’ve done, I owe to— to the most terrifying parts of you.”

“Please, stop…”

“Soon enough. I’m going to miss you, dad.”

“What is— is something going to happen? To you?”

“It’s already happened. But it will definitely happen again. I hope it never stops happening.”

“Is someone— has he hurt you?”

“Of course. Of course he has. It’s how he teaches me and exploits me. It’s how he builds and destroys me.”

“What has he— are you—?”

“Ruined? Yes. I’m sorry. None of your friends’ sons would ever have me now. It’s far too late for that kind of happy ending.”

“What… have you done?”

“What I was always going to do. From the moment you first tried to be proud of me but couldn’t; from the moment I learned that I would never be enough. This is where I’ve been heading. I crave acceptance so much that I will abandon everything, cross half the planet, and turn my body over to a man who treats it like a toy.”

“Shut up. Shut your filthy mouth.”

"He hurts me so much, but just for fun; he doesn’t use it to get what he wants. Like you, he can break me without laying a finger on me. I’m— I’m a thing now. You probably can’t see it yet, but it’s true. He’s made me a thing. His thing. He explained it to me one night, what I really am, and it all made— it made so much sense.

“Can you— can you even imagine what that means? What it’s like to have someone just— just talk you out of being a person? It’s terrifying, when I think about it. The way his voice moves things around in my head, it’s like nothing I’ve ever thought or felt was real; nothing was fixed. But he’s fixed me now. I’m set in stone.”

“I can’t— why are you saying these things?”

“Because I love you. Because he’s changing me, and you won’t be able to recognize me soon. Because when he’s— when he’s done with me, on some far-off day… I’m sorry, I start to cry when I think about him being done. I didn’t want to cry in front of you this time. I know you hate it. I’m so, so sorry.”

“I—”

“When he’s— when he’s finished, when he’s finally wrung me out and he’s ready to set me aside… he promised. He promised what would happen. He promised I wouldn’t suffer alone.”

“What does that mean? Tell me right now what that means!”

“I can hear his car outside. It’s time, dad. I have to go.”

“Tell me what that means!”

“It means don’t look for me, because you won’t like what you find. I’ve got to go now.”

“You can’t— no! Don’t you— don’t you dare—!”

“I love you all. I truly do. Please forgive me. For never being quite right.”

“No!”

CALL ENDED.

copyright © 2018 bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls