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A pop-up book of flowers from grade 4 are driving her insane...


Postby reza » 5/1/2006, 12:04 am

A short story I wrote for my class, my prof was a little 'meh' about it so I don't know if I should rewrite or scrap it or what....any advice?

I feel limp, lifeless and numb. My entire life I have woken up only to realize that I’m still asleep. Stricken with fear because of what lies before me, I reach for a glass of water. The street lights illuminate the room, casting a deep shadow directly behind where the bed sits. The sounds of trucks barreling down the freeway litter the area. Someone always has somewhere to go, even at this time of the night. I decide to close the drapes and seat myself once again on the edge of the bed waiting for him to return. I have been running away from him my entire life only to place myself in a situation such as this. This is for everything I have lost. My sorrow outweighs my joy.

I check to make sure that the door is unlocked one last time before I rest my head on a tear-soaked pillow. I clutch my left thumb with a fist that I have created with my right hand, a habit I picked up as a child. I can still remember when I first did it. I was at my grandmother’s funeral at the age of three, and my father told me that it would help if I was afraid. It did. My tears add to the pillow as I curl up and slip into the fetal position. My courage is outweighed by my fear.

I try to console myself by rationalizing it. ‘I mean, it isn’t like this is the first time, I’m not really being forced. It’s my decision and I made it, like a mature...’ I hear the door knob turn. It’s him. I begin taking deeper breaths and start crying a littler louder, despite my conscious attempt to control myself. He opens the door and walks into the dimly lit motel room and sees me in all my glory and begins to unbutton his shirt. Suddenly, I hate him even more than before. THE PIG. What kind of person desires to fuck anyone in my kind of state. My anger out weighs my serenity.

“Hey, are you uh…going to be wearing that? I’d rather have it off,” says the Pig, his debonair way of telling me to take my clothes off. He is wearing a denim shirt with blue jeans and a belt with a buckle that reads “It’s Bigger in Texas.” HICK. He has already taken off a blue and white trucker hat, revealing his unkempt dirty brown hair. My disgust and repulsion outweigh his allure.

I undress myself leaving the reminisce of the tears and my hurt around my eyes. My pale, slim, nude naked body exposed, I lay myself back on the bed, this time facing the ceiling. He is completely undressed now, sans a gold chain around his neck, a wedding band on his left hand and a tattoo that reads ‘Trucking is for red necks.” He has a hefty, unattractive frame. A beer gut is situated below a hairy chest, if you can call it that. He has to be a full cup bigger than I am. My anxiety outweighs my jealousy.

He climbs on top of me and my eyes begin tearing up again. He cannot see them anymore, his head is hovering just above my shoulder. He tries to kiss me, perhaps to make things easier for him. What a romantic. I immediately turn away and suddenly I cannot wait until it happens. The sooner he starts, the sooner it ends. He goes inside of me and begins thrusting, I lay motionless, waiting for it to end. I focus my eyes on the light fixture on the ceiling, my lens of tears makes my vision blurry. He is grunting and snorting, no kidding…snorting. Who snorts while they make love? Sorry, fuck. This isn’t love, it is nothing more than primal animal desire. At least on his end. For me it is nothing more than survival. My body sinks into the bed with each thrust, I cannot fathom what is taking him so long. Is he trying to satisfy me or something. I try to put my thumb in my fist but I’m afraid to put my arm around him, fearing that it would encourage him. I keep my hands on his side and pray that this ends soon. My pain is heavier than my anticipation for the end.

Suddenly I feel his arm raise and slap me across my face, it burns as though I have just been hit in the face by a basketball.

“Don’t just lie there you bitch, I’m paying you for this,” says the Pig in a merciless tone.

I begin crying even louder as he pulls my auburn hair and I arch my back. The bastard seems to enjoy my pain and misery. He begins thrusting harder, faster. His groans become louder and fiercer, and then, it ends. He flops onto the other side of the bed and my breathing softens. I cannot believe what has just occurred. I lift my voice out of my chest in an attempt to remove myself from the situation.

“Make sure you leave the money on the nightstand,” I know you’re supposed to ask them to do that from the movies.

The pig snorts and lifts himself off the bed, but not before he slaps me one last time, it hurts less. I lie motionless and pull the sheets over my naked body as he dresses himself. He removes a few bills from his shirt pocket and throws it on the floor. I didn’t bother paying any attention to how much he gave, I was still busy with my light fixture. He begins opening the door. My pain outweighs my contempt.

“Fucking whore,” he offers as he leaves me to dwell on my agony. Now my contempt outweighs my pain, he has made me realize my true value. That’s all I am now. The thing with my profession is that it gets easier with each day, once it is ritualized and you numb yourself to what it is that you’re doing. My entire life I have woken up only to realize that I’m still asleep, today is not any different. I am in hibernation in an emotionally dormant stage, immune to the pain created by what it is that I do. I lie there, limp, lifeless and numb.
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