"Tell her you hate her."
"I won't," says the child.
"You know you want to."
"I don't. I love her."
"She doesn't love anyone."
"Grandma loves everyone. You just want me to cry. I can see it on your face."
The woman sticks out her tongue.
"I love you best when you look like this," he said, his mouth and eyes smiling, perhaps with a bit too much smugness to make love seem real. But she could see the fondness for her, just around the outside of his eyes, the kind reserved for a favourite toy. Like a doll.
Her best is on her knees, her face running and her throat bruised.
She lets the hate and contempt rise into her eyes. She lets him see it. Fuck you.
He laughs at her then and when he stops, he contemplates her. "Yes. Like this. You're beautiful."
"I screamed for 50 hours, didn't I, Mommy?"
"At least 50 minutes. I'm sure our neighbours enjoyed it." Finally unpackaged, she hands her daughter the doll. "You understand this is the last one? There are no more. We got the last one."
"She's my favourite, Mommy. I'm glad she's back."
"The last one," she repeats, before turning herself towards the kitchen. "Keep her upstairs away from the dog. I'm going to make supper."
"You are the last one," the little girl in awe says to the doll, as she climbs the stairs. At the top of the stairs she repeats, in sorrow, "You are the last one." She almost starts to cry. But she gets an idea! "Let's make you special then!"
Special is her Mommy's red nail polish. Red is the colour of love. She paints her doll's cheeks and lips and little hearts all over her white dress.
Then her mother comes into the room and leaves her on her knees. The doll is indeed the last one.
He slaps her then, though this time it is like the tap of a cat, still not a playful one. She doesn't understand why he does it. It never feels real. Other things do though. Like that one time he thought he was being sly; out of the corner of his eye.
He tells her hours later, not long before they will sleep, "I do not want to be the kind of man who hits a woman."
He slaps her again the next day anyway.
The book was the definitive book. She carried it everywhere the better part of summer. She told everyone about it. People started asking first, just to get it out of the way. So it was quite a surprise to some when it showed up under the neighbour's pine tree, with a pile of human shit beside it, pages used as toilet paper.
Her grandfather got out his belt. Her mother stood and watched, even though she knew the truth. She'd already caught her son twice that week.
It was a good thing there wasn't any school. She would have been out a week.
He is trying to make her cry again. She looks down at her body instead and realises he likes the marks on her. Likes to think he made them. He doesn't understand their history, their beginnings, but that doesn't matter. How does he think he's done it? He answers her thoughts the next day, he has a funny habit of doing that. He brings up candles and she imagines the flames catching hold of his pubic hair. She lets him know that won't be happening and they just do the usual.
Dave liked her on her knees too. Not very often. A few times a year he would take off on a weekend binge and come home with a hard-on to beat his wife.
Two and a half years into that rodeo was enough. She landed herself on Carla's couch, wrapped in her favorite blanket, the only thing she took, besides her clothes. She has her good cry and Carla says, "God, I'm sorry. You're so beautiful right now. I'm sitting here wanting to kiss you."
She watches as he knocks over the chess pieces on purpose, only because he is bored. He wants to see her react, pout. She was winning. Instead she says, "That says more about you, than it does me." He laughs and says he loves her again.
"I won't," says the child.
"You know you want to."
"I don't. I love her."
"She doesn't love anyone."
"Grandma loves everyone. You just want me to cry. I can see it on your face."
The woman sticks out her tongue.
"I love you best when you look like this," he said, his mouth and eyes smiling, perhaps with a bit too much smugness to make love seem real. But she could see the fondness for her, just around the outside of his eyes, the kind reserved for a favourite toy. Like a doll.
Her best is on her knees, her face running and her throat bruised.
She lets the hate and contempt rise into her eyes. She lets him see it. Fuck you.
He laughs at her then and when he stops, he contemplates her. "Yes. Like this. You're beautiful."
"I screamed for 50 hours, didn't I, Mommy?"
"At least 50 minutes. I'm sure our neighbours enjoyed it." Finally unpackaged, she hands her daughter the doll. "You understand this is the last one? There are no more. We got the last one."
"She's my favourite, Mommy. I'm glad she's back."
"The last one," she repeats, before turning herself towards the kitchen. "Keep her upstairs away from the dog. I'm going to make supper."
"You are the last one," the little girl in awe says to the doll, as she climbs the stairs. At the top of the stairs she repeats, in sorrow, "You are the last one." She almost starts to cry. But she gets an idea! "Let's make you special then!"
Special is her Mommy's red nail polish. Red is the colour of love. She paints her doll's cheeks and lips and little hearts all over her white dress.
Then her mother comes into the room and leaves her on her knees. The doll is indeed the last one.
He slaps her then, though this time it is like the tap of a cat, still not a playful one. She doesn't understand why he does it. It never feels real. Other things do though. Like that one time he thought he was being sly; out of the corner of his eye.
He tells her hours later, not long before they will sleep, "I do not want to be the kind of man who hits a woman."
He slaps her again the next day anyway.
The book was the definitive book. She carried it everywhere the better part of summer. She told everyone about it. People started asking first, just to get it out of the way. So it was quite a surprise to some when it showed up under the neighbour's pine tree, with a pile of human shit beside it, pages used as toilet paper.
Her grandfather got out his belt. Her mother stood and watched, even though she knew the truth. She'd already caught her son twice that week.
It was a good thing there wasn't any school. She would have been out a week.
He is trying to make her cry again. She looks down at her body instead and realises he likes the marks on her. Likes to think he made them. He doesn't understand their history, their beginnings, but that doesn't matter. How does he think he's done it? He answers her thoughts the next day, he has a funny habit of doing that. He brings up candles and she imagines the flames catching hold of his pubic hair. She lets him know that won't be happening and they just do the usual.
Dave liked her on her knees too. Not very often. A few times a year he would take off on a weekend binge and come home with a hard-on to beat his wife.
Two and a half years into that rodeo was enough. She landed herself on Carla's couch, wrapped in her favorite blanket, the only thing she took, besides her clothes. She has her good cry and Carla says, "God, I'm sorry. You're so beautiful right now. I'm sitting here wanting to kiss you."
She watches as he knocks over the chess pieces on purpose, only because he is bored. He wants to see her react, pout. She was winning. Instead she says, "That says more about you, than it does me." He laughs and says he loves her again.
Comments