Ugly.
That's what I was. That's what I am.
That's how he makes me feel. I lay with half my face pressed against the feather pillow, the hundred thread count pillow case made from Persian cotton, and the floral pattern that stands out indents my cheeks. My half clothed body pushes against the silk sheets of the bed he shares with his wife while he pushes in and out of me.
He groans in my ear, moans, and pants through a breathless whisper about how beautiful I am. How tight I am. How wet I am. His fingers press into my hips harshly gripping the flesh of my skin, his touch sends painful jolts through my body, and he thrusts himself into me, hard. Painfully. Like, I'm the ones who's hurt him.
Over and over.
I feel the muscles in my stomach and of my core tighten around the intruder that wasn't invited and hot liquid filling up my insides. His sweat drips from his forehead onto my back, his hand glides over the skin of my spine, my lower back, to the flesh of my behind and gives it a harsh squeeze before once again pushing. Prodding. Leaning his weight against me before he leaves.
"I need to see that pretty face of yours."
He flips me over. My shirt gets tossed to the floor. Exposed.
Sun kissed skin, pale green eyes, hair that's usually gelled back perfectly now looks unkempt from the strenuous activity he's been engaging in for fifteen minutes and forty five now forty six seconds. Toned chest, not a hair out of place, and thick arms used to force me into submission raise up and ripple as he brushes his hand through golden locks and wipes the perspiration from his face as he smiles.
He leans over me, eyes roaming over my face, my eyes, my nose, lips, hair. I feel his gaze but I don't and can't return it.
Frozen.
That's what I was. That's what I am.
That's how he makes me feel. I lay with my back pressed against the the silk sheets made from a place I've never been. The pillow rests under my head and it just makes it easier for him to press his lips to mine. The sheets feel like air against my skin as I'm pressed against this bed that he and his wife share in the nighttime.
His breath hits my ear, his hands touch my body kneading and groping the flesh that I had grew into all too soon. He pants, moans, and god, he groans about how gorgeous I am. How ready I was. How soft my skin is. Lips on my neck, teeth grazing my shoulder, his chest pressed against mine, the intruder comes back again.
Over and over.
He thrusts. Hard. Faster and faster. His weight holding me down. The endless rocking, pushing, prodding, and feeling of him doesn't go away. His mouth latches onto me. His tongue swirls and his lips suck the sensitive place that now holds no feeling. He makes a sound of pleasure. I make no sounds at all. His hands grip me, they grope me, they own me.
"Shit, you're so hot for me. You like that? ... Oh, fuck, I know you do."
He answers his own questions.
It's feels endless and while pleasures himself with the lifeless body below him, I watch the ceiling. Counting the little bumps and ridges wondering why most seem to be that way. Count the light fixtures in the chandelier. Count the minutes, the seconds until its over. All I can do is wait.
Years ago I had learned that begging them to stop only eggs them on. Crying makes them laugh. Locking doors is futile and wearing frumpy clothes only makes them wonder what's underneath. Stay out late and they wait for you. Tell them you're a virgin and they want to be your first. Don't like girls and well, they can fix that. So I wait. Wait until they get tired. Wait until they have to be at work with only twenty minutes to spare. Wait until its almost time for their significant other to return home.
I wait and count the time that seems to go at snails pace as they commit crimes they could never be convicted of.
I feel him. I feel him slowing. I feel myself constricting and then I feel light again. I feel nothing. He falls down against me. Wetness fills me again. Its runs between us, down my thighs, and onto the marble floors. My body slick with sweat of me or him, I didn't know, but I also didn't care. It was over. God, it was over and I could leave.
He kisses my neck.
"You came so hard."
He makes it sound casual. He thinks it is casual.
"Damn, I forgot the condom."
He laughs. He thinks it's funny.
His hands my find my breasts. He doesn't remove himself and still I'm counting. He lays against me like we're lovers and we just got done proving ourselves to one another. His mouth finds mine. He bottom half moves inside of. It's not over. He's not tired. He's off work today. I didn't cry. This was his room. I was wearing sweatpants and a tank top. It's two forty five in the afternoon. I wasn't a virgin. I was straight. His wife will be home at six.
I didn't say no, stop, nor did I try to fight back. I lay there. Stiffer than a board and still, he thinks, somehow we're both enjoying it. I tried the first time. He told me I was in his home, he and his wife were doing me a favor by letting me stay with them so I could least show him my appreciation. I said no, stop, and god, as my witness, I tried to fight him. I moved around like a worm that had gotten stepped on. He said we'd both enjoy it.
His bedroom door slams open.
She's early. Or maybe she forgot something.
A Chanel bag falls to the floor. A loud--female--gasp replaces his moan in my ears. He pulls away quickly. Intruder gone. Empty is a feeling I welcome. The click of heels fast approaching resonate through the room and still I'm frozen. I wish I wasn't. I was slow to get up, rolling my aching body away from the bed and I should have been faster.
Thirty minutes and nineteen seconds.
I thought I had my savior. Never have the women come home and caught their men in the act. She saw what he was doing. She rushes towards me. A fire in her eyes. Then I feel the stinging sensation against my cheek. A Powerful rose scent in my nostrils. Metallic in my mouth.
"What were you doing to him?!"
What was I doing to him. What was I, a sixteen year old, five foot seven, one hundred and ten pound girl doing to a thirty six year old, six foot three, two hundred and twenty pound man.
He answers her question.
"Honey, oh god, thank god, you're home. She's been coming onto me and trying to seduce me for weeks now. Every time you leave for your book club she tries to get me into bed. I think she put something in my drink."
Ivory skin. Chestnut brown hair. Small frame. Large breasts that made her look inhuman. Injected lips, pulled back cheek bones. A Kardashian wannabe that went to the wrong surgeons. I thought she'd be my savior. I thought she'd see through his twisted tale of the events. The lie that slipped of his tongue so easily like this wasn't his first time spewing the words.
It was him who had initiated. He had been for five months now. Every other Monday at twelve in the afternoon she went to her "book" club until six that same evening. Every other Monday at twelve he made sure he was at home. Every other Monday at twelve he dragged me into this room or any room that had surface wide enough and sturdy for the both of us. Every other Monday at twelve--except for last month--had he taken it upon himself to take me.
The first three months I still had my reluctance. My hope that he'd stop. He liked the fight. The fourth month it was fading. He brought me nice things. The fifth month I stopped trying. He thought that meant I liked it. I kept my mouth shut. I started counting and he stopped wearing condoms. 'It feels better' he told me.
I'm still naked. His eyes still roam like they haven't gazed and he hasn't grazed. She looks disgusted. My savior. She slaps me again. A pain runs down my arm as nails dig in my skin as she yanks me off the bed. I grab the silk sheet to give myself at least the benefit of modesty. She pulls me out the room and drags me down the hall.
"Grab your things and by things I mean those awful clothes and that raggedy bag you came here with."
She pushes me into the room I had been staying in. I get dressed and grab my torn back pack.
"I let you come into my home. I get you out of that disgusting group home and you repay me by sleeping with my husband! That is how you show your gratitude?"
Blue eyes that used to be a warm brown stare coldly into my mine and await an answer I can't give. An answer that she wouldn't believe. She scoffs and plonks down the stairs me trailing after her and behind me, her deceitful, rapist, adulterer, of a husband.
He stays silent for once.
It's refreshing.
She opens the door dramatically and heads towards her car. The flashy BMW's headlights flicker and the sound of doors unlocking filter the air. She pulls the door open roughly and pushes me into the back seat. He gets into the driver seat, her the passenger. The car purrs to life, pine scent in my nose, sun on my skin, breeze coming through the window.
She yells at him.
"How could you let that little tramp into our bed, Steven?! Our bed! God, I'm disgusted."
"I told you, she must've slipped something into my drink. I didn't even feel like myself as I was--God, I can't even think about it, Holly. I'm so sorry. I couldn't have foreseen it, she's such a sweet girl."
"So you thought."
"We thought."
"Oh, no, I knew she was good for nothing but I thought maybe I could turn the pumpkin into the carriage. Take her to a gala or two. Show her the life. Now Bethany and the girls are going to use me as their punchline."
"Don't tell them. Say she stole from us and that we just couldn't sleep at night knowing we had a thief among our selves nor any of our past and future guest."
"Brilliant."
"I did go to Yale."
They laugh.
I stop listening. Instead I focus on the scenery. The nature. Anything to keep my mind off the fact that I hadn't washed him off of me. His essence that was deposited in side of me still there. The sweat on my skin marinating. The feeling of his hands, his mouth, his invasion, all too fresh. The thought of the dehumanizing act he's going to spin into a story of robbery and act of kindness gone wrong.
He saves his own skin by using mine as armour.
She saves face by painting mine into hue of dark colors.
I keep my focus out the window. The trees a blur of reds and yellows turning orange as autumn approaches. Meticulously mowed lawns a bright hue of green that could make paint and crayons jealous. The black asphalt of the streets conjoining the yellow separation lines. We drive. He drives. She sits and I wonder what she's thinking. If she truly believes the dishonesty that fell from his lips.
Forty five minutes and twenty seven, now twenty eight seconds had we sat in this vehicle in a palpable silence. He turns on the radio. Soft rock fills my ears, she changes the station. Classical music takes it place. Trees with no color make their appearance, dead bark, and cracked concrete replace the peaceful nature. Smoke fills my nose, dust gets into my eyes, I roll up the window. We reached the city.
Another twenty minutes in the vehicle with my abuser and his curtain. The car slows to a stop. She hurriedly gets out and yanks my door open along with me. I grab the tattered back pack with only seconds to spare as the door skims my hand as it closes with a slam. The air smells like burnt rubber and Holly twists her nose up.
It was an urban area. A grey smog seem to hang over like a cloud. The sky was still blue, but gone was the grassy terrane, the houses that held families, the large driveways with multiple luxury cars and in it's place was cracked streets with gaping potholes. Abandoned buildings with older looking people sat in front of them. Women with skimpy skirts walk aimlessly.
"Let's hurry so we can get back home, Stevie."
Her firm grip encases my upper arm again. Tight. It'll leave a bruise and it's times like this that I'm thankful for the dark skin that covers my skeleton. It won't be as noticeable. She pulls me across the street, I trip over a crack, she huffs and tugs me back. Steven walks beside her, like he's too good to be on this side of the city. Like, he's better than the homeless man rummaging through the dumpster on the side of the beat up apartment building.
When in actuality he's worse.
Pulled again. Her heels clack against the concrete an annoying sound that repeats over and over. She doesn't miss a step. She doesn't trip in a pothole. Her steps hold purpose. Their confident. She knows she's better than everyone even though she looks no better than the sex workers wearing faux fur and bright, tight mini skirts that are two sizes too small.
We approach the stone building. It was large but not all it of use. The top seared with black and boarded windows. It looked almost like a church. It might have been an old one when the streets were clean, the neighborhood was friendly, and the people told you good morning as you walked by.
Peterson's youth home.
I read the words engraved in the stone.
For boys.
I feel rigid. I feel cold even if the day is warm. So I stop. Holly makes a disgruntled noise due to my abrupt halt. She rolls her eyes and tugs me forward. I feel sick, I feel my heart hammering against my chest, I feel sweat forming against the back of my neck. I also feel Stevens discretion in my underwear and it makes me want to vomit the meal I haven't eaten.
I get no say in this. Steven says nothing. Holly wants me gone and when they want you gone well, that's just it for you. Gone are the meals whenever you want, the hot showers that stay that way, the warm blankets, the cable TV accompanied with streaming services. Everything just gone. Steven pulls open the large wooden doors with no effort and hold it open as Holly and I step through.
She strides with purpose. She strides with anger. She strides with a less than noticeable uncomfortable gait as she takes in her surroundings. Heels clack against the floor, dress shoes tick on polished ground, sneakers scuff tarnishing the shine. Three different sounds, three different people, two with the same purpose, two have no control, one is blissfully ignorant.
A woman sits at desk. Skin the color of peanut butter, curly hair that swallows her head, eyes like dirt and grass, lips stained with blood. Steven notices her beauty. She doesn't glance in his direction. Holly pushes me front and center. The woman looks at me, eyes roaming my face, my ill fitting attire, the bruise forming on my arm. I don't meet her gaze.
"I want her out!"
"Excuse me?"
"I can't keep this girl. I tried to do the Catholic thing and take this girl in but Satan had other plans. These orphans or whatever you want to call them are obviously orphans for a reason."
"Miss, I don't understand what you're doing here."
"Have I not made it clear? My husband and I are not fostering this ... this girl anymore."
"Could I ask why, Mrs...,"
"Reynolds and I caught this whore in bed with my husband!"
"Oh, I see. Well, ma'am this a youth home for adolescents and young adults whom are males."
"She'll have a field day."
"Mrs. Reynolds, Mr. Reynolds, while I do understand the circumstances this is a males only facility and I can not house her according to law. If you've been fostering her then maybe you could just let her stay with you just for a little bit longer under close watch and I could--"
"Kelly is it? Isn't this where my tax dollars are going? Isn't this what I pay for? If you're here then she can be as well. Frankly, I don't care what you do with her. She isn't coming back into our home. Let's go Steven."
Her heels clack an obnoxious sound. His dress shoes make a pleasant tap. She loops her arm through his. He pressed his lips against her temple, his lips by her ear no doubt whispering sweet nothings and baseless apologies. He's telling her it'll never happen again. He can't believe I would have done such a thing. How awful he feels.
But he's not sorry. Those sweet nothing's are just that--nothing. He feels sorry for himself. It's going to happen again. He can't believe he got caught. Can't believe I didn't try to save myself. Surprised I didn't throw him under the bus. He'll have to continue his adultery with the woman who lives three doors down. Or Maybe he'll call her sister for another round.
Three different people. Two different sounds. Two with the same purpose. One has no control. One is blissfully ignorant. The last is on the receiving end of both flaws.