Posted by Barbanne on September 26, 2003 at 00:12:37:
PART ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTEEN
Shivering, twisting, tortured on the rack.
My arms were tearing from their sockets, my tummy felt strained beyond pain, my wrists and elbows were being ripped apart.
I hung from my shackles buried in a fog of agony.
'It’s my thirteenth birthday. I have a new dress and I am going to have a party. Amazingly there are some girls who like me enough to come. They come with their parents. Mummy and Daddy have party food and drinks. Everybody has stuff. Mummy and Daddy stand with the other parents and have drinks. Lots of drinks. I watch them while I am at play with the other kids and I see the signs and I feel sick. Sick in my tummy. They get loud and then they get nasty and abusive. One by one the other kids are taken home. “Why did they go home, it’s all your fault Barbanne.”
I am in such misery I don’t care. I just want to be left alone. I want to go back to my book people. But I can’t. He follows me and he keeps at me and at me. Finally he grabs me and my dress is torn.
I hate him. I hate him so much I lose myself in a black rage and strike out, pounding at him with my little fists. He is taken aback, but then he starts hitting me. Hitting me and hitting me. My rage evaporates and I just want him to stop.
“Stop hitting me, stop hitting me, Daddy, please........please DADDY!”
He keeps on and on and on.....................................................'
Someone is groaning, calling out in agony, tortured, anguished, tormented.
It is me.
I fight against the fog.
No good, my brain is mush.
I am in here somewhere, my id, my me, is trapped in the drug soaked blurry, hazy, mist that is my mind. I hate that I should lose control, that I can't make my own decisions, that I am a prisoner of a poisonous substance. I fight, but it is like trying to run through treacle, I know where I want to be but I can't go there. I may love to play the submissive, I may derive my greatest pleasures, my most fantastic orgasms from turning my body over to my lover, I may be the perfect playdead doll, but I do that knowing that I control what I am and what I do. I happily let Alex play to his heart's content with my limply lax body, happily let him invade my most intimate and secret places, but I do so in the fullest knowledge of what I am doing.
This was different.
This was a total loss of control.
How can anyone let some substance, be it drugs or booze, take over their self. Hell, I don't need any shit like that to achieve perfection of fantasy, perfection in sex, perfection of release. I do it because I control who and what I am at all times. I am a happy, well adjusted, self confident woman.
Or at least I was.
Larry and Rose had robbed me of that.
I struggled against the shit they had injected.
I struggled but I didn't always win. I drifted off, out of it a lot of the time, controlled by the drug, surrendering my will to the filth.
The horrors from my mind assailed me.
My fears and my nightmares.
The depressions rolled up from deep within me.
'I lie in bed listening to them argue. They argue a lot. And when they do, they shout and say horrible things to each other and then Daddy hits Mummy and then they shout again and she screams and cries. I hate it when they fight. And then they go silent and I wait and I am frightened and I pretend I am asleep. And I hear him coming and I bury my face in the pillow and I hope he’ll go on by. But he doesn’t. He comes in. I lie very still and hope he thinks I am asleep. Then he shakes me.
“You’re not asleep. I know you’re not asleep.” I shake with fear and I know what’s coming and I hate it. “Barbanne, Barbanne, it’s all because of you, you know.”
“Everything was alright until you came along.”
“Don’t pretend you are asleep.”
“It’s all your fault Barbanne, you know that. Your fault Barbanne. Damn bitch!”
And then he drags the bedclothes off and hauls me up and starts hitting me and I can’t pretend any longer and start screaming, “Don’t hit me daddy, don’t hit me Daddy. Daddy don’t hit me...........please, pleeeeeeease, don’t hit me.........................”
But he does.
In the body, around the head, again and again. Until he gets tired. And I fall on the bed and I cry and cry and cry, drenching the pillow, until I can cry no more.
My body is wracked with pain.
I have wet myself and my jeans are soaked.
I look down in a mixture of shame, loathing and disgust.
My jeans are drooping around my ass and I can see the silly frivolous panties I put on that morning. Was it that morning? A big funny, ruby lipped mouth opens invitingly across the front triangle of my panties, it's tongue licking hungrily, my cock gobbler panties. Stupid bloody things. Why oh why did I put something that stupid on to die in?
For a few minutes I am lucid enough to feel ashamed and then I slide back into the horrors.
My pretty frock torn and soiled, my underwear ripped apart and me, bashed and thrown onto the grass outside the hall and then raped by the boy I thought I loved. The boy I had had such a serious crush on for so long a time. The boy who had filled my dreams and whom I had so admired. The boy who had escorted me here like a princess and then left me while he consumed alchohol and turned into Mister Hyde.
When he is finished he staggers away to vomit copiously and I gather myself together and walk home in tears.
I will never tell.
I am rubbish. I know it for sure now. I have really always known it.
I am trash.
Larry is back and he is punching me and I throw up and stale puke cascades down my chest and tummy.
I wet myself again.
Rose and Larry are fighting over something.
No they are fucking.
Across the other side of the dark, dank chamber they are fucking on a pile of cartons.
She is naked and his pants are down around his knees.
Now they are fighting.
She is screaming at him and he is hitting her. Now she is just screaming. He has her by the throat and he is strangling her. Her skinny legs kick out and her thin cunt twists and writhes.
I drift again.
An awful cracking noise wakens me.
I try to focus but I am just too tired.
Rose is dead!
I know it.
I am looking at her anorexic body sprawled out over the cartons. Her head is turned towards me and her eyes are wide open and her tongue drools out. How can such a skinny bitch have so much tongue? I know from the ghastly stillness that she is dead.
Soon I will be dead too. That much I now realise, but I am too tired to care.