I tried to open my eyes but they were sealed shut, caked in sleep. I rubbed them until I was able to pry them open. It was completely dark in my room. The curtains were drawn, as they always were. Rolling onto my side, I reached for my phone, but it wasn’t there.
I rose from my bed like someone who was learning to walk for the first time. My hands were shaking, my body was vibrating. I needed a cigarette.
“Don’t look in the mirror,” I muttered to myself, approaching my vanity.
I fumbled in the drawer until I found my cigarettes. Placing one between my teeth and biting down on the filter, I lit a match. The flash of the flame lit my face in a red-orange glow.
My face was swollen and puffy. Blood was smeared beneath my nose. I picked the dried blood from my upper lip and it flaked, collecting under my fingernail. I slowly inhaled, then exhaled a cloud of smoke through my nose, feeling the pain.
How fucking poetic. I stared at my reflection. How fucking pathetic.
The nameless guy lying in my bed stirred, shoving the blankets to free one of his arms. He held it out in my direction without moving his face from the pillow. “Hey, can I have a draw of that?”
Pretending I didn’t hear him, I walked out of the bedroom, leaving the door open behind me. I wanted him to go. I wanted to be alone. I pulled on a jacket and headed out the front door, knowing that by the time I returned, he would be gone.
As I walked, the afternoon light stung my eyes. My head was throbbing. I thought about sex, and how my perception of it had always been skewed. The moment I entered puberty, boys began treating me like an object—and I accepted it, using myself as a bargaining chip. I used sex as a means of manipulation. Men were so easily manipulated. I knew how to accentuate aspects of my appearance to make men want me. I wore red lipstick; it made them think of my mouth. My mouth on their mouth. My mouth on their cock. I wore clothes that clung tightly around my hourglass-shaped body. They wanted to know what was underneath. I slept with people I didn’t want to sleep with just to feel wanted, to know that I was desirable.
I tried to count them. The people since Jack. There was the girl from the punk bar with the pierced tongue. William’s childhood friend who made me promise not to tell anyone. The married man who took his wedding ring off when he fingered me. The radio host with the hair plugs. The guy who wanted me to put my finger in his ass—which I did—and then cried after he came. I was always drunk when I went home with them. I always closed my eyes when we were fucking. It was all hazy.
I felt dirty leaving their houses, like I had betrayed Jack. He used to hate when other men looked at me. I loved being his possession, thriving under his jealous control. I remembered the day he told me how calculated I was, noticing for the first time that I wore white when I was guilty, red when I wanted him to fuck me, and yellow when he was feeling morose. I revelled in the fact that someone finally knew me so well, that he had figured me out. Exposed and excited, I denied his accusations, claiming it was only coincidence.
I lit another cigarette as I walked, and the voices began their lullaby.
Pretty little princess. Pretty little doll. Isn’t she perfect? Stand up tall. Don’t touch that. Close your legs. Be a good girl. Do as I say. Don’t pout. Don’t eat that. Give us a smile. What do you have to be sad about? Put on some makeup. That’s too much makeup. Cover up. Get naked. Stop that silly crying. Don’t talk back. You’re overreacting. It didn’t happen like that. Nobody likes a dramatic girl. I’m just trying to help. It must have been deserved. Fix your hair. Don’t lie like that. Pretty little fuckdoll. Stupid little brat. Get out of bed. You’ve been in there for days. Shut the fuck up and spread your legs.